A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  “So what do you think happened to Ashu?”

  “When I refused to help her, she panicked…killed herself.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “What other explanation could there be?”

  “Someone murdered her?”

  “Fairy tales.”

  Tanvir was so sure it was suicide and he didn’t even know about the pregnancy. Singh wondered whether to tell him. He understood Patel’s reluctance to be the bearer of this particular item of bad news to the family. He felt exactly the same way. Shoot the messenger? He’d be hung, drawn and quartered and that would be nothing compared to what Tara Singh and his grandsons would do to the father of Ashu’s child. Besides, he felt responsible for Ashu’s good name. He was being sucked into his wife’s family’s eighteenth-century paradigm and it wasn’t a pleasant view.

  “Did you pick Ashu up the day she disappeared?” demanded Singh, changing the subject abruptly.

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

  “She met Sameer on Marine Drive when she left the house. That’s why she went out.”

  “It is difficult to believe that a sister of mine could be so lost to propriety.”

  The inspector was suddenly reminded of his English literature classes as a teenager. The teacher dissecting Jane Austen while the boys looked bored and the girls swooned over Darcy. Certainly, there was enough pride and prejudice within this Sikh clan to write a number of sequels. Although Jane Austen had never felt the need to sully her books with premature death, or premature pregnancies for that matter.

  “Sameer says someone pulled over. Ashu got in the car with him or them. Whoever it was might have been the last person to see her alive – might hold the answers.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “The man wore a turban.”

  “Well, that narrows it down to a few million Sikhs.”

  Singh decided he’d love to pin a killing on this bastard, even that of his own sister. Tanvir would be slightly less smug once he’d been worked over in an Indian prison.

  “What about your brother?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did he know about Sameer?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Would it have upset him if he knew?”

  “Upset him so much that he doused my sister in kerosene and set her alight? I thought you said you’d met my brother?” Tanvir’s eyebrows arched in disbelief. “It sounds to me like you should ask this Sameer fellow your questions,” continued Tanvir when the policeman didn’t respond. “Don’t you think it’s just a bit convenient that he ‘saw’ Ashu leave with a Sikh man? Otherwise, he would have been the last person who saw Ashu alive. Probably the jealous type.”

  It was a fair point, thought Singh. But of the two of them, he felt much more sanguine about the honesty of the boyfriend than the brother.

  “If grandfather is right and this was murder – I don’t think you have to look any further than the Moslem,” insisted the brother.

  If Tanvir couldn’t persuade Tara Singh to ditch his conviction that the girl had been murdered, he’d at least identified a scapegoat, thought Singh.

  The policeman remembered Sameer Khan’s bruised face and cut knuckles and his assertion that the family was responsible.

  “Did you assault him?”

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

  “Did you or some other goondas beat Khan up?” He looked the other man up and down. “Well, I can see that you’ve not been in a fight recently so it must have been hired thugs. Very brave of you…”

  “Why suspect me?”

  “Because you have a motive and because you’re precisely the sort of young man who gets others to do his dirty work for him.”

  “A pimp like that probably has quite a few enemies. You’re not going to pin anything on me.”

  That was probably the most truthful thing that Tanvir had said to him yet. Wherever one was in the world, it seemed that it was difficult to bring the rich and powerful to book. It was enough to turn anyone into a communist – as long as it didn’t mean he had to share his cigarettes and beer. Singh remembered the passionate young man with the black eye and a willingness to take on Ashu’s medical work. “Sameer is worth a hundred of you,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Tanvir snidely. “Does he have a rich grandfather too?”

  Eleven

  “She was what?” Mrs. Singh’s voice was as taut as a rubber band pulled to breaking point.

  “Like I said,” replied her husband, sitting in the armchair by the window and watching his wife’s reactions as if she was a murder suspect in a series of particularly grisly deaths.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Disbelieve me by all means but it’s in the autopsy report.”

  “This is India – maybe they mixed up the bodies.”

  The situation was serious if his wife was prepared to believe that her beloved India was capable of such an unfortunate bureaucratic error rather than accept that there might have been a bun in the wrong oven.

  “I had a look at the report,” said Singh. “The rest of it matched what I saw myself. There’s no mistake. The girl was pregnant.”

  “Have the police informed the family?”

  “No – too afraid.”

  “I don’t blame them.”

  “They want me to do it.”

  She shook her head decisively. “No.”

  “Well, someone will have to tell them,” muttered the inspector.

  “No wonder she killed herself…”

  Singh looked at his wife with new respect. Mrs. Singh’s knee-jerk responses were providing him useful insights.

  “Being pregnant is a good enough reason to kill oneself?” Singh needed to be sure.

  “Before marriage? Of course.”

  “But Ashu was a modern girl.”

  “Being a modern girl in India means wearing jeans in public – not having babies before marriage.”

  The sarcasm was like a thick layer of sticky peanut butter on a slice of white bread. Singh cracked his knuckles together with frustration. It seemed that both his wife and Patel believed the pregnancy was conclusive of suicide. He still wasn’t sure – couldn’t get his head around a girl like Ashu taking such a way out. But those who had been certain that it wasn’t suicide – the boyfriend, the grandfather and the best mate – none of them had known about the pregnancy. Or at least, he didn’t think they’d known.

  “So who was the father?”

  “The MBA?” suggested Singh, largely to annoy his wife.

  “Cannot be Kirpal. I saw him today,” said his wife. “His reputation is destroyed; the dowry is lost…but not a child.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know?”

  “Even so, if they had…that sort of…relationship, he would be more upset, I think.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “So it must be the boyfriend,” insisted his wife.

  “I don’t think Sameer knew about the child,” said Singh in a sober tone. “Should I tell him?”

  “What’s the use?” asked Mrs. Singh with a sudden outbreak of compassion. “Too late now.”

  “He’s still a suspect,” pointed out the inspector. “If he killed her out of jealousy – this knowledge might be enough to trigger a confession.” His mind balked at such crude tactics so he changed the subject quickly.

  “What would Tara Singh and the brothers have done if they’d found out?”

  “About the pregnancy? Disowned her.” The answer had the trajectory of a bullet.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes – unless they’d already disowned her for having a Moslem boyfriend.” She paused to contemplate the enormity of the situation. “If she was having his child…” Her voice disappeared into the recesses of her throat, the transgression too shocking for her to articulate.

  “Sameer suggested that Ashu’s death might have been an honour killing – because she had a M
oslem boyfriend. And Tanvir certainly knew about Sameer – and had him beaten up as well, I believe.”

  “Honour killing? That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” She would have raised her eyebrows if they hadn’t been plucked into obscurity.

  “Casting her out onto the street because of an untimely pregnancy is perfectly understandable but killing her is beyond the pale?”

  “When you put it that way…”

  Singh brightened. “So they wouldn’t have disowned her over Sameer – or the child?”

  “I meant you’re right – probably the family killed her.”

  ♦

  When the phone rang, it was to inform Singh that a Mr. Khan was in the lobby waiting to see him. The fat man closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair like a fighter pilot subject to unbearable G-forces. Sameer Khan was possibly exactly the last person in the whole universe he wanted to see at that moment. What in the world was he supposed to say to him? Your girlfriend was pregnant with your baby, decided not to tell you in the hope she could pass it off as her soon-to-be husband’s, realised that the maths didn’t work and killed herself?

  He rode the elevator down in silence and grunted in response to the attendant’s cheery greeting. As he stepped out, he spotted Sameer immediately. It was almost impossible to miss the battered young man pacing up and down with his usual vigour. He raised a hand to acknowledge the policeman as Singh lumbered over.

  “It’s a bit late,” said Singh. He was wasting his time and he knew it. Sameer was completely indifferent to the convenience of others.

  “Are there any developments?” he demanded.

  “Is that why you came to see me?”

  “What else? Do you think I care whether you’re enjoying your stay in Mumbai?”

  His voice was raised a fraction and Singh beckoned to him with a fleshy hand and led him to the bar overlooking the sea. It was a comfortable place reeking of old-world charm with elderly waiters dressed in white and fine china crockery. Singh chose a window alcove. The view was stunning – the setting sun seemed to have seeped into the waters of the horizon and the sea was alive with flames – but neither man noticed or cared.

  Sameer’s face was like a specially designed thermostat that measured impatience, the increased redness suggesting a reading well in the danger zone.

  “Well,” he asked, “have you discovered anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that her family killed her?”

  “Not yet,” said Singh. “Even if it was true, it could be difficult to prove.”

  “Not if you find the man in the turban who picked her up and shake the truth out of him.”

  “Not my style,” said Singh. This was not the time to point out that Tanvir had suggested that the mysterious Sikh man was a convenient invention of the thwarted lover.

  “Anything new at the chemical works?” asked Singh, changing the subject before Sameer decided to take matters into his own tightly clenched hands.

  “Ashu was right – there’s something very odd going on at the slum next door.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve spent some time there – more and more people are turning up with those mysterious symptoms she was recording.”

  “Which she thinks is caused by the factory?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not so sure?”

  For once the young man of absolute certainties looked doubtful. “It could be anything, right?” It was almost as if he was seeking reassurance from Singh that his place of work wasn’t causing the outbreak.

  “Ashu went to see Tyler,” said Singh, “just before coming to see you.”

  “I know.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “She told me that morning…”

  “What did she say about it?”

  “Not much – that she’d gone to see Tyler – he’d denied everything.”

  “Did she say that he threatened her?”

  “What?” The exclamation caused other diners to turn around in surprise – this was a venue of low conversations and comfortable silences.

  “Does that mean ‘no’?”

  “She said he was angry,” he replied at last. “And that I should be careful if I was going to sniff around…but no, I thought she was being a mother hen. I didn’t sense danger.”

  “Do you think Tyler is capable of violence?”

  “That old fool?”

  “Yes,” said Singh with gritted teeth. Why did the young always assume that the old were not capable of strong emotion or violent expression?

  “I wouldn’t have thought so…” muttered Sameer. “But maybe if he felt cornered?”

  Even old people might lash out if cornered like rats? It was not an unfair assessment of the American. Definitely not a risk-taker but someone who might have acted if he felt threatened.

  “But surely she would have just gone to her grandfather if she really believed she was in danger?” asked Sameer. He didn’t look pleased at the idea that the love of his life might have gone elsewhere for help but at least he was still thinking.

  “It’s a fair point,” agreed Singh.

  “I still believe it was the brothers.”

  “The apprehension of a murderer is not an act of faith,” growled the inspector, conveniently ignoring the occasions when he’d followed his gut rather than his head in identifying a killer. He glanced down at his overhanging stomach. Unfortunately, there were very few hints coming from his innards. There was nothing for it. Time to show his cards.

  “The autopsy results are back,” he said by way of a preamble.

  Sameer grimaced but didn’t interrupt.

  “Death was, in all likelihood, caused by fire. Any other trauma – bruises, cuts, that sort of thing – if it existed, was well disguised.”

  “So there is nothing to rule out murder?”

  “Or suicide,” said Singh bluntly.

  “I’ve told you, I knew Ashu. She would never have taken her own life!”

  “Well – there was one other finding in the autopsy report that might affect that conclusion.”

  “What was that?” asked Sameer.

  “Ashu was pregnant.”

  ♦

  Mahesh had bought some food from a vendor on the street and now he hurried back to the hut, holding his package carefully as he skipped across the puddles. The change jingled in his pocket and a small part of him realised what an unfamiliar sound that was to him. There had never been much spare cash in his short life. His heart was full to brimming, pride in his errand, delight at its source, and fear at the possible consequences of being found out. He felt almost light-headed at the conflicting emotions and stumbled over an exposed stone. Mahesh held the food bundle to his chest, feeling its warmth through the paper. He had money enough to go back for a second round but there was no way he was prepared to fail at any of the tasks set him, however trivial.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry, Mahesh?”

  He saw that the questioner was one of the men who lived in the slum with his wife and six children. He was not a popular man. A tough fellow who used his strength against his family. Mahesh felt his stomach turn and knew, with that insight of the emotionally aware, that it was because Raj reminded him of his father. Strong. Brutal. Terrifying.

  “Didn’t you hear me, boy?” Raj was on his feet now, looking menacing, and even from where he stood Mahesh could smell the alcohol fumes.

  “On the way back to the hut,” he explained, rocking on the balls of his feet, ready to make a dash for it although Raj was blocking his path.

  “Smells like a good dinner there,” said Raj.

  “Not for me,” explained Mahesh nervously.

  “Where did you get the money? I heard all the other boys are back at VT but not you…”

  Mahesh flushed at the implied criticism but didn’t answer.

  “What’s your excuse now? You can’t trail after that doctor woman any more, can you?”

&
nbsp; The boy realised that it was possible to hate someone on a very brief acquaintance. But although his eyes blazed at the insult to Doctor Amma, he kept a firm hold of his temper. “I have to go now,” he said awkwardly.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  He didn’t reply; bit his tongue, his cheek, his lip to keep from provoking the man further.

  “How about you go but leave me some dinner? Think of it as a toll to pass my hut!” Raj cackled loudly at his own humour.

  “It’s for my mother,” he explained desperately. “She has come from the village. She’s not well. This food is for her.”

  “Where’d you get the money?”

  “Stole it,” said Mahesh boldly.

  This provoked laughter. “You’ll go far, boy – all the way to prison.”

  Raj tired of his sport and walked back into his hut but not before aiming a blow at Mahesh’s ear. Mahesh dodged, he had years of practice after all, and ran past as fast as he could. He reached the hut and drew back the cloth door carefully. The woman inside looked worn and tired but she held out a welcoming hand and Mahesh placed the food gently into the outstretched palm. He knew that, whatever happened, he was not going to fail in his duty to protect her.

  ♦

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s the truth. I heard it from Patel himself and he said that he made sure that the information was double-checked.”

  “There must be some mistake.” Sameer’s mouth was wide open as if he intended to scream and shout but the words came out as quietly as a sigh. Singh wondered at the man’s insistence. He’d expected him to be gutted at the information – who wouldn’t be? His unborn child was dead. But this fervent denial? He was an intelligent young man. The fact of the matter was that Sameer had been careless or the protection had been faulty. Either way, the consequences were tragic.

  Singh steepled his fingers and peered at Sameer over the apex. His wife’s view was that sex before marriage was undesirable and unnecessary and to be frowned upon by all right-thinking members of society (like herself). Still, for Sameer and Ashu, in the throes of first love, blighted love, it must have been both a temptation and an affirmation of their feelings. And look what happened – he could almost hear his wife’s snide tone, as if untimely death was the natural outcome of pre-marital sex.