by Vish Dhamija
***
Bureaucracy has its own pace; at most times it can shame a snail. The autopsy files of his mother had taken over seven weeks to travel from the hospital in Jaipur to Dr Rohatgi in New Delhi, the doctor nominated by Jay. He wasn’t expecting anything, but he knew it would cost nothing either. Why leave any little stone unturned?
Hence, it was a surprise when Dr Rohatgi called Jay one evening. Sounding solemn, the doctor asked Jay if he could visit him some time the following week. A slave of habit, Jay Singh had drained quite a bit of whisky when the doctor phoned and agreed to see him the coming Thursday.
‘My watch was a bit slow,’ Jay apologised as he walked in to see Dr Rohatgi the following week.
‘It happens sometimes.’ Rohatgi smiled. Not like a saturnine smile, nevertheless it had shades of sarcasm.
‘What?’
‘How about your calendar? Was that slow too or do you not have one? You were supposed to be here yesterday.’
‘What?’ Jay said, realising he had really messed up. There wasn’t any coming back after being a day late for an appointment. It was Friday, a day and thirty minutes late. ‘Guilty as charged, Doc,’ he sheepishly apologised.
‘Apology accepted. Hope all is okay.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m just stressed out because of a case.’
‘Okay.’
‘So?’ Jay let the unspoken words hang, like he was expecting Rohatgi to disclose whatever he had called him over for.
‘You know, Jay sometimes death can tell us more than what a living person can,’ began Dr Rohatgi.
‘Last I heard, you were a doctor of medicine, since when have you become a dialogue writer for B-grade Hindi films?’
‘Well, Shilpa Shetty wanted me to write a film script and also, maybe, pair with her in a lead role, but I declined.’
‘Why, if I may ask?’
‘I prefer the dead. Moreover I needed time to talk to you, my friend.’
‘Huge sacrifice, I have to admit,’ riposted Jay.
‘Care for a drink?’
‘Yes, vodka would be nice.’
Both laughed out loud, shook hands and sat down on the beige sofa in the doctor’s office.
Dr Rohatgi and Jay Singh had attended the same Delhi Public School, DPS, for five years before Rohatgi’s father, an army colonel, was transferred out of Delhi. Decades later, after Jay’s legal practice flourished, he ran into Rohatgi at the Delhi Gymkhana. The childhood bond refurbished. While Jay had spent his entire life in Delhi, Rohatgi had moved around with his parents, completed schooling and gone to the US for a degree in medicine, worked in Los Angeles for five years before returning to his homeland. The Americanised tall, bald gangling doctor wore button-down white Oxford with suspenders and ash grey trousers. His navy blazer hung on the coat rack. He was married and his son Raaj, too, studied at Lawrence School, Sanawar. The bond had henceforth strengthened with the friendship passing on to the second generation. As Rohatgi had known Jay’s parents he knew about the family mishap, but only to an extent and not as much as Akbar Ali or Sam Cooper. His wife and he saw Jay as one of the most successful men of his time with a flourishing law practice with a who’s-who client list, a bachelor, attractive — both physically and monetarily — and well-connected in the community. As expected, Rohatgi’s wife Bindu had tried fixing alliances for Jay, but none of the women even remotely fascinated the advocate; most looked interested in his money, which he figured at the first coffee dates.
Dr Rohatgi ran one of the best pathology labs franchises across the National Capital Region. He had become more of a corporate businessman than a doctor. On the day he sat in his tenth floor Nehru Place office with a blue coloured box-file on the coffee table between them, titled: Autopsy Report – Mrs Rani Singh.
‘Is this it?’ Jay pointed with raised eyebrows.
‘Pretty much. As I said, a lot in this file could be so different from a living person—’
‘Come on you arsehole, stop talking like Kader Khan, tell me what is it that you didn’t want to tell me on the phone. I’ve had to cancel a client meeting, why couldn’t this wait?’ re-joined Jay. A few swear words were acceptable amongst school friends, though not when Bindu or the kids were present.
‘Look I’m your friend, but I am also a doctor—’
‘Do you want to show me your certificates now?’ Jay interrupted again, impatient to hear what Rohatgi had to divulge; Rohatgi’s countenance did not portray glee, which caused further concern. He felt the adrenaline rush. ‘I know you’re a doctor and I know you’re my friend and I know whatever you tell me will be in good faith and it will be true. What is it? Any foul play?’
‘No. She died of increasing senescence. I’m sure the circumstances and the surroundings in which she spent the last two decades weren’t conducive to a healthy life. Add all the stress she endured, and you can imagine obvious acceleration of the aging process. The report here says,’ he pointed to the box-file, ‘she suffered a stroke in the evening, fell into a coma and passed away within an hour. The stroke caused an intracranial haemorrhage that accumulated blood on her brain. It was a big one, and, it seems, she would have been permanently disabled had she lived. So, all I can say is it was fortunate she didn’t live to suffer.’
‘Fortunate…?’
The irony wasn’t lost on Rohatgi.
‘I know,’ he feebly agreed. Despite being oblivious of the exact incident and utterly unaware of the recent letter that Jay had received, there was no arguing the fact that Rani Singh and fortune did not fit into a single sentence. He bent forward and from the box-file on the coffee table pulled out a white A4 envelope that had a glassine window that boldly stated: “Confidential”. He took out the one sheet report from the envelope and looked at Jay.
‘What’s this now?’
‘This is what I called you here for Jay.’
‘Is it bad news?’
‘Good and bad are relative terms—’
‘Cut that shit before I throttle you. No more nonsense, come to the point.’ Jay was back in his jovial mood. There hadn’t been any unfairness in his mother’s death. What could possibly be bad?
‘Did you know that your mother had AIS?’
‘Am I here to play Scrabble now? What’s AIS?’
‘Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome?’
‘What is that?’
‘That she had one X and one Y chromosome, does that mean anything to you?’
‘No. I was, you could say, a little weak in biology.’
Rohatgi watched Jay for a minute, shook his head in disbelief and handed the paper to him.
‘Your mother could not have conceived. Biologically, she couldn’t have been your mother.’
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Jay briefly glanced at the paper and looked back at the doctor.
‘I wish. When they found this in the autopsy they ran further pelvic tests to establish that your mother never gave birth to a child. The physical evidence substantiated the pathological finding. It all ties in.’
Gloom descended — anger, abhorrence, annoyance, anxiety? There had been times in the past when he had wondered what could possibly be worse? Hadn’t he been through everything? Orphaned by accident or treachery, lived in absolute drudgery, convicted mother in a mental asylum, alcoholism, but this was something else: to know that your mother wasn’t even your mother. And yet she never uttered a word, not even in her last note. Did she think he would never find out? In fairness, he wouldn’t if he hadn’t asked folks at Jaipur to send the file to Rohatgi. Is this what she had meant in her note when she said, “don’t waste your life looking for the killer... if this was devastating, the truth will destroy you”
Bottom line: he wasn’t orphaned the day his father died; he was an orphan already. Or was he? Where did he come from? To his knowledge his father had married his mother when they were both quite young, so there wasn’t a chance of a previous marriage. Adopted? Picked up from some doorstep? The outcome of some lusty, one-night
stand?
The truth has a wicked tradition of arriving naked at times and its nakedness, at this moment, wasn’t pleasing. The trapped silence took longer than a few minutes to dissipate. Rohatgi didn’t speak for a while; perhaps he thought it was wise for the initial shock, the angst to recede, which had completely immobilised Jay who couldn’t fathom what to believe or what to expect next. Part of him that had unsuccessfully tried to forge ahead had received another hard knock-back. The emotional springs that had been locked down by the passage of time were rapidly becoming loose. Another single piece of news had driven home with a devastating jolt. It was like some invisible power relished whipping his soul. Tears sought to flow out, but he vowed to stay resilient, held them back and clenched his teeth till the jaw hurt. There were too many unanswered questions racing through his mind; the primary one being who had his mother tried to shield all along?
‘I’ll ask for some coffee.’ Rohatgi finally broke the silence and stood up.
‘Forget it.’ Jay held his friend’s hand as he moved across him. He took out his flask from the jacket pocket and asked for gestural approval from his friend if it was okay to drink in the latter’s office.
Rohatgi nodded sympathetically.
Jay opened the flask and took a long swig, waited for the liquid to go in and then upending the flask he finished the drink in the second mouthful.
‘Calm down, Jay—’
‘I am calm, this is only an emollient. Don’t worry doc, I won’t pass out in your office.’
‘You know that doesn’t bother me one bit. Are you okay?’
‘Yes. Is there anything more you want to tell me?’ Jay smiled. A reluctant, sad smile.
‘Isn’t this enough for one day?’
‘Fun-fucking-tastic. Actually, this is enough for one lifetime.’
Both men smiled. Both understood that lightning had just struck Jay, but they wanted to lessen the impact.
‘What do you intend doing with this info?’ Rohatgi asked after a brief pause.
‘Don’t know, frankly.’ Jay got up. The mental blow and then the quick shots made his feet waver. He saw Rohatgi rush to his aid. ‘I’ll be okay, my friend.’
‘Why don’t you call—?’
‘Call who?’
‘Start with Rashtrapati Bhawan, the President might be waiting to attend to you? Should I call Bhīma to pick you up?’ Rohatgi kibitzed.
‘Don’t bother, my friend. I’ll walk down on my own. I think I need some time alone.’
‘Jay, please don’t go so far out somewhere that you can never return,’ Rohatgi almost pleaded when Jay held the door of his office.
‘What makes you think I’d want to return?’
With that Jay was out walking towards the elevator.
***
As Jay descended to the lobby Bhīma was right outside the elevator door. The customary mobile phone that was always switched on whenever Jay was out of Bhīma’s sight had been on and he had heard the conversation his boss had just had with the doctor. While Jay appeared unruffled, Bhīma — now having worked alongside Jay for years — recognised it was a façade. After all, he had only a few weeks ago driven Jay to Jaipur and grasped some of the explanations for his boss’s errant behaviour and grief and love of alcohol. Devoted as he was, it disturbed him as the chips were now falling as they were with very little he could do. He was acquainted with Jay’s visit to the psychiatrist and the counselling sessions, however at times like those Jay, apparently, kept his mobile off so he wasn’t privy to the actual conversations. Did he need to speak separately to Jay’s psychotherapist? There was a mine of information that he could share with the therapist, information that she could never access anywhere else and if that meant it could take only some of Jay’s miseries away, would that be a breach of faith? He pondered this as he walked Jay back to the car.
***
Jay decided to go back home for the rest of the day rather than to the office. The police, meanwhile, had asked Vinay Kumar to come into the Saket Police Station for a few questions regarding Gina’s homicide. To Jay, there had been no ambiguity. It was a homicide from the beginning: circumstantially speaking, how could the weapon have disappeared after Gina’s death if it was a suicide? To the best of his knowledge — and his client’s — Vinay Kumar certainly was the accused, and with the facts that the police would now have received after the formal autopsy would have pointed robustly at Kumar, what with Gina’s pregnancy and the presence of Kumar’s seeds inside her body. As agreed in their previous meetings Kumar had informed Jay, and the latter was to accompany him the next morning. But that was tomorrow, and as such there wasn’t any pressing need for Jay to be in office on this day. No client engagements, no court appearances and he could well accomplish pretty much everything else on the phone from home. Not to forget the additional attraction of alcohol, which he could do with at this very moment.
The mercury hadn’t stopped pushing north even after forty. It was expected to break records, they had announced on local television in the morning after the news bulletin. Mercifully, it was a short walk to the car and then the air-conditioning changed the climate. As Bhīma steered the car through the daytime traffic, Jay couldn’t help but look at the world. Everyone he saw, apparently, seemed happy. Not a worry on anyone’s mind or at least not obvious. Why shouldn’t they be happy? Their mothers hadn’t lied to them or withheld any truth. He got increasingly restless, impatient. All along he had twisted the facts to fit his imaginary theory of some clandestine relationship between Swamijee and his alleged mother. Now that it had dawned on him that even his mother wasn’t his mother, maybe his entire theory had been bunkum; bakwaas. Anyway, didn’t they always advocate that the theory should fit the available facts? And what facts did he have? None.
Sheeba was naturally excited to see the two men in her life return to the farmhouse earlier than usual. Jay was starving, he hadn’t eaten anything in the last eighteen hours and the liquid he had consumed all this time had definitely exited the body. Bahadur decided to cook a big lunch. Lamb-curry, Jay’s favourite. Jay quickly changed to his swimming gear and requested Bhīma to fix a drink for him.
Ten minutes later, Sheeba and Jay were in the pool, playing with the ball, martini on the side. It had been ages since Jay had taken out time for some fun. Today, surprisingly, when his world had overturned again, he resolved to swim in the pool rather than drown in alcohol. He was deliberately pushing the unpleasant thoughts back, attempting to look forward. He got reminded of Manavi though he wasn’t sure if it was a good time to call, in the middle of the afternoon, three drinks down.
Nothing more sinister could happen, he convinced himself.
‘Bhīma, please get me my phone,’ he said coming to the edge of the pool. He climbed out, put on his robe and took a sip of the cool martini.
THIRTEEN
Surprisingly, Jay was looking forward to his second session with Anita.
Though Jay Singh was dazzling on a bad day, today was unusual. He also dreaded it like a schoolboy who carried a bad report card. Akbar Ali had highlighted that this conversation could have happened later on the phone and as such — it wasn’t like the aircraft had reached the end of the runway and it had to take off — Jay didn’t have to broach the topic with Manavi today, but he wasn’t the one to forsake an opportunity when he met her face to face.
Why should Akbar Ali call the shots? Was he in a schoolboy competitive mode?
He was dressed in his usual summer suit in natural linen colour, powder blue button-down shirt, collar open with no tie; tan moccasins completed the attire. An extra fifteen minutes had been spent in the morning; he had asked Bahadur to iron it all over again as though Manavi would take any decision on the sharpness of his trousers’ crease. In any event they were linen and by the time he sat in the car to get to Anita’s office… but that didn’t occur, not today.
The otherwise busy Jay Singh arrived twenty minutes before the appointment. There was nothing more pressing for
the busiest defence advocate in town than to squander time at a shrink’s reception reading Reader’s Digest, was there? Vinay Kumar would have to hold his horses for some time.
Manavi sat behind the bureau, only her attractive face was visible when Jay arrived.
‘Good morning, Mr Singh.’
‘Good morning, and please call me Jay.’
First names generally engendered intimacy, which was always a good beginning.
‘As you wish, Jay,’ she beamed. ‘You’ll have to wait, as you’re a bit early.’
My pleasure.
‘Oh,’ Jay said aloud looking at his watch and raising his eyebrows in surprise like he hadn’t realised he was early for his appointment. ‘No worries.’
As he stood at the reception desk he glanced down at her outfit. She wore a white shirt with a nice décolletage that offered quite a glimpse from the angle he stood. He could discern a grey skirt, but couldn’t gauge the design or length. She’d have to stand up for that, which she didn’t. With only the top half of her image in his mind he walked to the sofa, picked up the previous month’s issue of RD and flipped through the pages. Reader’s Digest— as a magazine — had long lost its appeal. It had a loyal readership amongst his father’s generation that was fast depleting and the content wasn’t fashionable enough to keep it running for long. But that wasn’t his problem. As he ostensibly read it, he was convinced this might be his best break. There were no other clients waiting. With him being the first appointment of the day, maybe Anita wasn’t yet in the office either.
What could possibly go wrong?
Maximum damage: loss of face.
Acceptable.
Ideas came in a burst, like sperm. Then they battled amongst each other and — Darwin was right, only the fittest survived. Sometimes one. Sometimes twins — at this moment the mêlée in Jay’s mind was no different. From the profusion of them, Jay finally picked one and mustered enough courage to walk up to Manavi to ask: ‘Are you free this weekend, Manavi?’