Daddy's Girl

by Swati Chaturvedi

  The terrified driver said, ‘Sir, they have dented the car.’

  ‘Just drive,’ said Arjun and thought bitterly, I can’t even close my eyes! Even that respite is denied to me.

  Still, the reporters came in waves and eddies and tried to slow down the car; they pressed their cameras and faces against the car windows, making them foggy and dirty.

  They ran after the car but their screams soon faded and Arjun finally shut his eyes. He wanted the solace provided by absolute blissful quiet but that was not to be. Cuckoo was trembling and her foot was bleeding. He comforted her and said that he would have a look at it the moment they were home.

  He took both their phones out and saw incredulously that he had 200 missed calls. Most were unknown numbers. TV people, he guessed, and wished rampant flatulence on Singh. Then he noticed that his cousin brother, too, had called repeatedly. He decided to call him back.

  His call was picked up on the first ring.

  ‘Have you been arrested?’ screamed his brother in panic.

  ‘And they are kindly providing me my phone in jail? What the fuck is wrong with you? Of course not,’ snapped Arjun, his fury renewing.

  ‘That’s . . . that’s what the channels are reporting live,’ stuttered his brother.

  ‘Well, you are talking to me live!’ he screamed. ‘It’s all lies that bastard cop has fed them. I will fix him. Issue a denial and get the office to prepare a notice. Let those parasite lawyers earn their fat retainers.’

  ‘What has happened? Why are you screaming?’ asked Cuckoo anxiously.

  Seeing how intently the chauffeur was listening in on their conversation, Arjun pressed her hand in warning.

  Getting out of the car, he told the driver coldly, ‘Come at 6.30 a.m. tomorrow.’ And without waiting for his reply, walked off.

  His brother had let himself in with his own key and was sitting in the lounge with the TV on. Arjun wordlessly watched the chaotic visuals—the mob descending on them, his face frozen in a grimace while Cuckoo looked even more harsh than normal. ‘Do I really look so old and frail? When did age creep up on me like this?’ he wondered.

  He was flooded with a queer sort of pride—that baying pack of hounds unleashed by that bastard Singh could not break him. He then took in the frantic, over-the-top, sensational reporting where the actual truth only figured as a tiny kernel and snapped the TV off.

  ‘You thought I was under arrest and you could not wait to move in,’ he told his brother softly.

  His brother’s eyes met his and he looked wounded. ‘What’s wrong with you? I was worried, I came here to help.’

  Arjun did not bother to dispute this. ‘Have you done what I asked?’

  ‘Yes, but they are now reporting the denial and they want to interview the lawyers,’ replied his scared brother.

  ‘Tell them no interviews, just the statements. If any of them give interviews, I will withdraw the brief.’

  Without a word, his brother went to the huge balcony to make the calls.

  Sighing heavily, Arjun poured himself a large whisky and, grimacing, went inside the bedroom outside of which Cuckoo had dragged a chair near Ambika’s shrine and was sitting, staring at the photos with a wordless, hungry intent. Without turning around, she asked, ‘Do you think I am being forced to pay attention to her now because we neglected her so much during her childhood?’

  An aggrieved sigh was her only answer as Mr Nalwa heavily collapsed on the bed. For once, his immaculate clothes were wrinkled and he was sweating profusely.

  Even lying down was no respite as he remembered the first time Babloo had come home. How his cousin had called repeatedly, begging that it was poor Babloo’s first time in any city; that he had never even stepped into a small town before; asking him if the driver could be sent to the station to pick him up. Arjun, already resentful at the intrusion from what he told himself was a failed imbecile from the great Hindu undivided family, had chosen to ignore the plea.

  When, predictably, Babloo lost his way and came home tired and weary after a six-hour run around by the autowallah and had tried to touch Arjun’s feet, he remembered with crystal clarity that he had snarled at him while pushing him away. After that things went rapidly downhill. Babloo, who was bewildered in the beginning, turned resentful as the entire household, apart from Ambika, treated him as a burden. He was given the tiny servant quarter, with its Indian toilet, which he accepted with wordless hurt.

  His slowness was mocked every day by the Nalwas and was soon imitated by the servants and staff. Babloo had originally come to assist Arjun in his practice but after one fiasco at the Delhi High court, where poor Babloo stammered and tried to defend his client, Arjun decided that he was out. After that, to even earn some loose change Babloo was made to scrounge around in all sorts of distasteful ways. Ambika, seeing Babloo only addressed as ‘paglaut’, and being knocked around by everyone, took occasional pity on him and slipped him some money.

  Lying in bed, Arjun recalled with blinding clarity how he had beaten Babloo’s face to a pulp over a Rs 500 note he’d found in Babloo’s room.

  Ambika had come running in and with indignation blazing in her eyes, had screamed, ‘Dad, I gave him the money! Stop hitting him! What’s wrong with you?’

  Arjun raised his left palm and looked at it; he had slapped Ambika hard but despite the sharp imprint of his palm on her cheek, she had refused to shed a tear—she had looked at him defiantly and walked away without a word.

  Arjun now brooded obsessively over that moment. Was it his beating up of Babloo and Ambika’s defence of him that had lit the spark? Did they both feel they were his victims and did they really hate him so much that they figured out a way to strike at him in such a way, it would corrode him quickly? But Babloo was dim, slow-witted. It couldn’t have been his thought process. Was he only used as an instrument by Ambika to hurt me? thought Arjun, who had, with a supreme effort of will, managed to keep these thoughts and the memories of Ambika at bay.

  Did she guess, did she know what I wanted, how much I desired the face that looked like mine and that proud spirit? She was like me.

  He was now suddenly shaken with ugly, uncontrollable sobs at the unchangeable reality of there being no Ambika in the world. After five minutes, as the last of the sobs still racked his body, Arjun’s face twisted and he said aloud, ‘Whatever I do or think, the fucking outcome does not change. But while pain is inevitable, suffering is optional and I will not give in to it.’

  18

  Meera rushed to Wenger’s to buy food for her picnic with Singh. As was usual by late evening, all the Delhi hogs had picked off all the good stuff and Meera was left gingerly picking over the bare bones of the rejects. She ate the last two pieces of fudge left on the forlorn-looking bare tray, and bought sandwiches and mushroom rolls.

  Despite his stomach rumbling with hunger, Singh was grinning with satisfaction, while gently and unselfconsciously massaging his paunch, as he watched the feral media hounds baying for the Nalwas’ blood after they left his office. He had put on the large-screen TV the moment they had left and had ensured that all the media would be outside the police headquarters when the Nalwas returned the next morning.

  As his PA sadly locked up the office, thinking sourly that he would be returning in less than twelve hours, Singh told his driver to take him to Lodi Gardens.

  Meera kept a sharp lookout for Singh’s paunch outlined in the darkness, which would be an indication of his arrival. For some reason she had missed him. He suddenly loomed up softly in the twilight, walking delicately, like most very fat people, coming up to her and saying, ‘Where are the sandwiches?’

  She held them out almost like a peace offering and Singh took them with equal reverence. She recognized his epic hunger and kept an uncharacteristic silence as Singh devoured them. Meera then silently offered him a mushroom roll that was wolfed down in two bites. Meera took a tiny bite of the remaining roll and proffered the water bottle, which she could not open. Singh opened
it and gallantly handed it back to her.

  Meera glugged down half the bottle and started choking. Singh thumped her on the back and said, ‘We can talk now. I told you I was starving.’ He tenderly stroked his paunch. ‘This needs care. It does not grow by itself.’

  Meera started laughing, ‘I would imagine not. But you have to admit I have been good. I let you eat in peace.’

  Singh smiled at her. ‘Yes, you keeping quiet is a miracle. I would not have believed this could happen till I just witnessed it.’

  Meera pouted. ‘Quit teasing me and tell me what the Nalwas said. Did they confess? The channels were reporting that Mr Nalwa was arrested.’

  Singh looked grim. ‘He nearly was but the crook was wise. He had got anticipatory bail.’

  Meera’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah! A real scoop!’ And then she looked crestfallen as she realized that the pesky news channels had beaten her to her scoop in real time.

  Singh was smart enough to know what was going through Meera’s head. ‘The news channels have destroyed half your job,’ he said.

  Standing up on her toes, Meera fiddled with phone and said, ‘Yes, they have. This would have been on page one tomorrow, but they will squeeze it dry and then it will just be part of the record.’

  ‘Arey, you are a Brahmin who has fed me, quite a role reversal, and you will get your reward.’

  Typical of her quick-silver temperament, Meera was excited again. Her eyes gleamed; the grin was back on her face as she waited. A satiated Singh would talk and leak unhurriedly, she realized.

  Singh thought, It’s strange how much I have come to like and depend upon this girl.

  He sat on a broken stone step near a tomb and adjusted his paunch as his chins shook in unison. The he said meditatively, ‘They definitely did it and the motive is pretty much what I told you. A warped sense of honour. But they are trapped; they can’t sully her memory. The lawyer is a sick, creepy piece of work. He was trying to justify incest to me.’

  Meera let out a shocked yelp and Singh rushed to reassure her, ‘Arey, not the act. Though he might have had that conversation with her—a kind of philosophical justification. We have some evidence of it.’

  ‘Could I possibly have a look?’ Meera asked eagerly.

  ‘You always have to push for the extra. Why are you never content just with good information?’ Singh asked irritably.

  ‘Please understand what I am up against, Singh sahib. My arrogant editor is pathologically suspicious. Because he was a reporter in some ancient era, he feels that he has done every story there is and done it better. Till I have more and documents to prove it, I do not stand a chance,’ said Meera forlornly.

  Singh looked at her, ‘I did not know that; it’s that bad, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, it was different in The Independent. They encouraged and trusted you. There was huge jealousy but only among colleagues. These days the bosses are toxic and how do you keep fighting your boss?’ said Meera in a helpless fashion, rare for her.

  ‘I will give you the Nalwas’ emails, but only once they are sent to the forensic lab. Plausible deniability,’ smiled Singh. ‘Now stop wallowing in self-pity. That’s not the Meera I know. Where do you get these high energy levels and tenacity?’

  Grinning, Meera said, ‘Maybe my synapses fire too fast, too much dopamine, who knows. It’s not fun. I can never unwind and just be.’

  Singh looked sceptical, ‘Silly girl, it’s just the elixir we call youth.’ Then he looked away and sighed, ‘Ah, to be forever young!’

  He then added offhandedly, ‘The murder weapon is a Mauser pistol and Babloo was beaten to a pulp with a tennis racquet. It seems the father was a state-level tennis player. And the mother was a champion tennis player in her younger days. Mr Nalwa is a crack player, but not a cyclist.’

  Meera stared at him, unable to contain her excitement. But puzzled by his reference to cycling, asked, ‘Maney, what do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said!’ retorted Singh. ‘They were trying to be supercilious with me saying that you need to practise tennis to be able to play, unlike cycling, which you never forget. But you know me. I do my homework. I fucked them over by pulling out his school records where he had played and won state-level games. She had lied earlier that he could barely hit the ball with a racket. As for him, the pompous jackass claimed that his huge practice ensured that he had no time. They are both definitely hiding something,’ boasted Singh.

  He then added, ‘You know, apart from the overwhelming evidence, their pathological lying blighted them as witnesses for me from the beginning. That’s why I first suspected them. They lie on principle.’

  Meera wanted information and details, and not these vague metaphysical musings. She asked, ‘So who do think shot them? Nalwa or his lovely wife? And where is the gun?’

  Singh replied, ‘I do not know that yet and I suspect we will never know for sure, unless they crack and confess. The gun shots are a fact. Who wielded the weapon nobody knows. We need to trace the pistol and then we will know everything. The case will then crack wide open.’

  ‘But would parents shoot their own daughter? Could a mother do that?’ Meera objected.

  Singh scoffed, ‘There you go again. I thought you had become less squeamish, more objective. If I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the lovely lady, I would not find your reaction ludicrous. But having met her, really, Meera, I am disappointed. You guys love to protect your own class.’

  ‘You love to stereotype, you know, Singh sahib,’ snapped Meera, trying to keep a tight rein on her temper. No one had ever accused her of being a classist. And she wasn’t going to have someone start it now. She added her own observation, ‘Mrs Nalwa seems so besotted by her husband that she thinks the sun shines out of his ass. But, what happened on the night of the double murder?’ asked Meera.

  ‘If they heard a noise and thought an intruder was in the house, it is more likely that Mr Nalwa armed with a stick would go to investigate,’ allowed Singh. ‘But, I tell you, after interrogating the lady, I think she is certifiably mad. She has a filthy temper and clearly resented her daughter. She is also utterly ruthless, more than the lawyer, who I think is just a vain, near textbook sex addict.’

  If nothing else, this investigation has certainly broadened your mind and vocabulary, thought Meera.

  ‘Are you going to arrest him? Or will you arrest both?’

  Evading her question, Singh said, ‘He would love to be arrested just to get away from his lovely wife, I feel. Apart from being uber-rich, she appears to be a champion nagger.’

  ‘That’s just wrong and sexist!’ said Meera hotly and then remembered she was talking to a source who must be treated with kid gloves. She covered up her anger hastily. ‘But even if you speak to her, she feels that they have been wronged. To me it seemed like she indulges in substance abuse to cover up the hurt that that sick man causes her.’

  Singh was irritated at her interjection—it felt like a loving pet dog had suddenly snarled and tried to bite him—and said coldly, ‘Is the amateur psychology hour over? I need to go.’

  Oh god, I have upset him! Meera could have kicked herself and, now blushing at the snub, did not know what to say.

  ‘Sure,’ she said hastily.

  Relenting a bit, Singh pulled out a wad of money and said, ‘Here, for the food.’

  Meera waved it away and said, ‘Are you mad? Why should you pay? You are my friend.’

  Singh smiled and mockingly said, ‘This must be a historical first. A journalist refusing money from a cop. Normally, both live on freebies.’

  Relieved that peace was restored, Meera dimpled and said, ‘You are not that cop and I am not that journalist. Good night and see you soon.’ At least, I hope so, she thought fervently, her mind a whirl with all the golden dope he had provided her.

  Driving back to her office, she luxuriated in the information. This was brilliant! Which story should I break first? This was such a feast! What would the Nalwas most likely deny? The anticipat
ory bail would provoke a feeding frenzy across the media and she could debut Mrs Nalwa as a possible killer, sourced to the police’s new suspicion that she was more than an accomplice. Meera wondered if she should also break the story of the murder weapon being the Mauser pistol. That was an eight-column flier that would be printed on all editions.

  She parked her car and rushed into the office.

  At 10 p.m. the National Express office was quieter and seemed much more purposeful, with all the secretaries gone for the day and just the key editorial staff putting the late city edition to bed. Meera ran down the corridor and entered Dev’s cabin without knocking. He looked up wearily at the interruption. He was making page one for the late city edition and would not tolerate being disturbed.

  Without smiling at Meera, he said with unconcealed irritation, ‘Don’t you ever go home? And don’t you know how to knock? Should I show you? It’s really quite simple!’

  Meera, not looking in the least contrite, said, ‘Sorry, Dev, but it’s a story and a big one. The police now suspect that Mrs Nalwa is the killer. And the police have technical confirmation that both Ambika and Babloo were shot with a Mauser pistol with a silencer, which is still to be traced.’

  Prepared to fiercely debunk whatever story she had got as a lemon—one of Dev’s chief pleasures was spiking stories—he paused. Meera noticed the pause and hastily proffered the interrogation report. Dev took it without a word and scanned it. His eyes lighting up, he stammered, ‘Boss, this is a scoop, a real one and documented. You hurry up; don’t waste time. Go file the story. Get me a copy of this scan. We will use it as a box. Go! Don’t waste time and don’t file rubbish which I will then have to re-do. And write carefully, we don’t want a law suit. Send it to me fast. I am sending an all-centre message to hold page one.’

  Meera did not even have time to gloat. She smiled and fled.

  Dev called Bhagwan and said, ‘Boss, we have a scoop, documented. Police suspect that the Nalwas are the killers and it’s confirmed that the victims were shot with a Mauser pistol. We have the interrogation report.’