A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

Smart kid, thought the inspector ruefully. He took a step forward – gingerly. He had no desire to slip off the uneven slabs of rock and stone into the patches of mud fringed with bright green mould.

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”

  “Are you a policeman?” The suspicion of the downtrodden was in his question.

  “No, no,” said Singh quickly, reflecting that this was mostly true. He wasn’t a policeman in India.

  “Then why are you asking all the questions?”

  “I’m trying to help the family. Please believe me. I just want to find out what happened to Ashu – your Doctor Amma.”

  He was rewarded with a sideways thoughtful glance and was impressed by the length of the boy’s eyelashes. He would have women swooning one day. The attitude and the eyelashes were destined for greater things than slum dwelling and fishing in drains.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mahesh.”

  “Well, Mahesh. Do you know anyone here who could help me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Anyone who knew her – I just want to talk.”

  Mahesh stepped forward and the inspector saw that he was casually careful about where he put his slippered feet. He held up an arm so that his elbow was facing Singh.

  “She did this for me,” he said proudly.

  Singh saw that there was a ragged scar where a wound had been carefully stitched up. It looked like a fat centipede, running from elbow to wrist.

  “What happened?”

  “I fell,” he said, looking down and failing to meet the inspector’s eyes for the first time. The policeman sighed. Anyone who lied about the source of an injury, he knew from experience, had been injured by a loved one, by someone in a position of authority or in pursuit of an illegal activity. He looked at the skinny bright-eyed boy. Mahesh didn’t look cowed which suggested that the third option was most likely.

  “Ashu doctor stitched it up for me,” Mahesh added.

  Singh had a sudden sense of how important Ashu’s work at the slum had been. In these surroundings, if the cut hadn’t been treated, Mahesh would have developed an infection which would have cost him the arm, if not his life.

  “Where did she work?” he asked.

  “Close by,” the boy said. “Come, I will take you there.”

  Singh followed in his wake and then did a little hop as a flurry of large rats, about the size of small cats, ran underfoot, whiskers quivering and long hairless tails trailing in the muck.

  “Good to be careful,” said Mahesh. “If rat is biting you, you will be very sick.”

  A shudder ran through the stout frame of the policeman. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen a rat in Singapore. A few scrawny squirrels that looked a lot like rats and the occasional garden shrew – that was the sum of rodent life in his recent past. Inspector Singh, who prided himself on his familiarity with the dark fringes of society, realised that he’d been fooling himself. His Singaporean version was the Disney equivalent of the seedy side of life.

  Mahesh led the way to a hut, about six feet square with a neatly swept floor, a stool and a small shelf on which sat a large white box marked with a red cross, an empty plastic water jug and a candle burnt halfway down.

  “Needle and thread in there,” said the boy, pointing at the first-aid kit with the pride of someone identifying a treasure chest.

  “So this was her clinic?”

  There was a nod from Mahesh who was still gazing at the box in awe. He added as an afterthought, “The man with the white coat will help us now.”

  Singh’s estimation of Sameer, previously compromised by the man’s good looks and theatrical disposition, went up a notch.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Singh opened the first-aid kit. It was the only receptacle in the room. To his surprise, and interest, there was a thick file of papers sitting neatly on the top.

  “What’s this?” asked Singh.

  “Doctor Amma, always writing and writing. About the sickness here.” Mahesh spoke with the indifference of the illiterate. He perked up. “Always I was helping her – she couldn’t manage her work without me, I think.”

  Singh smiled at this claim to indispensability. The boy sounded like he meant it. Maybe it was even true. The inspector perched his large posterior carefully on the small stool, crossed his fingers figuratively, shifted his head so that the shadow from his turban did not fall over the file and began to read. It was a careful compilation of symptoms for an ailment that was rife within the slum, affecting children and adults both. As he followed the detail, it was apparent that the prevalence of the outbreak was increasing by the day. The final entry was just a few days before Ashu’s disappearance, presumably the day she’d stopped working at the factory to prepare for her wedding.

  On that last page, she’d written, “Factory??” in large, angry red letters.

  ♦

  Mrs. Singh sat next to the mother of the deceased with her dupatta draped over her head as a mark of respect and mourning. The living room was stuffy although an old-fashioned, brown-panelled air-conditioning unit was huffing and puffing on the wall. There were too many people crammed within. The underlying smell of dried perspiration reminded her of her husband. She wondered where he was – traipsing around Mumbai stepping on people’s toes most likely. She’d be lucky if she and her family were on speaking terms by the time he was done.

  In the centre of the living-room carpet was a small table with a picture of Ashu in a frame. It was the photo that Singh had admired on the mantelpiece. A garland of flowers had been draped on the picture and a stick of incense created an olfactory exclusion zone around it. There were a few desultory chants of ‘waheguru’ – the wonderful Lord – but none of the mourners seemed to have the heart for the traditional chants. It was hard to see the death of such a young thing as part of the inevitable cycle of life as dictated by a benevolent deity.

  Mrs. Singh felt uncomfortable without the body. And she knew the rest of the mourners did too. They were there to bid farewell to Ashu but she was still lying in a hospital mortuary. The general feeling in the room, shared by Mrs. Singh, was that Ashu had taken her own life. Self-immolation was a peculiarly anticipatory gesture for someone who would eventually be cremated and her ashes scattered in a river. Mrs. Singh wondered whether the family would take the ashes to the Punjab or whether a river closer at hand would suffice. She knew that many Sikhs preferred to make the journey back to their homeland. Tara Singh seemed the type who would be a stickler for the more traditional practices. She tried to imagine for a moment what Singh would do when she died.

  Probably chuck her ashes into the nearest monsoon drain and head to a coffee shop for a cold beer.

  Tanvir Singh walked in, stopped impatiently at the door to receive the condolences of a few people and then came up to his mother.

  “Ranjit has seen him. Have you?” whispered Jesvinder in an agitated tone.

  “That fat man who pretends to be an investigator?”

  Mrs. Singh winced. There were no prizes for guessing to whom Tanvir was referring. Also, she couldn’t help but feel annoyed. Who was this young whippersnapper to criticise her husband? That was her task – and Superintendent Chen’s.

  “No, I haven’t seen him yet,” continued Tanvir, “and I don’t want to.”

  “Your grandfather has asked for his help,” cautioned his mother.

  There was a sound very like a snort from the brother of the dead girl but any more articulate response was cut off by the entrance of another man. He walked into the living room wearing the full white of mourning and all eyes immediately focused on him. A quiet whisper ran through the room like a mild breeze through leaves. Mrs. Singh noticed that her cousin had gripped Tanvir’s hand in a tight grip. With difficulty, Jesvinder Kaur got to her feet and with Tanvir in tow, she stepped forward.

  “Mata,” said the stranger and hugged the old lady.

  “Kirpal. We are so sorry this has happened.” Tanvir
sounded genuinely regretful and the other man clasped his hands in response.

  Mrs. Singh was staring openly now as was everyone else in the room. So this was the young man Ashu had been destined to marry. The fine young MBA and pillar of society chosen by her grandfather for his favourite grandchild.

  Kirpal was tall and broad-shouldered but not handsome like Tanvir. His beard was neatly trimmed and his full lips were pressed thin. His nose was too long and appeared to erupt from somewhere between his eyebrows. He seemed extremely put out but Mrs. Singh felt that there was some excuse for that. It was an uncomfortable situation – to be at the home of his dead fiancée when the general speculation was that she’d killed herself to avoid marrying him. It would be difficult for Kirpal to pretend to feel inconsolable. He had barely known the girl having met her only a few times and usually with family in tow.

  “What do they think happened?” asked Kirpal in a low voice.

  Mrs. Singh congratulated herself on her choice of seat. She was probably the only mourner in the room within hearing distance. She leaned forward while trying to look nonchalant. It was a pity she didn’t have any shoelaces to tie.

  “The police? Suicide,” said Tanvir bluntly.

  “But why, Tanvir?”

  “No one has any idea.”

  Jesvinder was weeping quietly now, overwhelmed by the presence of the man who had been her future son-in-law. “Whatever people are saying, I am sure that it had nothing to do with you.”

  “Of course it had nothing to do with Kirpal,” said Tanvir bitingly. “No one is suggesting otherwise.”

  He was at the receiving end of a rueful glance from the husband-that-was-to-be. “That’s not quite true. It seems that I’m suspected of cruelty, AIDS, a pre-existing wife, an army of children from prostitutes…the gossip-mongers are having a field day.”

  His remarks were greeted with silence.

  Kirpal added bitterly, the first show of genuine emotion, “It had nothing to do with me, I swear it. I would have been a good husband to her.”

  Tanvir was sombre. “We might never know why she did it.”

  Mrs. Singh, still annoyed by his earlier remarks about the inspector, broke in loudly. “Not to worry, I’m sure my husband will find the answer!”

  “Who are you?” demanded Kirpal.

  The manners of the next generation left much to be desired, decided Mrs. Singh.

  “Tara Singh has asked my husband to investigate the death of Ashu Kaur,” she said, forgetting her earlier irritation that her husband had accepted the responsibility. Her statement immediately attracted the attention of the other mourners. A curly-haired young woman with tear-stained cheeks stared at her as if she had worn a colourful salwar kameez to the funeral house.

  “He is a very important policeman from Singapore,” explained Jesvinder.

  “What is there to investigate?” asked Tanvir. “My sister, for reasons we will never know, has killed herself. What is the use of this investigation? It is best to let her rest in peace.”

  Kirpal nodded his agreement and Mrs. Singh decided that his eyes were set too close together and his chin was weak.

  “Surely Tara Baba knows best,” whispered the mother of the girl. Neither of the men seconded this judgment and the inspector’s wife had a distinct sensation that for these men at least, Tara Singh’s influence had waned. In a feudal society, she would have expected them to be plotting a palace takeover. She knew that Tanvir worked for his grandfather. The old man probably had no idea that he was harbouring a viper in his bosom. She wondered whether Kirpal also worked for the Tara Singh conglomerate. It wouldn’t surprise her. The abiding feature of Indian manhood was their desire to control their kin. Especially the womenfolk. Even so, Ashu’s chosen method of escape had been extreme.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Tanvir. “That fat fellow will soon give up his efforts and go back to Singapore where he belongs.”

  “Actually, he never gives up,” said Mrs. Singh.

  “But if she committed suicide…” Kirpal trailed off.

  “Surely you want to know why?” demanded the inspector’s wife.

  Only Jesvinder nodded.

  “Was there anyone else?” asked Kirpal, directing his question at Tanvir.

  “Another boyfriend, you mean? That’s what my husband suspects,” interjected Mrs. Singh, unwilling to be sidelined from the conversation.

  Tanvir scowled but did not leap to his sister’s defence. Perhaps he knew he was wasting his breath. It was what most people were thinking anyway.

  “She could have just called it off,” said Kirpal.

  “Would you have agreed?” asked Mrs. Singh.

  “I would have had no choice.”

  “But what about the dowry?”

  “What about it?” asked Kirpal, his gaze fixed on Mrs. Singh, his expression forbidding.

  Fools rush in, decided Mrs. Singh and threw down the gauntlet. “I heard that your family needs the money badly. This marriage was your chance to recoup.”

  “I would not have married a girl against her will.”

  Mrs. Singh’s flared nostrils gave away her doubts at this professed altruism.

  “Tara Baba would have been furious if Ashu had a boyfriend,” said Jesvinder in an undertone.

  “But surely he would have preferred to know the truth?” asked the inspector’s wife.

  Nobody responded to the question and Mrs. Singh was suddenly overwhelmed with pity for the dead girl, very much alone despite the family massed around her.

  Nine

  ‘That fat fellow’, having failed in his effort to see Tyler to ask him about his quarrel with Ashu – he’d left the office for a meeting – was on his way to the headquarters of the Tara Singh empire close to the southern tip of Mumbai. Kuldeep had explained sheepishly that Tara Singh desired a progress report from the inspector.

  They passed a fishing village which looked, to Singh’s untrained eye, like a slum.

  “This is where the terrorists are landing, Sardarji,” said the driver, pointing out of the window as if he was a tour guide.

  There was a sandbagged police outpost next to the spot with a few bored khaki-clad coppers within. One of them was asleep with his head thrown back and mouth open. One didn’t have to be particularly alert to shut the stable door, guessed Singh.

  They reached their destination, a shiny building in a reflective glass sheath, and the inspector clambered out of the car. He carefully stepped around the sleeping figures of an extended family who were the same matted, grey colour as the pavements, and made his way past shiny gates and shiny guards to the elevator and was shown into a large circular office. The furnishings were modern except for an old antique desk that appeared to have been made from a carved, brass-studded palace door, now covered with a sheet of glass. The man himself sat behind it in an ergonomic black leather office chair. He wore a sleeveless dark tunic over a white shirt and looked extremely neat.

  Tara Singh beckoned and the policeman hitched up his trousers and sat in the chair opposite him. He was suddenly conscious that his usually crisp white shirt had a sheen of Mumbai dust – he shuddered to imagine the origins of the dust in a country where seven hundred million people didn’t have access to toilets.

  “Have you discovered anything yet?”

  Singh looked at the other man thoughtfully. He’d been summoned for this meeting. But that didn’t mean the grandfather was going to dictate the conversation.

  “I saw your grandson, Ranjit,” he replied.

  “Well? What did he say?”

  “That Ashu didn’t believe in happy endings.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That maybe she had a boyfriend. And committed suicide to avoid the marriage.”

  “How dare you make such insinuations? Have you no respect for the dead?”

  Singh folded his arms across his belly. Family members never realised that an investigator with ‘respect for the dead’ would never suc
cessfully resolve a case. He had to expect the worst, assume the worst, predict the worst – and then he might get to the root of a death.

  “Did Ranjit say that she had a boyfriend?” Tara was looking for his favourite whipping boy.

  Singh shook his head and wondered whether to mention Sameer. Not yet, he decided. He wanted to learn more about the family first. Besides, he wasn’t ready to throw Sameer to the wolves. It would probably cost the young man his job at the factory if he told Tara Singh about his relationship with Ashu.

  “What did Tanvir have to say?” asked Tara. “He’d be able to give you some facts, not spout nonsense about happy endings.”

  “Tanvir didn’t turn up for his interview,” answered Singh, offering up the older brother as a sacrifice.

  Tara’s face darkened but he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge that he might have been disobeyed by his preferred grandson. “Something must have come up. Reschedule it.”

  “I’ve just been to Bharat Chemicals,” said Singh. “Met the boss – Tyler Junior. Tell me about him.”

  “Oh? I don’t see why you want to know about him.”

  “Why don’t you leave the investigating to me?”

  Tara shrugged and continued. “Provided by my joint venture partners from the US. But he isn’t settling in very well.”

  That was an understatement, thought Singh. “Factory doing badly?”

  “Actually, no. We’ve never been more profitable. A new line of face-whitening cream.”

  “Tyler can’t be that bad then…”

  “Tanvir was in charge of business development,” said Tara, making it clear whom he thought was behind recent success.

  “Anyway, I’m hoping to get Tyler out,” continued the industrialist. “Replace him with an Indian. In fact, I was planning to appoint Ashu’s fiancé, Kirpal, to the post after the wedding.”

  “Had you told him?”

  “Kirpal? I’d dropped a few hints – I still needed to discuss the matter further with the Americans.”

  “They were reluctant?”

  “Yes, Inspector Singh. The Americans only trust their own even when the person in question is an incompetent old fool sitting out his last few months in India.”