A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  “It was important,” said Farzana. “She was meeting a…friend.”

  Mrs. Singh’s attention was caught by the hesitancy. “What sort of friend?” she demanded.

  “I promised never to say a word. She would kill me for telling,” wailed the girl.

  “I think you’re quite safe,” said Mrs. Singh dryly, and then wished that she didn’t occasionally sound so much like her spouse.

  “A boyfriend. She was going to meet a boyfriend.” So her annoying husband’s first guess had been correct. There was another man. Mrs. Singh felt a moment of sharp anger towards the dead girl who had thrown the conventions – which she herself had adhered to so faithfully – to the winds. And then she remembered the price Ashu had paid.

  “She was going to run away with him?”

  “No,” said Farzana. “She was going to say goodbye. It was very sad.”

  Mrs. Singh scowled at the young romantic. Was that a likely story? Did young girls with boyfriends return to the fold to do the right thing by the family?

  “Why did she want you there anyway?” Mrs. Singh sounded cross but she wasn’t sure what the object of her anger was – this friend who had kept a dead girl’s secrets, the dead girl herself or this mysterious boyfriend?

  “She wanted me to come back here with her. I was supposed to ring the doorbell and chat to all the relatives so that she could sneak in the back door.”

  That made sense. Ashu would have tried to avoid trouble. “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Don’t you understand? I spoke to her just before she left the house. She was all right. Not happy, of course. But not in despair. She’d made up her mind what she was going to do and she was going to do it.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Ashu had a very strong character. There is just no way she killed herself!”

  ♦

  Singh, sitting in the back of Tara Singh’s limo, was not amused to hear from his wife that the best friend of the dead girl had ranged herself on the side of the grandfather and boyfriend in denying that Ashu would have committed suicide. Could they all be so wrong in their assessment of her character? He doubted it. This was a murder and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. Ashu – again the charred cadaver flashed into his mind – deserved that much at least.

  The driver pulled up outside the hotel and Singh got out, still deep in thought. He hoped Tanvir would not stand him up this time. He was curious to hear what the brother had to say.

  His attempts to get through security at the Taj were laborious. He turned out his pockets, stacked the contents into a cloth-lined basket, wandered through the metal detector at the entrance, set off wild beeps, discovered further coins hidden in his trouser lining – didn’t everyone have holes in their pockets? – repeated the process a number of times and finally obtained entry just before one of the trigger-happy policemen decided that he was a Sikh separatist and shot him.

  His reward for perseverance was to find ACP Patel lurking by the entrance. The Indian beamed like a spotlight when he saw Singh.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Inspector Singh. He wasn’t a fan of smiley faces that looked like emoticons. Besides, he was waiting for Tanvir. His manner had no effect on his counterpart who seized his hand and shook it violently.

  “We are hearing that you are investigating death of Ashu Kaur.”

  “The old man doesn’t think it was suicide,” said Singh, deciding to be honest. It was a courtesy he could afford at this juncture. “He…err, doesn’t want to involve the local police till he’s sure.”

  There was a quick laugh. “You are very tactful, Inspector Singh!”

  That was something he was rarely accused of being.

  “I don’t blame him for not wanting the police involved,” continued Patel. “Cats will be escaping from bag and running all over the place if we are launching an official investigation into death of Ashu Kaur.”

  It seemed there was no need to wrap the truth in cotton wool for ACP Patel. He fully understood Tara Singh’s motives in looking for freelance help, at least until they had something more solid to go on than an old man’s hunch.

  “Do you think it was suicide?”

  Singh’s response was cagey. “Too early to tell.”

  “Very well. You are keeping your cards close to your stomach – I am understanding that.” He gestured expansively with his arms. “If you need any help from the Indian police, you just have to ask.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course it is depending on what you need,” said Patel, backtracking immediately.

  “A bunch of policemen to go over the chemical works with a fine-tooth comb? Ashu suspected that the slum next door is being poisoned by the factory.”

  Patel cleared his throat as if he was an election officer about to deliver bad news to a government candidate. “Without evidence that would be a most impossible thing to do,” he explained.

  “How will you get evidence if you don’t look?”

  “I am pefectly understanding your point,” said Patel. “But Tara Singh and director general of police are good friends, you know what I’m saying?”

  Singh scowled. He feared he was ‘perfectly understanding’ what Patel was telling him. The Indian police weren’t going to go looking for trouble.

  “So what do you want with me anyway?”

  “Autopsy results have been released this morning,” answered Patel with an enthusiastic Indian head waggle.

  “Cause of death?” asked Singh.

  “The fire.”

  “Not bumps on the head or bullet wounds?”

  “Not a single thing like that.”

  “Drugged?”

  “Blood came up negative.”

  “Well, that points to suicide,” said Singh and Patel nodded his agreement. Murder by fire was not the most practical method of getting rid of someone. Not impossible, just impractical.

  “Unless the fire hid some trace of violence from the autopsy?”

  Patel nodded his head again in cheerful concurrence. “That is also possible. Especially flesh wounds!”

  Singh scowled. Was this man going to acquiesce affably to every contradictory suggestion he put forward? Maybe that was the only way to get promoted in the Indian police force.

  “So why are you here?” asked Singh. “Shouldn’t you be briefing Tara Singh?”

  “Needing your advice.”

  Singh’s ears pricked up and he trained his turban on the other man as if it was a motion sensitive camera.

  “What do you mean? What advice?”

  “It is difficult situation – and you are family member and policeman…also helping Tara Singh with this matter.”

  “That bad, is it?”

  The policeman’s face drooped.

  “Well, spit it out, man!”

  There was a long pause while Patel pulled various unexpected faces as if he was suffering from severe indigestion. At last, he said, “Ashu Kaur was pregnant.”

  Ten

  Singh, as plump as a bolster, sat on a lobby sofa and stared at the visitors to the hotel as if he was an undercover cop of limited abilities. The inspector was in a state of shock at Patel’s news, but the Indian policeman sitting across from him was adamant. “Autopsy is stating that dead girl was about ten weeks pregnant at time of death. So you see,” he concluded, “that’s why she killed herself. She is knowing it would become obvious soon.” Patel gestured with two hands to indicate a rounded belly which was not that far removed from his own.

  “What about the wedding?” said Singh.

  “Child is being born six months after marriage,” pointed out Patel.

  “An unconvincing premmie,” agreed Singh. It would have been too late to pretend the baby had been fathered by a particularly virile MBA, not so soon after the marriage.

  “Unless Kirpal Singh is father – in which case he cannot object to an early child, yes?” suggested Patel.

  But Singh couldn’t g
et his head around the hypothesis that the MBA was the delighted Dad. Surely it must have been Sameer? He tried to focus on the details of his conversation with the boyfriend, picturing the young man striding up and down like a beast of prey confined against its will. Sameer had been devastated by Ashu’s death, but Singh had not picked up any hint that he had lost a child as well as a lover. Sameer would have been much more determined, and had far more leverage, to persuade her not to marry Kirpal, if he’d known. Which meant that either Singh had read the signs wrong – and this was not something the inspector ever admitted – or Ashu had kept the news of her child from her lover.

  “That’s why she was using the fire,” explained Patel, looking around warily for eavesdroppers. He was divulging society-pages gossip of the first order about one of Mumbai’s leading families. “Actually it is quite common. Girls are trying hard to hide pregnancy from family, you know?”

  “Trying hard? If Ashu Kaur really did herself to death by fire just to hide the physical evidence of her condition that’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”

  And it hadn’t worked. Singh suspected it hardly ever worked. Wouldn’t Ashu, chemist and scientist, have known that? Or had she just been desperate – treated it as her last throw of the dice?

  “Anyway now case is closed like a liquor shop next door to mosque,” Patel had said, wearily relieved. “Definitely suicide.”

  Singh tried to piece together the girl’s movements to form a moving picture in his mind. She’d snuck out of the house at some yet-to-be determined time, rushed over to the factory – directly? – to have an altercation with the boss for the entertainment of Mrs. Bannerjee. Later in the day, she’d met her soon-to-be discarded lover on Marine Drive and then – if Sameer’s testimony was true – been picked up by a young angry Sikh in a car. Where in the world had she found time to despair over her pregnancy, buy some kerosene, douse herself and then set herself alight? And hadn’t he just come to the firm conclusion that he had a murder on his hands?

  Singh’s attention was drawn to the long-limbed stride of Tanvir Singh.

  “You wished to question me?” asked Tanvir in clipped tones, scowling at Patel to indicate that he was surplus to requirements.

  “Yup,” said Singh although truth be told, reeling from Patel’s news, the favourite grandson was the last person he wanted to see.

  Patel hauled himself out of the sofa and hurriedly shook both men vigorously by the hand. “I’ll be going now. We can…errr, discuss other matters later.”

  Singh was tempted to shout ‘coward’ after his hastily retreating back. Instead, he led the way directly to his new ‘office’, the conference room on the first floor. Tanvir followed close behind, almost stepping on his heels in an effort to hurry the process.

  “Making yourself comfortable, I see,” said Tanvir, looking around the room and at the freshly served coffee.

  “Would you rather discuss family affairs in the lobby?”

  “I’d rather not discuss family affairs at all.”

  “Your grandfather’s orders.”

  “I told the old man he was making a mistake.”

  “The old man? I see the respectful grandson thing is a bit of an act?”

  “He’s not on top of his game any more,” said Tanvir, raising an elegant eyebrow as if inviting Singh to dispute the point. “This thing with Ashu is the final straw.”

  “Because he doesn’t believe it’s suicide?”

  “Why should we doubt the conclusion of the police?”

  That was a fairly sanguine view from a man whom Singh suspected trusted no one’s judgment but his own and who was not yet privy to the fresh information about his sister. He noted that Tanvir was looking at him thoughtfully, as if wondering whether to say something further. Whatever it was, he had second thoughts, because he fell silent again.

  “So the empire will be yours soon?” asked Singh.

  “I would expect to take over running the business when Tara Baba is ready to step down. I’ve been his right-hand man for a number of years now, learning the ropes.”

  “So, do you have a trust fund?”

  He shook his head. “Only Ashu. Tara Baba thinks that men should make their own way in the world.”

  “Do you agree?”

  There was a sudden smile which revealed a personal charm which had hitherto been hidden from the tubby policeman. “I wouldn’t have said no.” He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “It’s his money; he can do what he likes with it.”

  “He paid for your studies in Canada and you work for him now…doesn’t sound much like making your ‘own way in the world’ to me.”

  “What’s this got to do with Ashu’s death?”

  “Background,” said Singh – he suspected not very convincingly. He continued, “What about her trust fund?”

  “What about it?”

  “Who gets the money?” Singh liked money motives.

  “Ashu would only have received the money upon her marriage or at the age of thirty-five.”

  “Thirty-five? Not twenty-one?”

  “Tara Baba was quite old-fashioned. He wanted to believe that he would hand over the task of taking care of her to a good man.”

  “And thirty-five was the earliest he was prepared to give up hope?”

  “Tara Baba’s been good to us – especially Ashu.” This was said with finality.

  Singh considered the response. He supposed a trust fund with strings was better than none at all. “But Tara Baba expects obedience in return and he’s not a man you would like to cross?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ranjit said he wouldn’t tolerate dissent in the ranks.”

  “Ranjit? Ranjit doesn’t know how to manage grandfather. Or anything else for that matter. He’s a fool.”

  “What about Ashu?”

  “She was the favourite,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Never did anything to annoy him?”

  “Not really – she was very loyal.”

  “What if she’d had a boyfriend on the side – someone inappropriate – a Sikh without an MBA? Or not a Sikh?”

  “She didn’t,” retorted Tanvir.

  “Try for a little imagination.”

  “He wouldn’t have been pleased.”

  “So he was forcing Ashu to marry a man against her wishes?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “But she had a boyfriend on the side.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Singh pondered the possibility that this was true. It seemed incontrovertible that Ashu Kaur was not the sort to be bullied into an arranged marriage. All her menfolk were in agreement on that point. But it did seem probable that she might have agreed – before meeting Sameer – to an arranged marriage as a matter of gratitude and affection for her grandfather. But if it was a question of not upsetting the family, surely killing herself was rather worse than refusing to go through with a wedding? He had no idea where getting pregnant fitted into the whole scenario. He would have to ask his wife whether it would upset the family more to discover Ashu was pregnant or dead. It seemed a no-brainer to Singh but he knew that he’d never had a finger on the more conservative impulses of his people.

  “I’ve met the boyfriend. Good-looking fellow. Easy to see why she fell for him.”

  Tanvir’s face was mottled and his fists clenched but his words were measured. “Fine – you know about him? Keep the information to yourself.”

  “How did you know?”

  “She told me.”

  “Because you’re such a sympathetic character?”

  “No, she wanted out of the marriage – was hoping for my support.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing doing – it would have killed her grandfather, shamed the family.”

  “Why would it be so bad?”

  “You can ask that? He’s a Moslem, for heaven’s sake!”

  “If she was the
apple of his eye – wouldn’t Tara have wanted her happiness?”

  “He would have wanted the best for her – but that wouldn’t have included marrying a Moslem,” said Tanvir, choosing his words with apparent care. “Tara Baba is a Sikh nationalist.”

  “Do you feel the same way?” asked Singh.

  “No.”

  “But your father was killed in anti-Sikh riots…”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Tanvir said, his nostrils flaring slightly. “My father – the family – we were just unlucky. Swept up in the unintended consequences of Gandhi’s assasination.”

  “You don’t strike me as the type to turn the other cheek.”

  “I’m not – if I knew who those men were who killed my father…” He didn’t continue but Singh heard the anger in the low, vibrating voice.

  The inspector watched as the other man made a visible effort to pull himself together. He continued in a more measured voice, “It hasn’t turned me into a Khalistani.”

  “Khalistani?”

  “What’s the matter with you Sikhs from abroad? That’s what the separatists want, right? A separate homeland for the Sikhs – which they call Khalistan.”

  Singh knew that, of course. It was just disconcerting to meet anyone who believed that such an eventuality was possible or even desirable. He wondered whether Tara Singh’s position was merely philosophical or whether he’d taken active steps to assist the separatist movement. In Singapore, Tamils had funded the Tigers in Sri Lanka even though many of them had never set foot in the country. Tara Singh had been more directly affected by government policy than most – it had cost him the life of his son. It wouldn’t be entirely surprising if he had separatist sympathies.

  “If you tell Tara Baba about that kanjar, it will kill him,” said Tanvir warningly.

  The fellow was probably telling the truth as well, thought Singh tiredly. The old man was frail and the so-called betrayal by Ashu might well be too much for him. Unless, of course, contrary to any evidence revealed so far, he was a liberal old gentleman who didn’t think considerations of religion should stand in the way of true love. Singh tugged on his beard as if it was a bell-rope. That would make a nice change. Certainly, he hadn’t seen any signs of such progressive thinking in this extended family. He remembered Mrs. Singh and her unconcealed pleasure that the family had snared the MBA for Ashu. Most likely, Tara Baba was just a hairier version of his own wife.