Daddy's Girl

by Swati Chaturvedi

  Wearing her favourite, tattered J brand jeans and a pink gingham shirt, she almost danced out to the lawn and screamed aloud for the sheer exuberance of being alive and happy, startling the gardener who had always thought she was crazy.

  Excited by her manic behaviour, Gunny joined in and started running circles around the lawn, barking. As she ran with her, Meera thought, Why do I drive myself nuts with all this permanent fretting? I should learn to let go; I just wish I knew how!

  Driving to the Nalwas’ house nearly forty minutes before the appointed time, Meera was in a rare state of content. This happiness was probably a result of playing hooky from the toxic office politics in the National Express and making a rare visit to her Pilates class.

  Mr Nalwa, dressed in a black and white combination of a white linen shirt and black trousers, which made him look both sad and dapper at once, opened the door to the massively over-decorated bungalow himself. Ushering her into the living room, he said, ‘We’ve stopped letting the house help open the door after Ambika. Would you like coffee?’

  Looking around at the opulent but airless room, with all its curtains drawn, which somehow made it appear curiously sterile, Meera said, ‘No, thank you. Water would be great though.’

  He pressed a bell and a man dressed in white, with the Nalwa crest on his starched uniform, got her some water in a crystal glass.

  ‘Mr Nalwa, how did you get my number?’ asked Meera.

  ‘From a friend. I know Bhagwan. I once fought a case for him but I thought I should speak to you. What are you doing? Why are you meeting Ambika’s friends? The media has behaved so badly; we feel so let down. Why are all of you only interested in sensation? What we have gone through is even worse than a daughter’s death,’ said Mr Nalwa, softly, in his calm voice.

  The typical Delhi habit of name dropping raised Meera’s hackles and aiming for a similar tone, she said ‘I am only following the case.’

  ‘No, you are not. The illiterate police who destroyed all chances of catching my daughter’s killer are now trying to frame us for this. They do not understand anything. They talk about honour killing as if we lived in a medieval world. I want to know, why I would kill my daughter?’

  Squirming in her chair with her toes curled nervously inside her ballet flats, Meera looked him straight in the eye and said softly, ‘I really can’t imagine why, but why don’t you tell me?’

  Finally, the carefully cultivated poise slipped a bit and with dawning rage in his eyes, Mr Nalwa asked in an acerbic tone, ‘So you believe this garbage that the police are peddling?’

  Sipping her water, Meera said, ‘Mr Nalwa, you tell me? I came here to listen to your version.’

  The rage deepened and all his composure vanished. He screamed, ‘My version! What do you mean by my version? Who do you think you are? What I am telling you is the truth. You guys in the media have lost it with your arrogance. How old are you? A mere chit of a girl and you come here with this nonsense. You dare ask me? Do you even think this filth, based on nonsense leaked by some third-grade policeman, is true?’

  As the mask seemed to slip further, Meera, staring straight into his eyes, said calmly, ‘Mr Nalwa what does my age have to do with your only child’s murder? I am sorry I seem to have upset you. I am only trying to do my job.’

  ‘Your job? That’s a joke. Your job in the media is to harass innocent people, create a sensation and run away. You people are like hitmen.’

  ‘Would you like me to go? This is not a good idea,’ challenged Meera.

  Visibly making an effort to collect himself, Mr Nalwa sighed and looked at her. ‘I am sorry, I seem to have lost my temper. Perhaps I took out our collective misery at the police and media mishandling on you,’ he offered as a semi-apology.

  To forestall another rant, Meera asked in a deadpan voice, ‘I have a copy of Ambika’s autopsy report, which shows sexual arousal prior to death. How do you explain that, Mr Nalwa?’

  To her surprise, he kept his temper in check and said in a measured voice, ‘That’s the thing, Meera. They have tampered with the report.’

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘We don’t know. Could be the police, the doctors . . . who knows in this shitty country? I now call this place Gobar,’ said Mr Nalwa smoothly.

  Looking at him unblinkingly, Meera asked, ‘But, why would the police or the doctors tamper with the report? They say . . . allege,’ she corrected herself before he could flare up again, ‘that you got your cousin Dr Sudhir Chowdhary to try and influence the police to take out the bits about the sex from the report.’

  ‘That’s bullshit! Let them prove that in court. Someone or lots of people entered my house and killed my daughter; that’s what happened,’ said Mr Nalwa, with an air of finality.

  ‘And you never got to know?’ asked Meera softly, looking around the huge bungalow which seemed to spread interminably. Perhaps that was the problem—they were stretched too far apart.

  ‘Yes, we’d gone out. And we were exhausted when we came back. As we did most nights. It’s not surprising we had a sound sleep then, is it?’

  Meera changed her track, ‘And what about the allegation that you and your wife were in an open relationship, and that your daughter hated that?’

  ‘What do you mean “open relationship”?’ rasped Mr Nalwa.

  Meera said sharply. ‘You were just accusing the police of being illiterates and you really don’t know what an open relationship is? According to the police, you have quite the reputation!’ It was time for her to make him uncomfortable.

  However, much to Meera’s chagrin, Mr Nalwa laughed uproariously and said plainly, ‘Are you serious? They send you here, a school girl, with some story straight out of Manohar Kahaniyan. Please tell them to improve their story writing skills.’

  ‘Well, Mr Nalwa, if you are not careful, these stories and your contempt might put you in jail,’ said Meera, losing her temper.

  The only quality worth admiring that Meera felt that she possessed, and took fierce pride in, was her courage and her undefeatable pursuit of stories. She’d once told a friend, ‘I am like a terrier, I never let go.’

  Then, standing up, she said, ‘If you decide to talk to me, I can interview both you and your wife. If you prefer not to see me, I can fax or mail you a questionnaire.’

  ‘So you don’t care about how many lives you destroy? The fact that we lost our only child and have received no justice means nothing to you, does it?’ His eyes became moist. ‘You want to be a stooge of the police and create a sensation . . . like a vulture feasting on a young girl’s carcass!’

  ‘Mr Nalwa, please stop this! I am not going to fall for this manipulation. You guys did a brilliant job in the beginning—playing the media like pros. You are still doing a great job of playing the system. But, if I am a vulture, what are you exactly? How dare you try and make me feel dirty? I actually want justice for Ambika and Babloo; they both deserve better.’

  ‘Madam Meera, if I am really so dangerous, are you safe with me?’ He looked at her coldly. It sent a shiver down her spine. ‘Please leave. I have had enough of your self-righteous, dumb certainties.’

  Mutely, Meera walked out of the house. In the car, her heart sank. She knew she still didn’t have a story that would pass Dev and Bhagwan’s test.

  She needed Singh and Shoe Polish to deliver.

  6

  Entering the dingy, grimy office of the National Express, the first person Meera met was God aka Bhagwan in the lobby. His sleeves rolled up in his trademark style, salt and pepper beard quivering, both spectacle lenses and his bald head glaring fiercely in the high beam, Bhagwan looked at Meera and said, ‘Do we pay you to come to office post lunch? What’s happening, Meera? No page one flier in a month?’

  God always wanted what he called ‘his people’ off-balance.

  Stumbling over her words and racking her brains over what poison Meetu had been spreading about her, Meera replied, ‘No, I have been meeting sources. I had told Dev.’ Then, in
a desperate bid to deflect the glare off the spectacles, which was focused on her, she said, ‘I heard you were amazing at the Editor’s Guild!’

  Just as she anticipated, God, whose ego was as large as the universe, smiled and said ‘Ah, you heard about that—my diatribe against the editors who accept Rajya Sabha seats and government sinecures!’

  Mentally rolling her eyes, Meera was amused by his hubris and wondered who talked like him. Only the pompous, she guessed, the ‘I’ specialists, the Indian editors who were all united in their desire for a Rajya Sabha seat and their hatred for those who made the cut.

  But, all she said was, ‘It was great. Such an eye-opener.’

  Utterly deflected from his course of deflating Meera, Bhagwan gave her a rare, approving smile, ‘Go on, now stop wasting time. Get a big story.’

  ‘Oh yes, Bhagwan, I will,’ said Meera, with wholehearted fervour, and nearly stumbled and fell in her hurry to get away.

  Having cleared the Bhagwan pariksha, Meera walked into the ratty environs of the grandly titled Special Investigative Bureau. As usual, her colleagues eyed her with cold disdain. Meetu was gossiping with the sports editor, while Anjali, who hated last names and wore saris draped to reveal her hairy stomach and whose low cut, gravity-defying blouses dropped regularly in front of sources and editors to ensure a page one display, was hogging the single landline as usual. Raman seemed to be napping upright.

  God! These people are such a waste of space! thought Meera who was fifteen years junior to Meetu and was impatient with her pompous, flatulent attitude.

  Meera also could not abide with her black and white views what she felt was Anjali ’s moral flabbiness and a lack of mettle, as she was known to sleep with sources to get scoops. It irritated Meera no end. She hated the fact that she lowered the bar for every woman.

  Anjali was married to a journalist, well over fifty years old, called Rakesh who, much to his acute embarrassment, she called ‘Roks’, and was simultaneously sleeping with a womanizing cabinet minister and a cop.

  Meetu looked up at Meera and said nastily, ‘Where have you been? It’s been a while since you graced the office or page one!’

  Anjali, who had shrill and abusive battles with Meetu on a daily basis, giggled in appreciation as they briefly united in their jealousy of Meera.

  ‘Relax, Meetu, I just briefed Bhagwan on what I am working on,’ said Meera airily. Both Anjali and Meetu looked worried and suspicious in equal measure.

  Recovering, Meetu said pompously, ‘Well, as long as he is happy.’

  Raman, who still had both his eyes shut tight and was emitting the occasional light snore or, if you were inclined to be charitable, grunt, suddenly chimed in, ‘Arey, Bhagwan sabko bantey, humko dantey,’ referring to how often he was pulled up by God.

  All three women in the room glared at him. Anjali, who never allowed a moment to slip by without adding injury to an insult if she could help it, said, ‘Raman, you are disgusting! We should report you to HR.’

  Raman and Meera had been having a cold war since they met Shoe Polish, but Raman, after delicately gauging the level of hostility prevailing in the room, looked at her and said, ‘I want to smoke. Let’s go outside.’

  Following him, Meera went and sat on the grimy steps where the cigarette smoke competed with the toxic traffic fumes on the busy Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg.

  ‘So, Meera, are you are doing the story?’ asked Raman, lighting up.

  Debating how much she could trust him after the Shoe Polish rivalry, Meera said guardedly, ‘You are also working on it, right? You said so that day.’

  ‘Nahi yaar, it’s difficult. It’s very hot and Shoe Polish does not want to leak his story to me. The CP will trace it back to him with my byline. You have an uninterrupted, virgin shot,’ said Raman, grinning nastily.

  Meera thought, Well, you tried real hard, buddy, but this is my story. She tried to avoid the low-grade, sexist remark that he’d made. Flattering him, while alluding to Meetu’s nastiness, she said, ‘But, as long as you are not doing it, why don’t you help me? It will screw Meetu over. See, Shoe Polish trusts you; he barely knows me.’

  ‘Of course, yaar, that’s why I took you to him,’ Raman said, immediately flattered, his holier-than-thou manner restored. ‘We will go back tonight. Meanwhile, the bitch is working on some coup.’

  Meera’s ears pricked up. ‘Coup. Where?’

  ‘The army.’

  ‘What rubbish!’

  ‘Rubbish nai hai. Bhagwan is also working on the story,’ Raman responded.

  ‘Really?’ Meera asked, deflated. ‘It must be a high-level plant.’ Meetu was Bhagwan’s favourite byline to plant a story.

  The story must have come from Rama Kaushik, the country’s supercilious home minister and the only man Bhagwan loved apart from his worship of the deity in 10 Janpath Road. Kaushik was locked in a mortal combat with the tiny finance minister who, despite his diminutive stature, had been in the party for sixty years and knew where all the bodies were buried. Kaushik desired the finance ministry fiercely and always turned to Bhagwan as his hired print hatchet man. He had a huge network of leaks in the media and his rivals feared them as much as his corporate links.

  ‘So, should we meet Shoe Polish at 8 p.m.?’ asked Meera, trying to set aside her jealous thoughts and in a bid to make sure Raman did not welsh on his word.

  ‘Okay, yaar, but you drive me. I will make him drop me home in his office car. I should not drive after I drink,’ said Raman piously.

  There was no champagne this time; the dust, which had now built up several layers, and some vodka greeted them. Shoe Polish did not even look up from his intense contemplation of his glass. After a while, he asked Meera surlily, ‘When is the CP story appearing?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Meera. ‘The CP tried his best to stop it but I made sure it went. It’s on page one as of now.’

  ‘“As of now” matlab? Is it a flier?’ demanded Shoe Polish, without smiling as he switched from contemplating his glass to Meera’s breasts, without even bothering to make eye contact.

  ‘Well, if the PM dies or a nuclear strike happens, then it won’t make page one but otherwise it will,’ Meera dodged the flier question, while wondering how Shoe Polish knew the newspaper term for an eight column, above-the-fold story. She added brightly, ‘I met Mr Nalwa.’

  Shoe Polish finally looked at her grimly in the eye, ‘What did the bastard say?’

  ‘He said the police were corrupt, inefficient and illiterate,’ Meera replied in her most placid voice. In her head, she thought his assessment was spot-on. ‘I also told him that the same police will convict him for murder.’

  ‘I hope you really said that because it is the truth. The bastard is very cocky; thinks he can get away with it. Why the fuck does he not put his opinion of the police on Teetar?’

  Correcting him automatically, Meera said, ‘That’s funny, you mean Twitter.’

  Shoe Polish waved his plump arms, the loose flesh jiggling furiously, and said dismissively, ‘Teetar, Twitter; it’s the same thing.’

  Dimpling at him pleadingly, Meera said, ‘Can I have the report now? I have done your story.’

  Grinning at her, Shoe Polish said, ‘By and by, lots of people have the report, including the corrupt CP and your precious Singh.’

  The dimples did an abrupt vanishing act, and Meera glared at Shoe Polish and said, ‘You obviously know the HM has decided to give the CP an extension. In fact, they now plan to make it a five-year tenure post.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Shoe Polish, clearly completely taken by surprise, all the power play forgotten. ‘Is this true? How do you know?’

  ‘I know because the HM is my source and you seem to have forgotten that my father is an additional secretary in the home ministry. So if you really want to stop the CP, I suggest you quit playing games and stick to our plan,’ said Meera, resolutely biting down the word ‘deal’ she had wanted to use instead. ‘Once the proposal is accepted, the CP is s
afe for five years. Only a big public scandal can stop it now.’

  Staring at her, open-mouthed and with consternation, Shoe Polish, who was contemplating life in the Andamans minus the service providers, tried to pull down his shirt, which had ridden up his paunch. Silently, he got up and went to the peculiar Indian bureaucratic institution, the plastic briefcase made to look like it was covered in leather, which was lying on the dusty dining table. Opening the combination, he pulled out a file as Meera held her breath.

  Meera let out a jagged half-breath. Feeling heady, she watched Shoe Polish waddle back to his chair. After the multiple jiggles of flesh settled down, he held the file out to Meera. She took it, still not believing her fortune, and for a while the words seemed to swim before her eyes before they settled back to the bald, badly drafted officialise.

  The first page just said, ‘Autopsy report of Ambika Nalwa’.

  The report said, ‘The hymen of the victim was ruptured, with an old tear being revealed. Upon examination the mouth of the cervix was visible and the vaginal orifice was extraordinarily large for a seventeen-year-old girl. It is also clear on close, proximate examination that the private parts were unduly dilated, all evidence points to recent sexual arousal. To put it in layman’s terms for the investigation team, the girl was not a virgin.

  ‘The girl victim, Ambika, was shot once in the chest with a Mauser pistol, which killed her. The pistol is still to be recovered.

  ‘The girl victim was found lying in bed covered with a white sheet, which did not have blood stains. With a murder of this brutality, the crime scene was certainly dressed up as all blood splatter seemed to be cleaned. The other victim who survived for several days after the assault was brutally beaten up with wounds to his head and upper body, but no one had dressed up that brutality. Babloo had also been shot but was still alive as the bullet pierced only a superficial artery. He was found on the terrace. He had been hit with several blows to the back of his head and legs, and his back had marks indicating the male victim had been dragged. Babloo was also shot with the same Mauser pistol, which was used to kill Ambika.