Death in Mumbai

by Meenal Baghel

  May 7, 7.30 am, Maria’s new apartment

  Kundan Jha, the watchman at Dheeraj Solitaire, rubbed his sleepy eyes and pushed the register forward for the handsome young man to make his entry. Jha neither understood nor read English. The visitor could have entered any gibberish, but it was protocol, and if there was one thing Kundan Jha had learnt in Mumbai, it was that here, unlike back home in Nawada, Bihar, rules must be followed.

  The new memsahib in 201-B seemed popular. She had arrived the previous morning with an actor, then last night another young man had arrived and not left since, followed by the delivery man from Sai Sagar restaurant a little after 11 pm—and now the day had just started, and here was another visitor carrying a backpack and refusing to write his name.

  ‘I am a cousin,’ he said moving away.

  ‘Par naam kya hai?’ Kundan Jha said, insisting that he reveal his name.

  Back home in Bihar the women of his house led strictly circumscribed lives. In Mumbai, Kundan Jha saw a different breed of woman and didn’t bat an eyelid, relishing his own insouciance. This is what the big city was all about—being modern.

  Emile Jerome never did make that entry; the first of his many moves that confused the prosecution later.

  May 7, 1 pm, the home of Kiran Shreyans

  Kiran Shreyans, on the other hand, was petrified by this modernity. After a messy break-up with his long-time girlfriend, the one he had moved from Bangalore to Mumbai for, he was no longer sure of how to deal with women. The rules of the man–woman relationship he had grown up observing had been subverted. As the good-looking dance instructor at Andheri’s Renaissance Federation Board Club, he was surrounded by beautiful, willing women. Sex was available on call, but not emotional succour. As if merely thinking of difficult modern women could conjure up a presence, his phone rang. It was Maria Susairaj.

  Despite the enjoyable evening at their mutual friend Deepak Singh’s house four days ago, Kiran had retained his misgivings about Maria. Her soft voice was unnaturally shrill, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint if she sounded anxious or just overeager.

  ‘Kiran, could I please borrow your car for a bit? My fiancé has come from Kochi to join the naval base in Mumbai, and he has lots of luggage. I just need to drop him to Colaba, after which I’ll return your car.’

  Kiran paused wordlessly; it was the best way he knew how to say no. ‘Please, Kiran, please, please, please, please, please, please…’ she persisted, like a spoilt child who knows she will get her way if she pleads long enough.

  ‘Okay, but I have to go out for dinner tonight, so make sure that you return it by 9–9.30 pm.’

  About three hours later Maria and her naval officer boyfriend were at his door.

  ‘Kiran, many thanks, ya. This is Emile, my fiance.’

  He misheard the name as ML. What kind of a name was that? But the chap seemed fine. Cool, collected. Instead, Kiran found himself distracted by the many love bites on Maria’s neck and chest. He tried hard not to look, but couldn’t help staring at the marks across her chest where the buttons met, and all over her neck.

  Evidently, distance was good for some relationships.

  They walked to where the car was parked and he handed over his car keys to Maria, sneaking a discreet look at the fuel gauge.

  ‘Be careful with my car and bring it back by the evening.’

  It was only after they left that it occurred to him—why plead so hard for his car? Why not take a taxi like the rest of Mumbai?

  By ten in the evening there was no sign of Maria, Emile, or the car. When he called her, she sounded distracted, apologetic. ‘I am really sorry about the car, Kiran, but one of my friends, Neeraj, has gone missing and we’re all so worried. I am at the police station right now and we’re lodging a complaint. If possible I’ll drop your car later tonight or tomorrow morning.’

  Next morning, through his window, Kiran saw Emile drive the Santro into the compound and park it clumsily. Without waiting for them to come up to the house he went out to park it properly. Maria apologized profusely for the delay and tried to push Rs 200 into his hand. For the petrol used, she offered lamely. Kiran laughed her off and checked the fuel gauge; the needle was exactly where it had been when he had given the car to them yesterday. Clearly that had been taken care of.

  Three days after they had returned his car, Maria called again with a baffling query. ‘Have any cops called you?’

  ‘Why should the police call me?’

  ‘They may call, it could be in connection with my friend’s disappearance, the one I told you about, Neeraj,’ she sounded tense.

  A few days later she called again. ‘Did the police call you yet?’ This time Kiran noted a distinct trace of hysteria.

  ‘You know the case has been transferred to the Crime Branch and they’re tracking it closely, I think they’re tapping my number.’

  He couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Was she suffering from paranoia? ‘Don’t worry, Monica, the Crime Branch doesn’t tap ordinary people’s phones. Your friend will soon turn up.’

  Barely ten minutes later the phone rang again. It was Maria again, the urgency in her voice unmistakable.

  ‘Kiran, if the police calls you and asks about me, please tell them that I had come to your house to borrow Rs 3,000, which I came and returned the next day. Don’t forget, okay? Just say this much and nothing else. Please!’

  Kiran disconnected the call and stared at his feet, his heart drumming up a heavy rhythm in his chest, panic swelling like nausea up his throat. He took the car keys off the hook and raced down to the parking lot. He opened the boot of the blue-grey Santro, desperately scanning for telltale signs, not knowing what he was looking for. The stepney, the spanners, everything seemed in place. He looked again carefully, and for long. There was nothing untoward. He shut the boot, and leaned against it to catch his breath. He failed to check the back seat. Had he looked in the crevice between the backrest and the seat, he would have found two discolorations caused by patches of blood drying on the tapestry.

  May 7, 10 am, Neeraj Grover’s home in Kanpur

  Neeraj was not answering his phone. Maybe he’d had a late night and was sleeping it off. Neelam Grover decided she would wait for another half an hour before calling her son again. Ever since Ginni (as they called him at home) had left Kanpur, first to study at Amity University in Noida, and then to work in Mumbai, the mother and son spoke to each other twice a day, every day. Once at around ten in the morning, and then again at eleven in the night.

  Amarnath Grover would often ask his wife what was it that transpired through the night that necessitated the morning call; but it was never more than a mock complaint. It was good that Ginni was close to his mother. He, who himself had a slightly more formal relationship with his children, felt comforted by the fact that they had grown up with the right values. His second-born may live away from home but as the calls demonstrated, Ginni was anchored to them.

  One day, he hoped, Neeraj would have his fill of the world of glamour and return to Kanpur, like Amarnath Grover himself had done, taking voluntary retirement from his job, to set up a stationery shop on Mall Road. It may not offer the glamour of Neeraj’s television world, but that little shop, which had expanded over the years, and his nifty investments, had served the family well.

  Half an hour later Neelam Grover dialled her son again. The phone rang, each ring echoing the other. ‘I’ll wait for exactly ten rings,’ she promised herself, and then reluctantly disconnected after the eleventh. She’d spoken to him last night at 11.15 pm after watching Kayamath. Though Neeraj had left Balaji, his name still appeared in the credits of their lead show. Every day, she looked for it, and then called him. ‘Ginni, they are still running your name as the creative producer.’

  He had laughed, sounding happy and in good spirits. Maybe he was in the shower, maybe he was talking to someone in the other room. She called again. Then five minutes later, again. She pressed redial, then superstitiously dialled his entire numb
er. Redial once more. The half-peeled vegetables lay forgotten in the kitchen as she fervently punched the keys on her phone. Again. Again. Again.

  She called her daughter to complain. ‘Ginni is not taking his calls.’

  Separated by only two years, the brother and sister shared a special bond. Maybe he would be persuaded to answer Shikha’s call. But as she soon informed her mother, he still wasn’t picking up. Shikha next called her cousin who was living with Neeraj in Mumbai. He too had no news. ‘Ginni didn’t come back home last night and he’s not answering any calls either. He’s also not at work, what’s with him, yaar?’ he complained instead.

  Before leaving to collect her children from school, Shikha made another quick call to her mother, her fingers crossed behind her back. ‘Mummy, Neeraj shoot pe hai. His phone is on silent, you can talk to him at night.’

  She kept dialling her brother’s number, each unanswered call like a tentacle clamping around her heart. Determined not to worry her parents yet, she called her uncle, Satnam Arora. Her mother’s brother was a resourceful man. ‘Ginni is not answering his phone, he’s not at home, nor at work, and no one in Mumbai seems to know where he is. I haven’t yet told mummy, papa.’

  Satnam Arora promptly called his business associates in Mumbai and set them to work. ‘Tu worry mat kar, he’ll be around somewhere, we’ll soon find out.’

  That day, May 7, 2008, the Grovers called Neeraj one hundred and thirty times. The phone was answered only once. Somewhere between 4 pm and 5 pm when Shikha called, the call connected after the fourth ring.

  ‘Ginni! Hello, Ginni, Can you hear me? Ginni, hello!’ But all she heard was a muffled sound, and some voices talking far away.

  ‘Ginni,’ she called out urgently. But there was just the fluttering invective of the wind before the phone went dead. This was the call that would eventually unravel the mystery of Neeraj’s disappearance.

  May 7, around noon, Nishant Lal’s home

  Nishant Lal was still at home when Maria called to say that Neeraj had left his phone at her house last night. ‘He left at 1.30 am to go to your place,’ she said.

  ‘But he never turned up here,’ Nishant told her. ‘In fact I got a call from his office this morning, asking me where he was, he has missed an important meeting.’

  ‘I don’t know about that but his phone is here, and he hasn’t called for it. Will you please collect it from me either at Café Coffee Day, or from my home, or if you speak to Neeraj, ask him to?’

  So he was not with Maria. For the first time since the call from Neeraj’s office, Nishant felt concern. Where the bloody hell was Neeraj? He checked with Deepak Kumar who had also not heard from Neeraj, though the friends spoke every day without fail. ‘Yeh saala ullu banaa raha hai humein. He’s up to some juvenile prank,’ said Deepak with uncertainty. ‘Let’s meet Maria in the evening and find out what games Mr Neeraj Grover is playing.’

  May 7, a little after 9 pm, Maria’s new apartment

  Instead of meeting at Café Coffee Day, Maria had asked Nishant Lal and Deepak Kumar to come over to her flat. ‘When you reach Dheeraj Solitaire call me and I’ll come down with the phone.’ They thought it distinctly odd that she had not invited them upstairs. They had been pacing the foyer for five minutes when she came down with Neeraj’s phone. She was dressed smartly and looked freshly scrubbed.

  Before she could say anything Deepak butted in. ‘Come on, Maria, show us your new flat.’ As she baulked, taken aback by their directness, Deepak Kumar called for the elevator, his big bulky frame practically herding them into the small lift. Inside the tiny, skeletal flat, bereft of any furnishing, Deepak parodied Sherlock Holmes. He was convinced Neeraj would emerge grinning any second.

  ‘Hel-llo!’ He snuck from the living room into the kitchen, shielding his eyes with his palms in the classic bumbling sleuth pose, before stopping short abruptly at the doorway to the bedroom.

  Inside was a bare-chested man fiddling with a laptop. Feeling suddenly foolish Deepak returned to the living room.

  ‘Hey, Emile,’ Maria called out.

  Instead of Neeraj, a good-looking stranger with a serious demeanour and sooty eyes emerged. ‘This is Emile Jerome, my fiancé. He’s with the navy, and he’s just been posted to Mumbai.’

  Deepak and Nishant stared at one another and in that split second, both men reached the same decision.

  ‘Maria, we are going to the police station from here to lodge a missing complaint for Neeraj. His cousin is coming to the police station as well, why don’t you also come with us since you saw him last.’

  Suddenly she looked distressed and teary-eyed. ‘Sure, I have been so worried myself, I care so much about Neeraj, just as much as you guys do.’ Emile, who had been watching the three of them with a distant politeness, stepped forward to comfort her. He and Maria spoke rapidly in Kannada before Emile switched to English. ‘Do you want me to come along as well?’ he asked in a perfunctory tone.

  May 7, 11.15 pm

  When the evening failed to yield Neeraj, Neelam Grover called his flatmate Haresh Sondarva. ‘I had no idea she didn’t know,’ Haresh was to say later. ‘I told her Neeraj had not been traceable since morning and that a missing complaint had been lodged. I should have been more careful instead of just blurting that out.’

  By the next morning Amarnath Grover and his brother-in-law Satnam Arora were on a JetLite flight from Lucknow to Mumbai.

  May 8, Mumbai

  Amarnath Grover had not expected to be back in Mumbai so soon. Just two months ago he and Neelam had visited Ginni during Holi. He had entertained them wonderfully, taking them on the set of his mother’s favourite serial, introducing them to his friends, and also to his then girlfriend. She was a fashion designer and had studied with Haresh. Ginni told them he wanted to marry her. ‘After which both of you also come and live with me in Mumbai. You’ve worked long enough,’ he’d said, accepting no argument.

  So this was how power shifted centre. Their boy had become his own man. That night, talking in whispers as they lay next to each other, the Grovers planned for the future. They’d sell the Kanpur house—Shikha was already well settled and happy with her family—and move to Mumbai. ‘Maybe we can look at a wedding date in December,’ suggested Neelam.

  On their return to Kanpur, at his wife’s insistence, Amarnath Grover had spoken to a buyer for the bungalow. But now Ginni had gone missing, and he was headed to the police station to locate his child. Power may be deft, but responsibility was leaden-footed; it would always be his.

  They went straight from the airport to the Malad police station where he met Neeraj’s friends Nishant Lal and Deepak Kumar, and his flatmates Haresh and Sushant, all of whom he had been introduced to during his last trip. A missing complaint had been registered the previous day, the inspector-in-charge told him. He also heard that his son had last been to a flat belonging to one of his friends, a girl called Maria Susairaj. ‘She lives close by,’ said Haresh. ‘She had called Neeraj at night to help her shift.’

  ‘Let’s go to her house then,’ he said to Neeraj’s flatmates. ‘I’d like to meet and talk to her.’

  Ginni had never mentioned this girl. When he asked Haresh about her, he mumbled something, clearly uncomfortable. Maria’s flat was completely empty. ‘That’s strange,’ Amarnath Grover thought to himself. ‘Hadn’t the girl called Ginni to help in the shifting? If so, where was her stuff?’

  There was also evidence of some wet paint, which struck Haresh as odd. Normally tenants always ensured a house was painted before they took possession. But all those thoughts vanished as Maria started to weep. ‘Why are you guys questioning me like this? I am also upset about Neeraj. If you want I’ll come with you to the police station again.’ Sushant tried to console her. ‘It’s okay, Maria, take it easy, we’re all a little on the…’ He stopped short when a stranger walked into the room and stood behind Maria, holding her shoulder comfortingly.

  ‘Uh, this is Emile, my fiancé,’ she said sniffling.


  Neeraj’s two flatmates gaped at one another, and after a hurried goodbye, shepherded Amarnath Grover out of the house.

  May 9, morning

  All of Neeraj’s friends—Amarnath Grover hadn’t realized just how popular his son was—eddied around him; their youthful energy, optimism, and determination inuring him against the anxiety that threatened to seep into his bones. ‘Uncle, we’ll keep up the pressure on the police, don’t worry, we won’t rest till they find Neeraj,’ Deepak Kumar assured him as they got into the autorickshaw to go to Malad police station again for an update. At the police station Amarnath Grover spotted a familiar face. ‘I see you on television every night, I like your style of reporting,’ he told IBN7 reporter Nishat Shamsi, and then asked, ‘Are the police telling you something that they’re keeping from us?’

  ‘They’ll say something only if they make any progress. I think they’re just playing the wait-and-watch game for now, and not doing much to locate Neeraj. Sir, why don’t you go to Rakesh Maria instead?’ Nishat Shamsi suggested helpfully.

  May 9, 5.30 pm

  In his imposing office at the Mumbai police headquarters at Crawford Market, the Joint Commissioner and head of the elite Crime Branch, had just been debriefed on an exasperating murder case that his boys from Unit IX had solved. The unidentified body of a young man had been found inside Joggers’ Park at Lokhandwala in North Mumbai. The Crime Branch had traced it back to Chandigarh and found that the deceased, looking to emigrate to Canada, had paid a Mumbai-based travel agent for his services. When he found no progress on his travel papers he had come to Mumbai to demand the money back, only to be murdered by the fraudulent agent.

  Rakesh Maria was talking to journalists about the killing and the surge in white-collar crime at his daily media briefing, dubbed ‘The Durbar’ by cheeky reporters, for his imperious style of communication, when his aide brought in a chit from a visitor.

  In place of the name of the visitor it read: ‘Father of Missing Boy.’