Dead in a Mumbai Minute

by Madhumita Bhattacharyya

  ‘You are the most tight-lipped bitch I’ve ever known!’ she screamed.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  Sohana thrust the newspaper under my nose.

  ‘STAR’S SECRET MARRIAGE REVEALED!’ it screamed. Kimaaya’s picture from a recent society event was splashed across it in four columns.

  ‘We talk till, like, three in the morning, and you don’t mention that your hot boss who has the hots for you was married to this woman?’

  I could have denied knowing, but there was no point. I swept the hair out of my eyes and read the short piece on the front page.

  Kimaaya Kapoor’s secret marriage and divorce – worthy of the raciest Bollywood potboiler – has been revealed.

  Kapoor, it has been learnt, was married as a young woman to the shadowy and reclusive Shayak Gupta, a former military officer. Why the marriage was kept such a tightly guarded secret for all these years is not known, but with the spotlight on Kapoor for the recent murder of her former assistant on her private island, the relationship – which was dissolved before Kimaaya began to work with the slain Ashutosh Dhingre – is bound to come under the scanner, especially since Gupta is still a business associate whose company Titanium is in charge of Kimaaya’s security.

  A pointer directed readers to the entertainment supplement, where the story was continued in purple-and-yellow detail. I threw the newspaper down on the kitchen counter as I set about making coffee, slamming the cups down with more force than necessary.

  ‘You know I couldn’t tell you this. It concerns an ongoing investigation,’ I said, partly because it was easier to address Sohana’s mock betrayal than consider the implications of the revelations.

  ‘I get that part. But is this why you won’t have anything to do with Shayak?’

  ‘No, Sohana. What difference does it make whom he was married to? I have known from the beginning that he was divorced.’

  ‘That the ex was once the heartthrob of a billion people is not relevant to you?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said, not completely honestly. ‘Except that it is about to seriously screw up this investigation.’ I picked up the entertainment supplement.

  KIMAAYA KAPOOR WED AND DIVORCED BEFORE HER FIRST HIT

  Kimaaya Kapoor, who broke into Bollywood in the late 1990s with hits such as ‘Maaya Mumbai’, ‘Love in Hong Kong’, ‘Hello Goodbye’ and ‘Hero 420’ had been married at the time of her debut and soon divorced, a fact that she has managed to keep from her fans and the industry for fifteen years.

  Why the secrecy? Industry insiders, not wishing to be named, feel that it is most likely because her chances at success would be much higher if single. Link-ups with co-stars are now part and parcel of promotion of films and, as the fate of recent heroines proves, fans prefer their female stars to be unwed, as it makes them more believable in a romance.

  She was married on 26 February 1997 and divorced on 13 July 1999, a few months after she was romantically linked to Suresh Sharma, with whom she had two films in the pipeline. Whether the relationship was the cause for the breakdown of the marriage is not known. ‘I had no idea, just like the rest of India, that Kimaaya was married at the time I met her. I feel cheated and betrayed, and grateful that our relationship ended,’ said Sharma, who has not been seen in a film since the box-office disaster ‘Bhookamp!’ in 2008. He and Kimaaya broke up under a cloud of suspicion that he was stopping her from taking plum roles with Abhijeet Bhagat, whom she was later rumoured to be in a short-lived, tumultuous relationship with.

  Despite numerous attempts to contact her, Kimaaya Kapoor was not available for comment.

  Now all that remain are questions: Did Ashutosh Dhingre know about the marriage, and could it have anything to do with his death? Is this marriage why Kimaaya has chosen to stay single after all these years? And, finally, who is Shayak Gupta?

  But that wasn’t all. Taking off from where the previous piece left off was another story, accompanied by a picture of Shayak, face shielded by a cap, getting off his yacht and onto Maaya Island.

  Next to it was the blurb: ‘Who is Shayak Gupta?’

  This shadowy figure is someone whom everyone knows, and yet no one knows. Titanium Securities is India’s largest private security agency by some distance. As a privately held company, financial data is hard to come by. It provides security solutions to companies and individuals, including many of India’s leading cricketers and Bollywood stars and corporates. But it seems an equally popular choice with politicians and for high-profile public events, such as diplomatic visits, large concerts and shows. It is the go-to firm for cyber security. Despite all this, so little is known about the man at the top that his marriage to one of India’s leading stars was, till this morning, a secret.

  There are whispers of him being ex-military, of a continuing cozy association with the armed forces and politicians. It is not known how he has become trusted by every source of power; his parentage is an absolute mystery, as is any family he may have acquired since the end of his marriage over a decade ago.

  The article was remarkable for how very little it actually said. And luckily the picture was not a good one. But I knew that wherever Shayak was, he was livid.

  I looked at Sohana. ‘This is bad. Very bad.’

  Sohana nodded. ‘Not sure why it is such a secret in the first place, but this is guaranteed to be in the news forever. They aren’t going to let it go.’

  I looked at the byline: Prashant Parashar. It was the same on the other two stories as well. ‘I need to speak to this journalist.’ Whoever gave him this information might have made contact with the killer. He might even be the killer.

  ‘Let me make a few calls,’ said Sohana, getting on the phone.

  I turned on the TV. All the news channels were covering the story. But none of them had any additional information, and several were citing the newspaper article as the source.

  ‘Here’s his number,’ said Sohana in fifteen minutes, scribbling it on a piece of paper. I tried calling immediately but had no luck. I continued dialling as I got ready for work and headed in to office. Finally, after about the tenth attempt, he answered.

  ‘Yes,’ came the voice, short and curt.

  ‘My name is Reema Ray, I am with Titanium Securities.’

  There was a pause, and I thought I had lost him. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes. I have been trying to get in touch with you guys for three days.’

  I was confused till I realized he must have been trying to contact Shayak’s office for the story. ‘You wouldn’t have been trying to get in touch with me. I am investigating the death of Ashutosh Dhingre, and believe you may have relevant information.’

  Another long pause. ‘How have you come to that conclusion?’ he said at last.

  ‘I really do believe this conversation should occur face to face.’

  ‘I have an obligation to protect my sources.’

  ‘Mr Parashar, this is a murder investigation, and I am sure you can appreciate its gravity.’

  ‘I will not tell you my sources.’

  I fell back on the old line that had been serving me so well. ‘Would you like me to involve the police? We are working with them and it would not be a problem bringing you in for questioning. I am, for now, offering you a far more … civilized alternative.’

  ‘Let me speak to my editor and get back to you.’

  In five minutes Parashar sent me a text, summoning me to his office at 4 pm. I was in.

  I found myself alone at office. I tried my best to order my thoughts, but was struggling. Two murders, Shayak disappearing, Kimaaya’s secrets all over the news – we had been engulfed in chaos.

  I got a call on my cell from an unknown number; it looked to be an international one. I answered. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’ll make this short.’ It was Shayak.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘We need this journalist to talk.’

  ‘Already on it,’ I said, telling him about th
e appointment later that day.

  ‘Good. Chances are you will also meet the editor, Shakuntala Padhy. She knows me. Keep your chat off the record. Be careful how much you say – she is great at getting information out of people. About Kimaaya – she assures me she did not speak to any journalists about this business.’

  ‘Okay. Can I contact you?’

  ‘I will touch base with you somehow, as soon as I can. As of now, you are the only one from Titanium working on the Maaya Island murder.’

  ‘I can’t do this alone!’

  ‘Why not? I have already seen you solve a murder on your own with a damn sight less than what you have now. Use whatever resources you need. It’ll be taken care of. Vinod is yours. For logistics, there is Archana. No one else.’

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked again.

  ‘Away,’ he said. I was surprised by how distant he sounded. And then he sighed. ‘I might need … help, Reema. Soon. Just remember: don’t always believe what you hear.’

  He hung up and I stared at the phone in exasperation.

  I sat in the very intimidating boardroom of the largest English paper in Mumbai. For about ten minutes I was alone, probably by design.

  At last two people walked in: a man in a suit, definitely not a journalist and very possibly a lawyer or a particularly uptight management-type, and a pint-sized woman draped in an elegant sari and a string of pearls who wore her power lightly but never for a moment let you forget it – without a doubt, Shakuntala Padhy.

  She took a seat, followed by the man. Shakuntala was in no mood to waste time. ‘How can we help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I wanted to speak to Mr Parashar, as he may have information relevant to our murder investigation.’

  ‘You will have to be more explicit than that,’ she said.

  ‘While we are not yet sure Dhingre’s death has anything to do with Kimaaya, we cannot ignore the possibility that it might. In light of that, what Mr Parashar revealed in the paper this morning could have a significant bearing on events.’

  ‘You think news of Kimaaya’s secret marriage has something to do with this murder?’ asked Padhy. Her face gave little away.

  ‘We can’t rule out the possibility. How did he come by this information?’

  ‘That, I am sure you know, is confidential.’

  I would have to try a different approach. ‘Dhingre appears to have recently learnt of this himself, and we would like to know how that came to pass.’

  ‘It does sound like you are considering it as motive.’

  ‘As I said, we are looking into every aspect of this case. Will Mr Parashar be joining us?’ I asked.

  ‘Ms Ray,’ said Shakuntala, ‘the only reason we are entertaining any of your questions in the first place is because Shayak happens to be a close personal friend of mine. But if you aren’t going to be open with us, I don’t see why we should be open with you. You aren’t the police.’

  ‘We are working together with the police; this is by no means an independent investigation.’

  ‘Then why am I talking to a twenty-year-old instead of a uniformed officer? Or Shayak himself?’

  ‘While I don’t see why my age is relevant, Ms Padhy, the police can be involved in this if you so desire. And Shayak is away on business, but is overseeing every aspect of my work.’

  I paused. She didn’t look like she was about to budge.

  ‘I am not withholding information,’ I continued. ‘I am merely refusing to speculate about motive when we are yet to establish it. I hope you can understand that. If I appear uncommunicative on the essentials, it is merely an occupational hazard. If you know Shayak well, you can gather how little I am authorized to speak about.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone knows Shayak well enough to fathom his need to be a perpetual man of mystery,’ she said, at last letting slip something resembling a smile. ‘Thus the mess he finds himself in this morning.’

  ‘Still, you must understand that it is critical we speak with Mr Parashar.’

  She looked at the suited man, and he gave a tiny nod. ‘He isn’t here,’ she said. ‘We haven’t been able to trace him since this morning.’

  ‘But when I spoke with him– ’

  ‘I know. I spoke with him just after that to set up this meeting. But subsequently there has been no sign of him at office or at home, and his cell phone has been switched off.’

  ‘Any idea where he is?’

  ‘No, and I have to say I am a little concerned.’

  ‘Ms Padhy, if Mr Parashar has disappeared, it makes it even more imperative that we look deeper.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He has uncovered highly sensitive information that might have bearing on a murder investigation. His disappearance, if that is what it is, can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘It makes him a suspect, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It is pointless to speculate, but it certainly bolsters the theory that he has some connection with the case.’

  ‘There was a pen drive,’ she said. ‘It arrived with the mail a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘The mail? Snail mail?’

  ‘Yes, it was hand-delivered. It contained copies of three documents with Kimaaya Kapoor’s name on them: the marriage certificate, a divorce ruling and a certificate of completion of a course of rehab.’

  The three dates we found on Dhingre’s person. My pulse quickened. ‘No clue as to the identity of the sender?’ I had assumed that in looking into Dhingre’s death, the journalist had uncovered the information in the paper today. But if someone had sent these explosive personal details to Parashar ahead of the murder, that put a different complexion on things entirely.

  ‘No. We even had the tech guys look at it. You can understand how any of those three pieces of news would have been considered gold for our entertainment pages. But all three? It seemed too good to be true, which is why we decided to be as thorough as possible.’

  ‘It was addressed to Mr Parashar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘He is our leading entertainment journalist.’

  ‘He had recently done a few pieces on Kimaaya’s career.’ I remembered seeing them in Dhingre’s file.

  ‘Yes, but that’s nothing special. He’s written about almost every other actress in town in some context or the other.’

  ‘Did either of you know Ashutosh Dhingre?’

  ‘I didn’t. Parashar said he didn’t either.’

  ‘Dhingre had a file of stories about Kimaaya, many of which were written by Parashar. Are you sure he wasn’t the one who sent the pen drive?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘Because,’ said Shakuntala, ‘the information flowed the other way around.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When the pen drive came in, Parashar brought it straight to me. He knew it was explosive, and very possibly fake. At first, we weren’t sure how to deal with it. Despite all the talk about page 3 and paparazzi in our country, the approach to celebrity gossip in India is still quite immature – if you’ve noticed, we don’t really do a lot of dirty-linen airing that could be seriously harmful to anyone. We know a lot more than we choose to publish. So Parashar would have to proceed with extreme caution, to ensure the documents were authentic beyond a shadow of a doubt.’

  I knew what Shakuntala said was true – I had always heard rumours from my journalist friends that were far worse than anything I saw in print. Our stars had it easy compared to their counterparts in the West.

  ‘I told Parashar to move as though it were a hard news story,’ Shakuntala continued. ‘Only the highest level of information would suffice as verification of these documents. The marriage and divorce papers were easy enough – being matters of official record, corroboration was possible through sources in the municipality and the courts. However, the drug business proved far trickier to establish. We contacted the rehab centre directly and they threatened us with a lawsuit
, denying the whole thing. None of Kimaaya’s friends would say anything concrete. Though it was pretty well known in the industry that Kimaaya was using something back in her heyday, what it was, when it ended, when it began were not facts we could ascertain. There is an honour code amongst users; no one wants to be the pot calling the kettle black for fear that their turn will come next. So we called Ashutosh Dhingre.’

  ‘You said you didn’t know him.’

  ‘We made contact through our columnist Bindu Bisht.’

  I remembered her arrival at Maaya Island in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and faux grief. She had known Dhingre quite well, she had said.

  ‘She called Dhingre in. He didn’t try to deny the news of the marriage or divorce – and even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered as we knew by then we were on the verge of getting the proof we needed. On the drug business, he was far more vocal. He said the whole thing was a lie, and that if anyone were to know if Kimaaya had gone to rehab at that time, it would be him.’

  ‘Did you show him the document you had?’

  ‘Yes – said it was fake.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He stormed out of here. He called Parashar later to plead with us not to print the story. Said it would destroy Kimaaya.’

  ‘Didn’t you find his concern strange, in light of the fact they had parted ways?’

  ‘He said that despite everything he would not watch her be pulled down, after having been with her since she was little more than a child. That she had a good heart underneath it all. Bindu said she wasn’t surprised by any of it; he was one of the last gentlemen in the industry and, if Kimaaya had had any sense, she would never have fired him.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t print the drug angle?’

  ‘Of course not. At the end of the day, it came down to too little by way of facts. If the document had turned out to be a fake, we would be hung out to dry. The marriage-divorce story was sensational enough, and we were on solid ground there.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for Kimaaya’s version?’

  ‘We contacted her the night before we ran; she refused to come to the phone.’

  ‘Did she know what it was about?’