Dawood looked at her blearily and asked, ‘What is your problem? You want money? I will give it you! Look, I have a simple rule. I will either buy you or I will kill you.’
Meera got up. ‘You can’t buy me and right now, I don’t think you can even focus well enough to shoot. How about telling me why you filed that rubbish? I have a quote from the CP saying that he never authorized it and you went your own “undisciplined and flamboyant way.”’
Dawood sat up, his face reddening dangerously. ‘You spoke to the CP? When?’
Meera said, surprised, ‘I met him three hours ago here in the PHQ. Now, what is your comment?’
Dawood raged as realization dawned on him that he had been sacrificed like a ritual offering at the altar of the establishment. He bitterly told himself, ‘I still want confirmation.’
Looking at Meera, he said with a hint of the old Dawood swagger, ‘I need to get his . . . his clearance before I can speak to you. Do you mind calling him?’
Meera was now wary but remembering Bhagwan’s instructions, simply said, ‘Okay’ and called the CP from her phone.
The call was picked up on the first ring and she explained to him that she was with Dawood, who abruptly grabbed the phone from her. He then vanished to the bathroom and, ten minutes later, returned sober and red-eyed, and said, ‘I have nothing to say, Meeraji. The truth will come out.’
Meera said drily, ‘I am sure it will.’ She left the room.
After a series of detailed exposé’s in the National Express, for the first time in the history of jurisprudence in independent India, a judge ordered that the original charge sheet be taken up and the accused be sent up to trial.
And then, the unexpected happened . . .
Cuckoo Nalwa’s terrified younger sister called her up after the fourth exposé and a phone call from Singh to her husband, demanding that the Mauser pistol be produced, but the couple was unable to find it. She asked timidly, ‘Didi, are you all right? Where is Vakil sahib? Why are they printing all this every day in the newspapers?’
Cuckoo said baldly, ‘He’s gone! My husband is gone. Arjun moved to a penthouse in Gurgaon, which I knew nothing about. I suppose our father’s money must have also paid for it. I have nothing left. I fought so hard for Arjun, for Ambika, and they both left me.’
A long pause followed and when she could hear her younger sister sobbing over the phone, Cuckoo said stoically, ‘Don’t cry. Do me one last favour. Ask Arun Singh to come and see me. I need to tell him something and I can’t get out of the house. A huge pack of media dogs hound the house. Even the servants cannot leave. If I don’t end it, I will never find peace. Arjun won’t, he’s a coward.’
Neena understood what her fierce, unpredictable, troubled sister was hinting at. She wept harder and said, ‘Oh, Didi. Okay, if that’s what you want. I will just call him. Do you want us to come over and be with you?’
Sighing gently, Cuckoo whispered, ‘No, Chotti. I need to do this alone.’ She disconnected the call.
She knew Singh he would be at her doorstep even if he had to clear his way to her house with all sirens blazing.
And, sure enough, Singh could not contain his urgency once he heard what Neena had to say. He rushed out of the police headquarters as if he was being pursued by the devil.
Today, I don’t need the war paint, thought Cuckoo resolutely. ‘Perhaps, if I tell the truth, I will feel cleansed all the way to my soul. Once I stop being Ambika’s killer, I will be allowed to be her mother again.’
Looking at Singh sitting across her in the formal living room, she found his eyes boring into her and gave him a genuine smile—the first real one he had ever seen on her face. Singh was perplexed and did not return it.
‘You hate us, don’t you? We offend you,’ she said.
He turned beetroot red.
‘You know, Mr Singh, I just want to be a mother again. I lost that right when I made Babloo angry, played on his insecurities and made him kill Ambika. Yes, I killed my daughter in a way when I gave him the gun and then I beat up Babloo in my rage. I wanted him to die. Because I realized what I had done. I loved her and sometimes hated her, and that was the only way I knew how to protect her,’ said Cuckoo, in the softest voice, almost as if she was crooning a lullaby to herself.
The moment the words crossed her lips, the tears so longed for, the ones that she yearned for all those sleepless nights, magically came. It started as a trickle down her dry cheeks and a sense of catharsis gripped her. The mother who had not shed a tear when she cremated her daughter, her hopes and her dreams, who had left all of India wondering at her lack of tears and her iron control, could now finally let go.
And she did.
Giant sobs shook her ample body and warm tears building up from a tightness in her forehead and the closing of her throat made her shake, as the iron leash slipped and the grief flowed unchecked.
Singh reluctantly considered intervening, as he wryly thought, All I need is for her to have a heart attack, a real one, now that she has finally confessed.
It was only starting to sink in. ‘She’s confessed. I have cracked the most difficult case of my career. Redeemed my reputation, my honour.’
As the chaotic thoughts whirled in his head, he lumbered up and, with shaking hands, offered Cuckoo a glass of water. She kept weeping, unchecked. Singh wisely decided not to intrude on her grief.
After all, he was also a father. And in a strange way, he could relate to her. For the first time in the duration of the entire case, he felt empathy and kinship with the grief-stricken woman sitting across him.
After what seemed like an entire era of unchecked, hard-won, genuine grief flowed and passed, Cuckoo looked up and seemed to regain a semblance of her iron control. She seemed visibly diminished, far from the intimidating, aggressive, vaguely menacing form she always had earlier.
‘You want to know why I did it? Why I got my Ambu, my Golu, killed?’ She seemed to savour the taste of Ambika’s names in her mouth, now that she finally allowed herself say the names out loud. She also seemed to have a maniacal look in her eyes. A half smile appeared on her lips. ‘It was to save her.’ Fresh tears flowed. ‘Save her from her father and what he wanted to do to her. I had to protect Ambu by killing her. We knew that she had already lost her innocence . . .’ Her voice faltered but she continued. ‘I couldn’t allow him to corrupt her. I had no other way . . . nothing to stop him or her. Arjun had made her believe I was an ugly fool, completely inconsequential of no account to her and her father. She was just a child, pristine, when he started and he had been working on her for years. Flattering her and loving her and telling her that she was the only woman in the world predestined for him.
‘My husband is very clever you know . . .’ said Cuckoo, as a serene smile lit up her face. ‘He can convince you that black is white. I guess that’s what lawyers do and I could see him doing it with Ambu. I spoke to Babloo about it. And sure enough he responded. I played on his loyalties to the family. I gave him the gun which he fired. Then when he did it, I hit Babloo senseless with Ambu’s tennis racket. When I heard him crying I just wanted peace, so I shot him,’ said Cuckoo in a quiet voice, as if she was discussing the day’s menu with her cook.
Cuckoo continued, her voice racked by sobs ‘Babloo . . . poor guy. He paid for it with his life but he was only incidental to what was going on in my family.’
Singh maintained the same delicacy and asked, ‘The pistol . . . where did you get the Mauser from and what did you do with it?’
Cuckoo dabbed her face in a futile effort to stem the tears and said, ‘Oh, I stole it from my brother-in-law and threw it away in the river, where we cremated Ambika. I kept in my purse.’
‘So your husband knew?’
She nodded. ‘But he came to know later . . .’
Singh let out a gusty sigh. He finally knew and felt an odd yearning to share it with Meera. ‘Stop it, you are going soft in the head,’ he told himself.
Cuckoo looked at him
with her new-found serenity and asked, ‘Do you want me to make a statement? And then can I actually grieve for my daughter? Will I be allowed to be a mother again? Away from him and this frenzied media mob. You know I loved him so, so much that I was willing to sacrifice my daughter just to yoke him to me. But Ambu was very possessive. She was my daughter after all, she’s not letting go of my heart. But after the circus started, he just abandoned me saying he has paid me and my father in full. When even that did not hurt, I realized I feel nothing for him.’
Singh simply nodded mutely and thought, I hope you will find the peace you are seeking, but it will be in jail . . . And for your husband too.
Epilogue
Meera, driving to the National Express office two months after her scoop, smiled mockingly at herself in the rear-view mirror and in her ongoing dialogue with herself, thought, So, madam, what exactly has changed in your life? Your colleagues still hate you, but more intensely. Bhagwan has a new talking point to show off. Your parents still don’t understand you, your so-called boyfriend has gone with the wind. Your earth-shattering scoop has not even cured your insomnia. It really was not the silver bullet you thought it would be.
She felt robbed. As if reporting and finally doing the breakthrough story in the Nalwa case had stolen all her illusions, forced her to become an adult and fundamentally changed her idealism. All that I can say I am left with is my strength and my energy, she thought wryly. And that I was born with.
Am I being extra cynical? she wondered. So Mrs Nalwa had been right. Babloo had killed Ambika, but only on her instigation and providing the weapon making it a crime of passion. Then she’d shot him. And the husband had proved his loyalty by being quiet all along and helping in disposal of the weapon? At least the Nalwas will pay for their sins. But will they really? Despite, the high-octane ‘Justice for Ambika’ campaign, that ran week after week in the National Express, has that poor kid even got a genuine stab at justice? And what about poor Babloo? He would now be called the murderer. This was his distinction for doing what he was always asked to do! Collateral damage in a high-profile murder case—the only highlight in his miserable attempt at life.
The entire murder episode seemed as grimy and filthy as the hazardous Delhi air. You inhale at your peril and it leaves a toxic imprint for life, thought Meera bitterly.
She had met her prized source, Singh, at the court when the Nalwas were being tried for their individual crimes. She had been unable to look him in the eye. The fact that we are unable to even look at each other seems pretty indicative of how justice has been served, she concluded.
The couple’s stares of utter hatred at her and each other would haunt Meera for the rest of her life. She felt familiar goosebumps erupt along her body again and shivered. It seemed her trigger response each time she thought about the Nalwas. Meera preferred never to think about them again. It had turned her value system and life awry.
As usual the National Express parking was full but the kindly attendant, for whom Meera faithfully bought sweaters every winter, took her keys and gave her a fond smile that made her eyes light up. Oh wow, finally one person in office who’s happy to see me. Who would have thunk?
Humour and mocking herself had kept her sane, for otherwise the hypersensitive reporter would have succumbed to depression in the roller coaster her life had become after joining the National Express.
The shabby walls of the grandiosely named Special Investigative Bureau seemed to give off a hostile whiff—enter at your own risk, they seemed to say. Meera as usual was the first to come in to work, in her anal adherence to schedule, and wondered what new budhiya puran (a new phrase alluding to gossiping women she had picked up from her grandmother) Anjali and Meetu would indulge in today.
They had already slandered her reputation in the office, claiming the scoop was a result of her ‘special relationship’ with Singh and Rama Kaushik. Now that was a real laugh, thought Meera. Both men probably wished she was never born.
Sighing loudly, she fervently wished Jai was still in her life. Meera longed for him but simply couldn’t cope with his ‘issues’. Yet, she yearned to talk to him, look at him and be with him. Perhaps I just miss having a genuine friend, she thought. She knew she would never find a real friend in journalism, for sure.
Meetu Parin walked in, clad in a tight, violently red salwar kameez, which ensured that no part of her obese figure was not outlined to its full disadvantage. Looking at her, Meera winced and averted her eyes. She pretended to check her phone.
‘We are having a meeting as Bhagwan has appointed me acting chief of the bureau,’ she said sharply.
Meera’s eyes widened in dismay. What was this new shit hitting her now? Meetu as her boss was unthinkable. And why? Meera had not got any reward for the Nalwa story. Not even an increment. Not even a token letter of appreciation from Bhagwan. Meetu’s appointment was also an indictment of her utter failure at office politics—she had been clueless till Meetu herself had told her.
In a huge act of self-restraint, Meera bit her tongue and controlled herself from voicing her outrage. Her heart sank as she realized that work did not matter, only sucking up to the right people did and that Meetu was Bhagwan’s favourite planter and spy.
Irritated that her triumph had not upset Meera into voluble protest, Meetu said, ‘Anyway, things are going to change around here. I want genuine, hard-hitting investigations, not source-based plants. And people better start coming to work on time.’
Meera gave her a saccharine smile and pointed out unctuously, ‘Meetu, I am always here before you. Congratulations on your promotion. Why acting? Bhagwan should have made you the chief.’
Meetu who was resentful about the ‘acting’ in her title and surely thought that she deserved better after years of being a ‘Bhagwan toady’ burst out, ‘Yes, I do. I have a sterling reputation! Such a huge body of work. This injustice has been done because Bhagwan does not want to make all of you jealous.’
Meera looked down, trying to conceal a giggle that was bubbling up very close to the surface. She’s really lost it. ‘Genuine, hard-hitting investigations’ from the biggest planter in the business. Yes, she does have a huge ‘body’ of work. Irreverent even in her despair.
Puffing herself up like a bantam, Meetu, who loved the thought of ruling this roost, said, ‘Anjali and Raman are hopeless. No work ethics, so let’s start.’
Meera smiled beatifically and thought, How collegial you are; this will really endear you to them.
Puffing up even more, Meetu said, ‘Now that you have started in this direction, I want to you to work on the Devyani murder case and also start investigating the Tina Sahani case.’ She gave Meera a vindictive smile. As she anticipated, she had finally found her personal answer to the problem called Meera.
Meera finally saw red as her hard-fought for maturity had begun fraying at the edges. Why was Meetu trying to give her impossible assignments? Both cases bore similarities to the Nalwa case, but the protagonists were superstars and political heavyweights. They had the kind of clout where even a token investigation into the murder would not be undertaken.
Meera felt her heart beat faster and began protesting when her phone rang in the taut, unfriendly room. Number withheld. Mutely holding it out to Meetu as an alibi to avert the inevitable confrontation, Meera stepped out to the corridor filled with loose wires and cables.
She nearly dropped her phone, her eyes glazed in shock as she heard Dawood ask impatiently, ‘Meera, right?’
Nodding and then remembering he could not see her Meera said faintly, ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Are you still crazy about doing stories?’ he asked, the cockiness in his voice intact.
Concealing her shock, Meera said in her most businesslike voice, ‘Of course, I am. It’s my job.’
Dawood snorted cynically and said, ‘Good to know you are still in business, madam. You cramped my style and shut down my dhanda.’
He waited for a reaction from her end but got none.
Meera, her head swimming and skin crawling at the thought of meeting Dawood again, bit down on her emotions and said, ‘Sure. It depends on the information.’
There was another sneering chuckle as Dawood said with a challenge in his voice, ‘Fine, come and see me at my residence tonight at 9 p.m. I’ll text you the address.’
He hung up abruptly.
Meera felt panic flood her already overloaded system. In a second, the address beeped on her phone. A compulsive news junkie, she knew she would go for the meeting.
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin…
Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinbooks
Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/penguinbooks
Pin ‘Penguin Books’ to your Pinterest
Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/penguinbooks
Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk
PENGUIN METRO READS
UK | Canada | Ireland | Australia
New Zealand | India | South Africa
Penguin Metro Reads is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
This collection published 2016
Copyright © Swati Chaturvedi 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket images © Niall O’Leary/Millennium Images UK
ISBN: 978-0-143-42265-5
This digital edition published in 2016.
e-ISBN: 978-9-352-14051-0
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Daddy's Girl Page 23