Q: What care does my penis need?
A: Treat it like a temple treats a lingam.
I meant to say . . . Forget what I meant to say. My column was done, over, finished. There was outcry and outrage and I was out. I realized that my column would not have lasted long anyway. Some part of me wanted to just let it all out; I did so. I let go in an online blog. There I told people what I really felt, no-holds-barred. It was irreverent, insolent, and sometimes abusive. People loved it and commented in kind and it became a joyous slugfest. Was this some kind of escape for me?
A continuous stream of mothers and their children traipse into my clinic seven days a week. The children make faces, they break all the toys, and they break my heart. The mothers come for succor and I have to bear their burden for a few hours. For much-needed relief, I hide in a room with a computer and play games and watch porn for hours. The girlie magazine experience gave me an idea.
I got hold of a young visual artist who was also a whiz with computers. His name is Giri. Giri is supremely gifted and equally lazy, and I suspected his hormones were raging too. I described my assignment and watched his eyes widen. I gave him a challenge and in just seven days he delivered a program.
“Sir, you have no idea what I had to do to get the right sounds.”
I was the test market for this site. Male, single, never married, with a poor social life. This thing had to excite me, it had to hook me and keep me occupied. It did all of that. I am a strong believer in sound. The right sound can do wonders, as much as touch or feel. Giri had captured the sounds I wanted.
We worked hard on the image. We developed a screen called MORPH. Based on your data and your preferences an image gradually takes shape. After refining it further for another month, we went live with “Giselle.” Giri and I stood in front of my PC and he ceremoniously pressed a button. I logged in and fed in my details. MORPH went to work and my Giselle appeared. You have to see her; she is a marvel and she is mine alone.
Giselle is easy to use. If you are honest in creating your personal sketch, your Giselle will then appear. In India she is a little rounded. You can rest your eyes on her for she is sexy and you can touch her through your mouse or, better still, your touch screen. She moans in six different ways depending on where you touch her.
The sound is incredible. Each note has been carefully chosen and the pitch and the timbre are perfect. Keep hitting those buttons and you could have a symphony, an aria, or a blockbuster harem session. Giselle started as a free site, but when it began to take off, I did the sensible thing and after making a few improvements I added a paywall. I have money in the bank now and the best part is nobody knows who owns Giselle.
And this thing keeps me busy too. My young friend has engineered the site such that I get to know who logs in, when, how often, and what they click on. I get a whole lot of data that I use to analyze profiles and usage patterns. I have realized that most people are weird in their private moments.
I told you I am a trained psychologist. I took eight long years to qualify. My college, which was in interior Maharashtra, was forever on strike. I spent the first three years improving my English, which is now bloody good, thank you very much. What was missing and finally developed in Mumbai was a sense of dress and social skills.
I came to Mumbai to make a living. It seemed like the kind of place where I might become successful. When I first arrived here, I felt out of place and lacked confidence. I called everybody “Sir.”
Dealing with difficult children is a hard practice. It’s very challenging to see nature’s mistakes. It’s even more challenging having to live with them. Let me define mistake: nature’s biggest mistake and evolution’s all-time screw-up is making the majority of us very much like one other. We are a dominating majority. We live in a uniform think tank, we swim rhythmically in an empathy pool, and we have lost the ability to deal with those of us who are different. And when someone different comes along we cannot handle it.
Right now I am observing the habits of the heaviest user of Giselle. Giri, my young wizard, has sent me the data on this fellow who seems hooked on my invention.
IP Address: Mumbai, India
Declared Age: Midthirties
Marital Status: Single
Usage Style: Chaotic
“Sir,” says my computer friend, “this guy must have busted some of the keys on his keyboard by now. He keeps hitting them so rapidly that I’ve had to reengineer our response timings.”
* * *
This prime customer of ours, who I had been tracking closely, seemed to have a serious problem. I wanted to help him out if I could. My professional calling egged me on and I felt compelled to answer the call. But how?
I sat at my computer and ran a few searches. I fished around in the profiles of those who have posted on my blog, I followed some dead ends, and I finally found a match. His blog postings were a mix of Hindi and English. His thoughts were staccato and his questions were naive. He kept referring to women as Aurat jaat.
And now I was in a quandary. I wanted to get through to this user—for his sake. How do you go about doing it? Giri traced the IP address and he spoke to a friend and they got hold of the location. It was a police station in South Mumbai. The person was a cop.
Giri’s asking around stirred some feathers. I received an anonymous note saying that all information and records pertaining to Tiwari should be deleted forthwith, or else I would be in trouble. Of course I did no such thing.
After a week the user was back online. And then I was paid a visit by a man named Pandey who questioned me about who I was and what I did.
“Psycho what?” he asked me. “Are you qualified for such a thing?”
He wasn’t satisfied when I said yes. A few days later he called saying he had a puzzle that only I could help solve. He set up a meeting with his colleagues at the police station. While I could hardly wait to see the biggest user of Giselle—I had visualized him a million times in my head—I was also apprehensive.
The Bahurupi Sena
Informers were called khabaris and they were compensated either in cash for the khabar or they were offered amnesty by the police for past infractions. The other term used for khabaris was “zero.” Zeroes had no official standing with the police and certainly none with the gangs. They were invisible men operating in a no-man’s-land. A legion of such zeroes visited the rear portion of Special Branch. This two-faced army was colloquially called the Bahurupi Sena.
There were no niceties in the rear office. The place had a concrete floor, stone walls, exposed wiring, and it was poorly lit. The approach to the building was crowded and outside was a bazaar that extended right up to the doorstep. Cheap junk was sold on the sidewalks, on the roads, and in temporary shelters. People shopped here en route to the nearby railway station. The shops had no names and nothing could be tried on or returned. Things were sold in twos, threes, and more. There was an energy, a must-sell-today kind of energy. Buyers looked around furtively and for good reason. The material was a steal; was it stolen? There were many wallets on sale and countless pens. Were these people shopkeepers or were they pickpockets?
All efforts at clearing this mess were thwarted by Tiwari. He found this bazaar a good camouflage for his operation. His men and their extended network could sneak in and out without notice. Nobody knew the size of this subterranean network and very few were aware that its tentacles spread over the map of Mumbai. Mumbai informers lived hand-to-mouth and the cops exploited them. Tiwari was given a stack of cash every month which helped keep his network on a short financial leash.
“There is no love lost in my department,” said Tiwari. “The world hates an informer.”
Ranvir watched Tiwari’s progress and famously said, “This will not last.”
He was wrong. The Bahurupi Sena flourished. Things were going well for the Bahurupis, and thanks to their information preemptive arrests were on the rise and many crimes were getting solved faster. The focus shifted from hunting for c
lues at the crime scene to letting informers loose. They came back with names. The hit squad had less and less to do.
The clashes between Ranvir and Tiwari began with minor issues, the first salvo coming from Ranvir. He issued a three-point memo that said, No paan chewing, no spitting, and no loitering.
Tiwari responded, Please define loitering.
The reply: Leaning on anything when on duty, sitting on anything other than your chair, scratching any body part in public view, speaking to anyone for more than a minute.
Everybody knew that Tiwari chewed paan leaves. Each morning, a dhoti-clad denizen from the Hindi heartland would arrive with twenty-four neatly packed bundles. The first packing layer was a rough leaf that was covered by newspaper with a top plastic cover. The process of unpacking was gradual, with each layer thrown into (and sometimes outside) a dustbin. By the evening the paan would have marinated into the newspaper and the plastic turned a bloody color. With so much mastication it was inevitable that spitting would follow.
The clash of cultures spilled into the work zone. Parthasarathy held a meeting to try to defuse the tension.
“Gentlemen, this is a rapprochement meeting. Now please air whatever is on your mind, but no mud-slinging and no personal insults. Clear your misunderstandings and let us try to be positive.”
“You have done well, Tiwari,” said Ranvir, to begin proceedings. “For someone who has come up the ranks, you have done very well indeed.”
Tiwari looked a little surprised. Was this a loaded compliment? Perhaps Ranvir was trying to emphasize the fact that he was an IPS officer. These Indian Police Service types liked to distance themselves from the rankers.
Ranvir turned to Partha. “Mumbai has no patience for subtlety, so the city gets what it deserves. Tiwari’s method seems to be working. He bugs the bad-asses of Mumbai. He plants bugs in their bedrooms and boudoirs and records what happens. He tracks the pimps, the whores, and their clients—and he bugs them as well. He threatens the underlings and the weak links in the gangs. And you, sir, give him a bundle of cash to dispense with impunity. There is enough dirt in Mumbai for our friend to thrive.”
Tiwari reddened and had difficulty composing his thoughts. He lacked finesse and so his reply was emotional and incoherent. “Ranvir sahib, unlike you IPS types, we’ve had no time to learn language. We grew up middle class. There is no poetry in our houses. You want to know why?”
Ranvir shook his head. “No,” he said.
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway. It cannot pay our bills. Sahib, to police Mumbai you have to grow up in Mumbai, like I did.” Tiwari switched tracks; he went off on a personal journey: “My father was a devout family man. We all worshipped him. I was a small boy when he suddenly passed away. After he died my uncle took me aside and showed me what my father did on those evenings he came home late and those weekends when he was on the road.”
Ranvir wanted to interrupt but Partha held him back.
Tiwari rambled on: “My uncle took me to the infamous neighborhood of Grant Road where there was a dancer, a mujrewaali called Tabassum. I hid behind torn curtains while Tabassum danced. Later she placed a hand on my head and I shuddered. I could only see the grime, the dirt, the peeling walls, the cheap makeup, and the fake laughter. I had to find my own way home that night.”
“Why?” asked Partha, amid his doodling.
“Because my uncle stayed behind.”
“I see.”
“That night I saw the world through my father’s eyes. I walked the lanes of that notorious district. And I saw men wander those streets. I stood in front of one jaali room whose curtain was pink. Many men came. They were unsteady from drink and they spoke loudly. They arrived like heroes and left like thieves. There was a dark corner in that alleyway. As they left they sprayed the wall of that alley with piss till the smell made me gag. Mr. Parthasarathy, I learned about sex that night.”
“What did you learn? I hope you didn’t—”
Tiwari shook his head. “I learned that sex is like going to the toilet.”
“Is that where you go for sex?” asked Ranvir with mock politeness.
Partha intervened. “Rana, let him have his say.”
“Is there a point to this story?” asked Ranvir.
“My father led a double life that nobody knew about,” said Tiwari. “That destroyed him; that information finished him in my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I realized the power of information that night. Information can make a man and it can finish him too.” He stood up with some difficulty, walked over to Ranvir, and faced him head on. “Ranvir sahib, in my language, my station as a cop is a thana, and I am a thanedaar. This is the real Mumbai, my Mumbai. You are welcome but you do not belong here.”
Tiwari’s World
You have no official identity in this city, just like the million or so others who reside in Mumbai’s slums. There are no land records in your name though you have laid claim to a small hole in a dirty chawl where you shit into a plastic bag and throw it into a bin. You do not get any bills for electricity or water because you have tapped them both illegally. You buy things in the gray markets where no one makes out receipts. Your SIM card has a phony address and you have neither a passport nor a ration card. Your name does not appear in any database, nor does your photograph. You have never been inside a bank. There are thousands like you in the slums among the poor, the criminals, and those who are both. You are untraceable and a nightmare for the police.
You are in your early thirties and you make a living selling cell phones from a small shop in a slum. Your suppliers are crooked and your material is fake but the phones work and you offer free repairs. Your cousin sits at the rear of the shop behind a partition and hacks the codes of every phone brand and model and installs every update as well.
You are such a fake that even your name, Pappu, sounds phony. That’s what everyone calls you. Your part-time job as a khabari exists because of who you are. The cops cannot trace the likes of you without an informant network. You took up this precarious job because one day a minor don bought a phone from you and he got traced. When he was released he came after you, took you away, and cut off one of your balls. You nearly bled to death. Then you had recurrent nightmares, and they had robbed you of your prowess in bed. The ignominy dragged you to Tiwari, who took care of the hoodlum. You became a khabari in return. You have grown weary of ratting and your wife wants you to come out into the open, buy a small apartment, open a bank account, and adopt a child.
You have gathered your courage and asked for a meeting. You are taken through a low door from the street outside and the two men who accompany you do not touch you but they own you, the way they shepherd you through a narrow corridor without windows to a small room without windows that has one yellow light, one table, and one metal chair upon which you seat yourself without being asked. You face a wall, the light comes on, and you see your hunched shadow. Opposite you is a stuffed seat and Tiwari enters without a sound and sinks into it, and before you know it his hand is on your shoulder; he has turned your face to the light and memorized your every pore.
“Speak,” he says. “Say something.”
You blurt your name and where you are from and he holds up his hand and stops you.
“I know who you are. Do you want to live?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say without thinking.
“The answer is always yes,” he replies matter-of-factly, then leans forward. “Why?”
“Why? What do you mean why?” You laugh nervously.
“What happens if you die?” he says softly. “Have you ever thought about it?”
You shake your head and lean back as much as you can because he’s bearing down on you and he reeks of sweat.
“Let’s say you die here in this room. It has happened to people—they have come here and they have had strange seizures. What will really happen if you die? You think you are worth something, worth preserving for someone like me?” His tone remains soft through all of this. Tiwari shi
fts his seat closer and the grating sound echoes in the small chamber. He is right next to you and you have to look into his eyes and you find yourself disoriented by his relentlessly questioning but dulcet tone. “What can you do for me now? What you have told me in the past is history. You are telling me you want to just walk away . . . and then? I can give you some money and send you away. What will you do with your pathetic existence—go back to your booze?”
“I don’t drink, Tiwari-ji, I don’t touch it.”
“To your needles and hash then.”
“Only gutka, I take only gutka, I swear.”
“Fine . . . You can leave but don’t ever call me again.”
“That’s it? I have to go back to that serpent’s den wearing an informer’s badge? You told me you would protect me.”
“Why should I? There’s no pension in this business.”
“Okay, just give me my money.”
Tiwari pushes a small packet across the table toward you, which you pocket quickly without checking the contents. “Your wife spoke to me,” he says. “Actually, I called her today. You can’t keep her happy, can you? Fucking eunuch. I hear even Viagra failed.”
The son of a bitch; the fat, shameless slob. Will he stop at nothing?
* * *
There is a fine line between information and intelligence, and Tiwari had the instincts of an assayer in these matters. It’s hard to distinguish between the two when most of your material is hearsay and half-truths. Before Tiwari took charge it was assumed that what was forced out of somebody was true and what came to the door as barter needed to be vetted.
No one had actually seen Tiwari get physical in an interrogation. He considered it a failure if someone on his team had to lay even a finger on an informant. And yet he was very effective. His mind was one with those who showed up. Wastrels, petty thieves, convicted criminals, and devious rats would surface at headquarters and within minutes of meeting him they felt exposed. Such was his understanding of their minds. It was quite extraordinary. Tiwari believed he could cajole a man to give up his life. Seriously. Those who ratted to him often died violent deaths. None held him to account.
The Third Squad Page 13