‘Maybe there is a way. You might have shown exemplary cleverness, double-checked or even triple-checked the loopholes, but there still could be a way …’
‘There’s no way, rest assured. You are worrying for no reason, big brother, there is no way at all. That fellow dare not open his mouth.’
‘Still …’
‘And even if he does open his mouth, whom will he do it before? That woman? Why? She is nobody to him. And the sword of my threat still hangs over his head. He won’t dare say anything to anyone. And even then if he says something then he’ll have me to confront. I will have opium recovered from his studio, or weapons maybe. Then he will spend the remaining part of his life running from pillar to post to prove he is not a narcotics smuggler or a terrorist or a terrorists’ supplier.’
Both brothers still looked unimpressed.
‘All things said and done,’ said Alok, ‘he is a weak link.’
‘He is not unavailable like the pundit and Tiwari,’ said Ashok, ‘that’s why he is a weak link.’
‘When did this problem occur to you?’
‘We were apprehensive about him from the beginning. Something appeared out of place. When we focused upon it, we could pinpoint the problem.’
‘What do you want now?’
‘We think this is a big loophole which needs to be plugged as soon as possible.’
‘ok.’
‘You will be suitably rewarded for this,’ said Alok. ‘Separately,’ he added.
‘Is that so?’ said the sho, brightening.
‘Yes, it is so.’
‘ok, I’ll do something.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I will reach Tulsi Chambers with good news by this evening.’
‘Thanks, again.’
Jeet Singh reached Flora Fountain.
He easily located Nanabhai Lane, and then Santosh Studio. It was a small shop with a show window the same size as the glass door beside it, with samples of the photographer’s work.
He pushed open the door and stepped in.
There was a closed door inside with ‘Dark Room’ written on it. It opened the moment Jeet Singh went in, and a man of about forty came out.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘I want to meet the proprietor,’ Jeet Singh said.
‘I am the proprietor.’
‘Come here and listen to me.’
The photographer nodded and walked to a chair by a long glass-topped showcase, signalling to Jeet Singh to take the other chair there, across the showcase. Then he asked, ‘So, you were saying …’
‘I am coming to that,’ Jeet Singh said, ‘but first tell me, what’s your name?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I will tell you … that is why I’m here. Now don’t waste your time … or mine.’
‘My name is Santosh Vajpai.’
‘You take photographs at weddings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still and video both?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do all the work yourself?’
‘I do still photography myself. If there is an order for videography, then I call a couple of assistants from outside.’
‘And if there is only an order for still photography then you do everything yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘You remain busy in the field?’
‘Only during the wedding season. Other than that, there is rarely any work in the field.’
‘How was last October in terms of work?’
‘What’s the purpose of all these questions?’
‘The purpose will be clear pretty soon, but first answer the question.’
‘But …’
‘I request you, brother, please answer the question.’
‘That was not marriage season, so there was not much work.’
‘You still covered one marriage.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes, at the Colaba Arya Samaj temple. It’s a small temple, so small many locals don’t even know about it. You covered a marriage ceremony there, took photographs but no video; only photographs from a still camera. Simple marriage, no pomp and show, no big gathering, only two people other than the bride and groom and the priest were there. One was a close aide of the groom, and the other one was a friend of the bride. And one photographer, that’s you. The groom was nearly sixty, an impressive, rich man. The bride was around twenty-two or twenty-three, looked like a film-star. Do you remember?’
He shook his head.
‘You can’t remember or you did not cover any such marriage?’
‘I remember it correctly. I did not cover any marriage last October.’
‘You made an album of the photos you took in that marriage. There was a sticker of your studio on the album—Santosh Photo Studio. And the address was for this place—Nanabhai Lane, Flora Fountain, Fort, Mumbai. What do you say about that?’
‘I told you before, I did not cover any such marriage, I did not prepare any such album.’
‘You are saying this because someone asked you to say this …’
‘What?’
‘Now say what you would have said if no one had told you to parrot some made-up tale.’
‘I told you what I knew, now please leave.’
Jeet Singh stretched out his hand and grabbed the man’s collar, twisting it so tight that the photographer’s eyes nearly popped out.
‘L-let go. Let go.’ Struggling hard, he could barely speak.
‘I will let go,’ Jeet Singh loosened his grip, ‘but if you don’t stop lying to me you’ll soon be lying here dead.’
No sound came out of his mouth, but his eyes implored Jeet Singh to let go.
Jeet Singh pulled back his hand.
‘This … this …’ the photographer said, panting and rubbing his neck, ‘is cruelty.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Jeet Singh said casually.
‘You entered my studio in broad daylight and … I … I am going to call the police.’
Jeet Singh looked at the nearby telephone.
‘From this phone?’ he asked.
The photographer looked around in a traumatized manner.
Jeet Singh lifted the phone and placed it before the photographer, the dial facing him.
‘Call the police.’
The photographer did not try to reach for the telephone. He flicked his tongue across his dry lips.
‘Come on. Do it. Make your call. Go ahead. And don’t forget to call the ambulance also.’
‘Why ambulance?’
‘You are more likely to be saved if you reach the hospital in time.’
‘H-hospital …’
‘And whom will you call? Local police station or Colaba police station, where Inspector Chandrakant Devtale is the sho? Isn’t he the one who taught you this story?’
His face turned white.
‘H-how do you … know?’ he said with great difficulty.
‘It was in the papers, and the tv news also.’
‘You are making this up.’
‘Yes, now tell me, are you going to speak or I shall start my programme?’
‘Your programme! Wha-what programme?’
‘I will break everything here, including you. I will thrash you so badly even your mother won’t be able to identify you. Let me give a sample.’
Jeet Singh lifted the phone and gave it a pull. It came out of the socket with its connection wire. He stretched his hand backwards and threw the phone with full force at the door of the dark room. The phone shattered into pieces with such a loud sound that the photographer jumped out of his chair.
‘Sit down,’ Jeet Singh roared.
‘The phone was worth a thousand rupees,’ said the photographer, nearly weeping.
‘Sit!’
He fell back into his chair.
‘Why … why are you being so cruel?’ he asked again.
‘You scoundrel, you lie without shame, and then complain about cruelty! Now tell me the truth, or I’ll …’<
br />
‘Don’t do anything, I am a poor man.’
‘Same here. I, too, am a poor man. Who will help a poor man besides another poor man, no?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will. Now start confessing …’
‘Start confessing what?’
‘First of all, confess that a marriage did take place. Confess that you took photographs of that marriage in the Colaba Arya Samaj temple last October, as I said.’
‘The inspector will kill me for that.’
‘Which inspector?’
‘You know which inspector; you named him just now.’
‘Inspector Devtale? sho, Colaba?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think I will go there to tell him what you told me?’
‘No, no, but …’
‘Pay attention to the fact that the inspector may kill you later, but I can do it just now. I will leave you dead on the floor if you do not do what I am asking you to do.’
His whole body shivered.
‘Now tell me, what were you saying?’
‘I did the still photography at that marriage.’
‘Great, so you made an album and gave it to the customer?’
‘Yes.’
‘You made a single album?’
‘Yes, the order was for just one album.’
‘Where are the negatives?’
‘I worked with a digital camera.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘A digital camera records images like a computer, it does not require a film, hence no negatives.’
‘Then how is the photo printed?’
‘It contains a memory card. The card is taken out of the camera and put into a receiver, which is then attached to a computer. Once that is done, all the images come into the computer and can be printed or copied to a cd.’
‘Where is the camera?’
He stood up, went to the dark room and came out with a Nikon digital camera. He took a card out of the camera and gave Jeet Singh a demonstration of what he had said.
‘Hmm’, said Jeet Singh. ‘Where’s the cd?’
‘It went with the album.’
‘I don’t get it?’
‘The cd is given to the customer with the album. There is a special sleeve in the right inner cover of the album which is meant to keep the cd safely.’
‘So those pictures are in the camera?’
‘No.’
‘They are in the computer, because you transferred them?’
‘No.’
‘Then where have the pictures gone?’
‘They have been erased, deleted.’
‘From both places?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saved a cd?’
‘No.’
‘Not even that! But, man, did you do something for your record or not?’
‘There was no need to keep a record.’
‘Why was there no need? Suppose the customer wants an extra photo, or wants to get one enlarged, what would you have done in that case?’
‘The customer has the cd. He can get these things done from it.’
‘But you don’t keep any record, neither in the computer nor in the camera or as a cd?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘If there is a record at all, it is with the customer?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are telling the truth?’
‘I swear by everything dear to me, I am. The camera is before you, the computer is before you, you can check yourself. And you can check each and every cd in the studio if you are still not satisfied.’
‘You have only one camera?’
‘Only one digital camera. The second one is a Polaroid which is rarely used. It has become so outdated, so out of fashion that no one’s ready to even buy it.’
‘There’s only one computer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there is no cd?’
‘No.’
‘But you are here?’
He did not reply.
Jeet Singh immediately noted his concentration had been diverted. He was looking somewhere out, behind his back. He turned to follow his gaze and found a police jeep had just come to a halt outside the shop. A uniformed, three-star inspector sat in it, with a driver and a constable.
Jeet Singh turned towards the photographer again.
‘It seems you know this cop,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the photographer.
He nodded quickly.
‘Who is he?’
‘Devtale.’
‘Of Colaba police station?’
‘Yes, it seems you were just bluffing earlier. You don’t really know him.’
‘Yes, that’s right, smartass. It seems he has come here exclusively to meet you. Now listen to me, if you act too smart, or tell him anything about me or my enquiry, I will pull your heart out through your throat with my bare hands. Understand?’
He nodded timidly.
‘But,’ he said, ‘if … if he asks about you then …?’
‘Then tell him I was a customer. Came to ask about the videography rates. ok?’
He nodded again.
‘I will come later.’ Jeet Singh got up.
At that very moment, the constable stepped in.
When Jeet Singh passed him on the way out, the policeman looked at him suspiciously. Jeet Singh avoided his eye and was at the door when he heard the constable say, ‘Sahib has come, he is asking for you, come.’
‘ok,’ said the photographer, getting up.
‘Who was that?’
‘A customer.’
‘What was he asking for?’
‘He wanted to know the videography rates.’
‘ok, now move.’
Jeet Singh reached Dhobi Talao and then Jambuwadi.
Gailo’s kholi in his chawl was locked.
None of his friends were there. All of them were daily wagers—D’Costa, Shamsi and Abdi were taxi drivers like him, and Pakya was a dockworker—and were out on their daily jobs.
He left for Nagpada.
The Alexandra Cinema taxi stand was Gailo’s permanent hangout. He was not there, which was not surprising. After all he was a taxi driver, and getting passengers depended on luck—sometimes you don’t get one for hours, and sometimes you keep getting one after the other.
The thought of calling his sympathizer private detective Shekhar Navlani came to his mind. Hesitatingly, he punched the number into his mobile.
The bell started ringing.
He kept waiting with patience. He was just about to switch off the phone when Navlani took the call.
‘This is Jeet Singh, sahib,’ he said with respect.
‘How are you, Jeet Singh?’
‘All is well, sahib, courtesy your blessings.’
‘Courtesy the blessing of God …’
‘You are no less than God for me, sahib.’
‘Why did you call?’
‘Sahib, I want to meet you.’
‘Hmm. Did you hear about the murder of Changulani sahib?’
‘Yes, that’s one of the reasons that I wanted to meet you.’
‘Is it so?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘ok, I am in the field currently. I will be free by the evening. I will reach the office sometime after seven. You can come at eight.’
‘I will be there at eight. Thanks, sahib.’
He headed back for Flora Fountain.
The shutter at Santosh Photo Studio was down, and two big Godrej locks on either end suggested that the shop was not just closed temporarily.
A foolscap paper was pasted on the shutter with something written on it in bold letters. He got closer and read:
‘Due to a death in the family, the studio is closed indefinitely.’
The cage was empty. The bird had flown.
The sho had not come for nothing. He had come with a specific purpose, and accomplished it.
He had made a mistake.
He should not have left.
Jeet Singh reached Andheri.
Khushal Das Lakhani had a Maruti car showroom there. Lakhani was a close friend of Pursumal’s, and a fellow Sindhi.
Jeet Singh had changed into a decent outfit—new black trousers and a white shirt, with carefully groomed hair—for had he gone there in his regular clothes looking like a tapori, the guards might not have let him meet Lakhani. It was quite likely they would not have let him even enter the showroom.
He was made to wait all the same.
Finally, he was allowed to meet the owner of the showroom in a decorated, air-conditioned glass chamber.
‘Sah- … Sir,’ Jeet Singh said with respect. ‘My name is Jeet Singh.’
‘Jeet Singh!’ Lakhani said, trying to remember. ‘The name is familiar.’
‘Sir, Changulani sahib might have mentioned me on some occasion.’
‘Yes, now I remember. You are that boy who was an old acquaintance of Sushmita’s. You used to live close to her old house.’
‘Yes, sir, I am the very same person.’
‘Hmm, what have you come for?’
‘Sir, I am really sorry for the untimely demise of Changulani sahib, but beside that, I am really upset about the injustices being committed against his widow, Sushmita, that too immediately after the death.’
‘Well, I too have some information that his children have thrown her out of the house.’
‘Sir, they have gone beyond that. They have also alleged that she was not the legally wedded wife of Changulani sahib, but just his live-in partner.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Sir, you were a childhood friend of his. Such friends keep very little secrets from each other. You must be aware that he had married her in the Arya Samaj temple in Colaba.’
‘No, I am not aware of these details.’
‘But you must know this at least that Sethji had married again?’
‘No.’
‘I am a bit confused here, sir.’
‘See, once he had said that if I go to Tulsi Chambers again, I will get to see a surprise, but even then he did not say that he had married again.’
The Colaba Conspiracy Page 7