Deja Karma

by Vish Dhamija

  However, no one knew of the lie.

  No one except Jay Singh, and he, too — after having repeated the story numerous times to all and sundry, including the guy who operated the elevators in the office towers — had almost convinced himself of Sam Cooper being a real partner. His partner. Cooper & Singh — now that was an act of genius.

  Jay had two seasonal wardrobes. Sartorial elegance. The summer wardrobe had linen suits of every distinguishable shade from olive to khaki to white. The winter wardrobe had all-wool suits from ash to blues, no blacks, as that was the courthouse uniform. Shirts depended on his mood on the day — plain white cotton to printed ones, he wore them all. A set of his wardrobe remained in the annexe of his office, and some spare clothes were even housed in the Audi. The court uniform — the black suits— were equally spread over home, office and the car.

  Jay’s head spun when he walked out of the elevator wearing his summer suit; he had wantonly consumed almost a bottle of Chivas after his successful meeting with Dr Mehta the previous evening. Alcohol for him, he knew, was both a propellant and companion of insomnia. Still hypnopompic, he had switched between hot and cold water in the shower to inoculate himself against the hangover but it didn’t seem to have worked much. As he walked past the “good-mornings” he asked Julie for a strong coffee before he paced into his office and shut the door.

  Julie brought in the coffee. ‘Everything okay with you, Jay?’

  ‘Oh yes, just a bit of a headache. I was working late last night. Thanks.’

  He knew Julie knew he was lying. He also knew Julie wouldn’t probe or challenge him. And he was right.

  Jay took the first sip of the hot brew after she left his office. He looked at the daily folder that had news clippings, political changes, judicial shuffles, murders, reports on current cases, dates for court appearances, personal appointments, internal office operations, the list was unending. Snafu, business as usual, he struggled to smile; the body hadn’t recovered. He glanced at the plasma screen that hung — on an extended arm — from the wall on the right, a news bulletin running in the background. Besides the big screen, an iMac, two phones at his desk and his mobiles, the office conspicuously lacked any display of technology. There was a large ebony desk with green leather inlay and the walls were covered with floor to ceiling mahogany racks, all filled with legal volumes. Jay had strong, un-shakable opinions about most things; he believed that making an office too high tech gave it an unfriendly touch, like the occupant was ostentatious. After all, the clients that visited him needed more of a reassurance from him than his gadgets.

  Jay had never experienced ataraxia; the past hounded him when his career was flagging. The pain never faded. He had been — for whatever senseless reasons — confident that all would be right once his career took off. Now, even when the career flourished, and he had immersed himself in work, work and more work — and everything else ran a distant second in importance, including his son — his anxieties returned. Or the realisation dawned that anxiety had become his second nature. After the professional success had failed to banish anxiety, even hope stopped visiting him. Past images scared him. After all, she was his mother and she had been accused of, and convicted of, killing his father, her own husband. That ugly truth had reverberated in his conscience for over two decades now. Even the thought of the black day tormented; its memory had crucified him a million times over. Was there an escape for him, ever? Would he ever be normal? His anxieties rose with the moon, not that they were tidally connected, but since he was usually alone and drinking till late at night. Irrespective of how much he tried, misery remained loyal to him. Pushing back the awful feelings throughout the day, maintaining the façade of a successful vakil-sahib was, well, part of the reason why the nights were unforgiving.

  He had tried to quit alcohol many times, but had each time fallen through the cracks and gone foraging in the middle of the night, when some nightmare from his fractured past had woken him, shaking and sweating. He always came back to drinking all the more excessively after such attempts. Then he stopped. Stopped attempting to quit. It was expensive scotch every night, now that he could afford it. And, if he required it, vodka in the day, after someone had divulged to him that vodka didn’t reek. Well, not as much as whisky.

  Fortunately, he only had one appointment that day and no court appearances. It wasn’t that he hadn’t attended courts in the physical state that he was presently in, but it didn’t help being so terribly hung-over. Justice Chowdhary, of the Delhi High Court, had even warned him once about his appearing in court when his blood alcohol level was high, hangover or not — Jay had pleaded it was from what he had drank the previous night, but he, of all people, knew he had lied to the judge. The judge had put it in writing that he sought professional help and report back. Of course he had appeared in court under the influence after the initial warning but only when it was unavoidable; luckily he hadn’t been caught out. The next time, Jay acknowledged, that he was ever caught in a similar state he could be suspended from court for some time or maybe even barred altogether, depending on the judge and the judge’s mood on the day.

  Jay understood the risk, he wanted to avoid it, but he knew his drinking was out of his control. The appointment with the therapist was today but he wasn’t convinced that the therapist could say or do something magical that would make him quit alcohol. However, he acknowledged there was no way he could cancel or postpone.

  Bhīma brought in his bag from the car. For someone his size, Bhīma moved like a feather — swift and soundless: a butterfly in an elephant’s hide. A few times a week when Jay got intoxicated at home and fell down, it was Bhīma, who like a ghost, silently, picked him up and deposited him in his bed. Singh appreciated Bhīma’s benevolence, but the duo never spoke about it: No-ask-no-tell-no-discuss. Bhīma knew the boss had been hurt by something in the past, but he never questioned.

  ***

  Still recovering from the stupor, disinclined to start on anything, he heard the desk phone buzz. It was Julie. Must be a call from a client, he reckoned.

  ‘A Mr Vinay Kumar is on the line.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Vinay Kumar, he sounded desperate and wants to speak to you, only Mr Jay Singh.’

  It appeared like Mr Kumar was in some kind of trouble. One didn’t come rushing to a criminal advocate if one’s wife was in labour or when one won a fucking lottery. It was a professional minus — no one called up a criminal defence advocate in a happy situation, but a client in trouble always paid double.

  ‘Put him through after two minutes.’

  Let the desperation get to the rim.

  Jay kept the receiver down and gazed at the red light blink indicating the call waiting. He picked up the line only when he was certain that the casualness in his voice would sound natural, un-premeditated. ‘Jay Singh here, how may I help you Mr Kumar?’ he asked in an unruffled tone. He didn’t need to make Kumar aware that he knew about his fretfulness.

  ‘Hello Mr Singh, I’m Vinay Kumar. You don’t know me personally, but you might know my father, GD Kumar, he was an MLA from UP in the 90s. He’s retired now.’

  He isn’t exactly on my speed-dial, Jay fancied saying but instead he pursed his lips and closed his eyes like he was in some meditational trance. It didn’t take long for him to comprehend who Vinay Kumar’s dad was: a corrupted son-of-a-bitch state minister who pocketed millions, but sensing the fear and dismay in Vinay Kumar’s voice he quickly grasped it was probably good for his business.

  ‘Oh yes, I do know him.’ Jay still maintained the gentle magna-nimity in the tone. ‘Very nice guy.’

  ‘I’m in trouble, Mr Singh.’

  Don’t insult my fucking intelligence, I kind-of gathered that.

  ‘I kind of guessed that much. What kind of trouble?’

  ‘I have been arrested this morning for the murder of my girlfriend.’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Someone shot her point blank last night. I was picked up
by the local police and brought into the police station for questioning. I want to sign you up to defend me and get me released, please. Would you please do that for me?’

  ‘Okay, I get it. Do not, I repeat do not, speak to the police under any circumstances till I get there. What have you told the police so far?’

  ‘Just what I’ve told you.’

  ‘Have they charged you with anything?’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me, I’ve been asking. Please come right away, Mr Singh.’

  ‘Which police station are you in?’

  ‘At the Saket Police Station, Mr Singh. Please don’t worry about the fees; I shall pay anything you ask for.’

  Oh, you definitely will.

  ‘That’s not important at the moment; we can always discuss that later.’

  ‘Thanks you, sir. And please don’t tell my dad anything at this moment. I’ll explain it to him when I see him.’

  ‘Don’t worry on that account. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do not utter another word to the police till I arrive.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Good. See you in a bit.’

  Click.

  What was this lamb worth? Probably millions, and in this situation he would pay with his skin if required. Was he the only heir to the rich and corrupt father? A good thing for billings. Whoever said earning money wasn’t simple?

  Jay pressed the buzzer and Julie appeared.

  ‘Send for Bhīma please. And, I am going out for a few hours to see a new client. Only redirect really urgent calls to my mobile.’

  Julie nodded and left the office as Jay slurped the last dregs of the coffee. It tasted disgusting, but he was on a high now. It didn’t matter.

  Gurgaon to Saket is a long drive — whatever the time of the day, the cracked tarmac was never enough for the number of cars in the National Capital Region. The cars drove so close to one another like dogs sniffing each other’s backsides. Saket Police Station nestled behind PVR, between the hip J Block market and the not-so-trendy K Block. With India’s first Multiplex — PVR — opening in the late Nineties, the J Block transformed into a hangout joint for the young crowd. Then with City Walk Mall, the cafés, the designer shops, the fancy restaurants, the pretentious art scene brought people from other locations. With the new coffee and Wi-Fi revolution, everyone carried a smart-phone, some even lugged tablets and laptops to the happening place. The crowd had increased manifold and the state of the infrastructure — like that of many other places in Delhi — wasn’t able to cope with the growing population. Bhīma knew where he was taking Jay, and he quietly slalomed around other vehicles with dexterity to keep moving in the traffic till they got there. He cut the engine outside the Police Station.

  Stepping into the building was like walking into a time machine. The place looked like it was last refurbished when the Berlin Wall fell — or more like when the Berlin Wall went up; cheap vinyl pretending to be leather, the paint peeling off the walls and the furnishings were at least a decade past their expiry date. The Station House Officer (SHO) recognised the familiar face of Jay Singh and gave a smile.

  ‘Welcome Mr Singh, welcome,’ he said in a friendly tone.

  Well-nigh-legendary, Jay Singh knew that his mighty personality always arrived before his physical self. After all, he was a known figure, a near-celebrity, a well-connected vakil-sahib and such friendliness and courtesy was expected at the police station for the police in Delhi knew too well who they needed to be respectful to, and who they could tangle their fangs with.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Jay responded with authority and charm and held his hand out for a firm handshake. If you’re five feet seven you are short and you inadvertently have the Napoleon complex. It is an inherent defence mechanism to guard you from those who are bigger or taller. It isn’t something you work towards; it is something that’s a subconscious reflex. Of course, as you grow up you learn to cite examples of great personalities — Gandhi, Alexander — who were short but stood tall. You ostentatiously claim you are glad to be short; there are far too many disadvantages of being tall; economy seats in airlines being one of most quoted of all examples. Jay Singh was no different. Building a large personality wasn’t an option for him. It was a question of survival for the shorty: in school to not be bullied, in a large crowd to be heard, in parties to shine. And in courtrooms and police stations, too, the personality overcame the physical stature.

  Fortunately, for lack of evidence and/or witnesses, Vinay Kumar hadn’t been charged for the murder. He was a suspect, all right, but the police couldn’t retain him. Ergo, no bail was required at this moment. Jay signed all the necessary release documents and walked out with Kumar within an hour — by bureaucratic standards, no less achievement that.

  Bhīma appeared immediately as he saw Jay come out of the building. Besides other features, Bhīma had an enviable quality: irrespective of where he was parked, and regardless of the fact that Jay Singh could miss the conspicuous Audi and an even more noticeable man, Bhīma could always spot his master before the latter had to look for him.

  ‘Can you guarantee that you can get me out of this mess?’ Kumar asked the moment Bhīma put the car in gear.

  ‘Unfortunately, there are no guarantees in this business. This is not a car repair shop replacing a head gasket. If I agree to represent you in court, I sign on to save your head.’

  ‘But I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Then you don’t need to worry at all. Are you ready to come to my office to talk about it now?’

  ‘I don’t want to bog you down with details…’

  ‘Thanks for being considerate, but I love details. If you were in my shoes you’d appreciate details too. So, if you aren’t ready now, call my secretary and fix an appointment when you are, Mr Kumar. Where can we drop you?’ Jay couldn’t fathom if this guy was still in shock or a complete idiot to think his own defence advocate didn’t require every minute detail.

  ***

  Kumar and Jay and sat in the office a little later. Three hours after Jay had dropped his client at the latter’s residence, Kumar had returned to discuss the case.

  Burly with a curly coiffure, wearing a white button down shirt with denims, Vinay Kumar was taller than Jay, even while he sat. That’s the first thing Jay noticed. His eyes were red, which was hardly a surprise since he hadn’t slept much the night before, plus the stress of being pulled up by the police. The coffee had been served and drunk, the china had been removed from the table, and Julie had been instructed to hold back all calls unless there was an emergency. Jay had already received some details of the case from his inside source at the Saket Police Station. Kumar’s girlfriend — Gina Pinto — had been shot dead between 00:00 and 01:00 hours in the morning. A retiree who lived on a floor above in the building opposite to Gina had made the call to the police around 3am and reported the death. He had, supposedly, got up in the night and walked into his kitchen for some cold water from his refrigerator and had seen her lying in a pool of blood in her apartment with lights on. The voyeur could peep into Gina’s living room and her bedroom from his kitchen and it seemed he got up several times most nights to look if she forgot to pull down the blinds. How perversely convenient!

  Kumar, being a married man, visited Gina on most evenings and dined with her. Kumar’s wife had known about the illicit relationship, had complained to her father-in-law, but nothing had changed. Kumar didn’t bother to change his ways. Nothing suggested that his corrupt dad intervened to end the association. The apple, as they say, does not fall very far from the tree: debauched pig, crooked bacon. Rumour had it that Gina was now demanding more of Kumar’s time and money, which wasn’t good for the image of our rich pervert with political ambitions. Thankfully, the news hadn’t made it to the afternoon bulletins. Not yet.

  ‘Care to give me details now?’ Jay started when Kumar looked a bit settled in his chair.

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘I got that part. What happened?’

&
nbsp; ‘I was with Gina — my girlfriend — last night like most nights. She had cooked dinner, which we had with a bottle of wine. I left for my place around midnight…’

  ‘Could you please start from the beginning? Who was Gina Pinto, where did you meet her and how?’

  ‘I met Gina at a party a few years ago…’

  ‘No ambiguities please, Mr Kumar. When and at which party?’

  ‘I met her in June 2007, at a common friend’s party and we became friends almost immediately.’

  Kumar provided details of the said party, the friend whose party it was. Some of the information was uncalled for, but Jay decided not to interrupt. He could always comb the material later and skip the unnecessary bits. When asked about Gina Pinto’s next of kin, Kumar informed him that she always insisted that both her parents were long dead and she had no siblings. Kumar needlessly went on to elucidate that she had always avoided discussing her past and family. She came from somewhere in Bandra in Mumbai. Jay put in a note to check with Bandra Police Station, if ever required.