Chain of Custody

by Anita Nair

  ‘What time did you get in?’ Gowda said, taking care to curb the parental displeasure in his tone.

  ‘About two.’ The boy yawned, raising his arms. He had giant tufts of hair in his armpits. Gowda blinked. When did that happen?

  ‘Party night, huh?’ Gowda offered in his best buddy-daddy voice.

  ‘Hardly. The scene here is quite dull, Appa. After Goa, this seems like a sleepy hole.’

  Gowda wondered if it was a good time to bring up the smoking paraphernalia he had found in the boy’s rucksack. But Roshan was suddenly sitting across from him with a serious expression. ‘Appa, there is something I need to talk to you about.’

  Gowda nodded.

  ‘Don’t frown.’ Roshan smiled. ‘It’s not me. It’s for my friend Suraj. His sister seems to have got into a mess and he doesn’t know what to do.’

  ‘What sort of a mess?’

  ‘I don’t know. He seemed reluctant to speak about it over the phone.’

  ‘Ask him to come by this evening,’ Gowda said, rising. He was going to the station house. He had asked Gajendra to hire a TV so they could watch the rest of the footage. ‘Best if we do it here,’ he had said the night before. ‘It’s a Sunday and your missus will need to watch the Sunday programmes.’

  The thought of going back to that house made him want to reach for an antihistamine.

  ‘ACP sir called. I said you were still at home,’ the station writer said as Gowda walked in.

  Gowda cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’

  Could this fucker be the mole, he wondered. And where had everyone else been when the ACP called?

  ‘I suggest that Santosh and Byrappa proceed with the interviews after we view the footage. Have we got a time of death yet?’ Gowda began as soon as everyone assembled in his room for the briefing.

  Gajendra nodded. ‘Between 9.30 and 10.30 p.m.’

  ‘Right, so let’s take a look at the footage. Fast-forward, pause, you know the routine, don’t you?’

  For the next hour, hardly anyone spoke. The lawyer, it seemed, had just two visitors. However, ten non-residents had entered the gated community. ‘Looks like an open-and-shut case, sir,’ Santosh said.

  ‘I wish,’ Gowda said. ‘Something tells me it won’t be such an easy case to crack.’

  ‘You do like to complicate things; or you wouldn’t be Borei Gowda,’ a voice said from the doorway. ACP Vidyaprasad in his Sunday best – a pale yellow linen shirt, navy blue denims, loafers, his moustache twirled and his eyebrows daubed with vaseline. He smelled expensive. ‘What’s this TV doing here?’ He frowned.

  ‘We were watching the CCTV footage,’ Gowda said.

  ‘Now? Couldn’t you have finished it last night?’

  ‘We were …’ Santosh began.

  ‘Gowda sir’s TV at home isn’t compatible with the system and we began watching it last night at my home,’ Gajendra butted in.

  ‘Listen to me, Gowda,’ the ACP said impatiently.

  Gajendra and Santosh stood up. ‘Where are you going?’ the ACP demanded. ‘Look at the time of death; look at who visited the lawyer then … and you have the assailant. Don’t overthink things,’ he said, giving his moustache end a tiny twirl as he left the room.

  Gowda watched him leave, bemused. Was the man a born idiot or was he pretending to be one to save himself from having to actually do some work?

  Santosh erupted as soon as the ACP left. ‘It’s just not right,’ he snarled.

  Gowda raised an eyebrow.

  ‘All of us know about his involvement in the corporator case and here he is as if nothing ever happened. The system sucks, sir.’ Santosh’s voice quivered with righteous indignation.

  Gowda stood up and walked towards Santosh. He poured a glass of water and offered it to the young man.

  ‘The system sucks but we must do what we can. Much as I hate the system, there would be anarchy without it. So we must hope for the best.’

  Gajendra looked at Gowda in surprise.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking of the children we rescued. We fail them if we give up on the system,’ Gowda said.

  Gajendra had never seen Gowda as affected by anything. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Have you got the names and details?’ Gowda asked, turning towards Santosh.

  The young man nodded.

  Gowda glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes past two. ‘Start the interviews of the residents and check the guest register with them.’

  ‘But sir, each guest has to sign the gate pass when they leave,’ Santosh said.

  ‘Have you seen the gate passes? The signatures look like crows strutting on the page.’

  Gowda’s phone rang. He peered at it thoughtfully. ‘I need to step out,’ he said.

  3.00 p.m.

  Michael’s face was ashen and his eyes red-rimmed when Gowda walked into the office room he had been allotted by the Sunshine Home for Children. They had decided to bring the children here rather than interview them at the shelter.

  ‘You look shaken, Bob,’ Gowda said without any preamble.

  ‘The children began talking to me this morning,’ Michael said and dropped his head into his hands.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Gowda asked. Outside he could hear the children playing in the yard outside the home. They were kicking a ball and raising little puffs of dust.

  ‘Listen to this,’ he said, switching on the voice recorder app on his phone.

  The recording began with Michael coaxing the children. ‘Tina, it will help us if you tell us what happened to you.’

  ‘Tina, do you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying?’

  ‘Would you like some water or a cup of tea?’

  The sound of a squirrel chirping on a tree outside punctured the silence.

  Then a low voice spoke as if it were reciting a lesson by rote.

  It was a Thursday. The date was 5 March. Tina stood before the mirror, adjusting her t-shirt, fluffing it out so it didn’t cling to her breast buds. She wore a slip beneath the t-shirt but it didn’t help. Mummy had said she would buy her a brassiere soon. Tina had been embarrassed and had dropped her gaze. Everything made her flush these days, especially when the boys looked at her. And sometimes men …

  Tina picked up the purse and counted again the two hundred rupees in it. Mummy had said she would have to buy the BP tablets and other medicines as Mummy would be late that evening. The sari factory she worked in had a big order and Mummy wanted to make the most of the overtime. ‘It’s more money,’ Mummy had said and Tina had nodded.

  Tina was a smart girl. That was what everyone said. She will go places, they said. Just you watch!

  She had thought out everything. She would lock the door, leave the key with the next-door aunty, cross the road, buy the medicines, come home and chop the vegetables and prepare the dough so Mummy only had to make the rotis later. Then she would do her homework. Tina glanced at the timepiece on top of the TV. It was a quarter past four. The medical shop would open soon.

  Tina wondered if life would have been different for Mummy and her if Papa was still with them. Mummy said Papa died. But Tina had heard that Papa had another woman and he lived with her in Borivali.

  Tina looked at herself in the mirror, fluffed the t-shirt again and shut the door. The one-room tenement was part of an old building and Mummy had to struggle, first to get it and now to keep it. The landlord raised the rent every few years. ‘This is Mumbai. If not you, there will always be someone else,’ he had said when all the tenants including Mummy had gone to plead for clemency: ‘If almost 40 per cent of our wages go to pay rent, how are we to manage?’ they said.

  But Mummy never complained, even if she had to work extra hours. The sari factory was in Matunga, not far from where they stayed in Wadala, and it allowed her to keep long hours. And now that Tina was twelve, she could be counted on to help with the household chores.

  Tina walked down the steps to the paan wallah. He would let her make a call from his mobile for a rup
ee. She called her mother. ‘Mummy, I am going to the medical shop. The key is with Aunty. Do you want me to buy some vegetables?’

  There was a grunt in response. Mummy was not allowed to use her mobile. But they had worked a system of codes. A grunt was a yes. A cough was a no.

  Tina returned the mobile. The road was crowded as always. She looked both ways and stepped forward to join a group of people who were waiting to cross the road. The din of traffic hurtling this way and that filled her ears. She would buy some spinach, she thought. It was good for the blood, the science teacher at school had said.

  Tina felt something or someone whizz past her. The strap of her purse snapped. ‘What?’ she cried, turning and seeing a little boy dart through the traffic. Tina ran after him. Yes, Tina did that. She cut through the traffic, not bothering about the screech of tyres and the blaring of horns.

  The boy ran and so did Tina. Her heart almost popped into her mouth. But Tina wouldn’t stop till she got her purse back and cuffed the boy for trying to steal from her. The boy seemed to have wings for feet. Tina panted, trying not to lose sight of him. There was a little park up ahead. If he went in there, Tina knew she would catch him. The boy ran into the park. Tina followed.

  A hand grabbed Tina by her waist as she stopped to catch her breath. Just as the hand snaked around her waist, she felt something smash into the side of her face, but she moved her head so only a glancing blow grazed her cheek. A man stood with a rock in one hand. He raised the rock and brought it down on her face again. She felt her cheek tear open and her mouth split. Her teeth bit down on her tongue and something rang in her ears. She felt her mouth fill with blood and an excruciating pain tore through her.

  Through a haze of pain, she saw the boy come towards her. She saw the man slap the boy as he said, ‘Why did you have to run so far?’

  The man and the boy took her towards a waiting taxi. Her feet had gone numb and so had her mind. She whimpered. He slapped her other cheek and said, ‘You want me to smash this side of your face too?’

  The taxi drove up the short distance to Wadala station. Tina tried to cling to the seat of the taxi through the pain. But the man prised her fingers off the seat and hoisted her into his arms. The boy followed wordlessly.

  As always, the Wadala station was packed. She didn’t know what she could do to escape but she knew she had to try. She squirmed but the man’s grip held her in place. Through the pain she saw her captor was a smooth-faced man with a full head of hair. He could have been her papa. ‘What’s wrong?’ a woman asked as the man hurried towards the platform with the boy in tow.

  Tina whispered, trying to speak. ‘Help,’ she tried to say. ‘Help! He hit my face with a rock!’

  A red-tinged bubble escaped her smashed mouth. The man looked at her and said, ‘She fell off a ladder and I can’t afford a taxi to take her to the hospital!’

  No one questioned why he wasn’t taking her to a hospital in Wadala. No one had the time. They made sympathetic noises and made way for him to get into the crowded local train. Two men even gave up their seats so he could lay her down while he held a blood-sodden cloth to her face. No one was bothered about what didn’t concern them. Tina understood that now.

  They changed trains. Again someone asked: What happened?

  This time he said that Tina had fallen from the train. Silly child! Wouldn’t listen! And now I have to take her to the hospital, the man said.

  Who wouldn’t believe him? He looked like a concerned father hastening to find medical help for his daughter, with the younger child in tow. A poor man who couldn’t even afford a taxi. Bechara, someone said under his breath. Tina passed out then.

  When Tina was conscious, she was in a hovel and an old woman was bathing her wounds. ‘Lie still,’ the woman said as she applied a salve. Tina flinched. A strong smell of antiseptic filled her nostrils. A familiar smell that she knew. Tincture of iodine. Mummy kept a bottle to apply on cuts and bruises.

  ‘I am going to give you an injection,’ the woman said. Tina’s left eye widened. The other side of her face was so swollen that she could not open the eye. Perhaps the old woman was a nurse. Perhaps she would help. ‘I,’ she tried to say.

  ‘Shut up,’ the old woman said. ‘Don’t talk. Do you want the wound to open up further? What was the fool thinking of, smashing your face? The thekedar isn’t going to like it. What will he say when he finds out?’

  ‘I,’ Tina tried again.

  ‘Shut up, I said,’ the woman snapped. ‘So you want him to teach you obedience as well? He’s mangled your face already and if you are going to be headstrong, you are finished.’

  Tina closed her eyes. What was the old woman garbling about? Through the half-opened tin door, she saw the arc of a street lamp. Where was she? What time was it? Mummy must be home. Would Mummy go to the police? What then?

  This was a nightmare. She would wake up any moment now. A chill ran through her. She began shivering. Soon the shivering wouldn’t stop.

  When Tina woke up, an IV was attached to her arm and there was a bandage on her face. Tina stared at the ceiling of the hospital ward. The old woman sat at her side and the boy came in with a glass of tea and two maska paav.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this hospital duty,’ the old woman said, dunking a piece of the bun into the tea and popping it into her mouth.

  Tina’s stomach rumbled. Hunger gnawed at her. She licked her lips. They were dry and cracked but it didn’t hurt to open her mouth any more.

  ‘I …’ she croaked. ‘My mummy …’

  ‘Forget that you had a mummy, daddy, bhai, behan, whoever … you are here now and if you do as they say, they will treat you all right,’ the old woman said through a mouthful of soggy dough. ‘Ask chooha here if you don’t trust me,’ she said, pushing the boy towards the bed Tina lay on.

  Rat. Was that the boy’s name?

  The boy’s eyes met hers and then his glance dropped. Tina turned her head away. The little rat was the reason she was here.

  ‘Didi,’ he mumbled. She refused to look at him. Go away, rat, she thought.

  ‘Didi, sorry,’ the rat said. ‘My name isn’t chooha. It’s Abdul.’

  Tina turned to glare at him. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Abdul darted a glance at the old woman. He didn’t speak.

  Tina had a new home. Platform 4 on the Kalyan station. And a shadow, Abdul. There were other girls. They were in the trade. They get fed and paid, he told her.

  Tina stared the old woman down. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t. You can’t make me.’

  The man came back. He had a name. Mohan. He wasn’t from here, Abdul said. He was from Bangalore. Tina sat still, refusing to move. She shoved the plate of food away even though she was faint with hunger. ‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go!’

  Mohan stared at her impassively. ‘What about all the money I spent on you at the hospital?’

  ‘My mother will give it to you. Twice the amount. Just let me go. We won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘For a little girl you are very bold,’ the man said.

  ‘I am not little. I am twelve years old. Did you hear what I said? Let me go.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, not until I recover my money.’

  ‘I said my mother will give it to you.’ Tina’s voice was shrill as she leaned towards him.

  ‘If your mother is so concerned, why aren’t the police out looking for you? It’s been five days since you went missing. Do you think your mother cares?’ the man said softly.

  Tina stared at him. What was he implying? ‘No,’ she said. ‘My mother loves me.’

  ‘Does she?’ His voice was a whisper now. ‘You are still in Mumbai. Why aren’t the police knocking on my door yet? I have been accused before of abducting girls. Why aren’t they questioning me?’

  Tina didn’t know what to say. Or think. Was he right? Her mother loved her. The man was just trying to rattle her.

  She sat with her head pres
sed to her knees. She would pretend to do whatever he asked. And at the first chance she would flee. She was still in Mumbai. She would find her way home.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked. ‘I’ll do anything but what the other girls do. I’ll scream if a man comes near me.’

  ‘How old did you say you are?’ There was a reluctant note of admiration in his voice.

  ‘Twelve,’ she said.

  ‘Twelve going on thirty.’ He laughed. ‘And no, my dear, you don’t have to do that. Not yet.’

  Later that evening, when he asked her to go with him, Tina went quietly. Abdul dogged her steps. They are taking us away, the boy whispered. Tina’s heart stilled. But she ignored the boy. She hadn’t forgiven him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ She plucked at Mohan’s sleeve.

  ‘You’ll know when you get there,’ he said. It wasn’t the train station they went into but another room where a man in a white shirt and brown trousers waited. He had a high forehead and a beaky nose. Tina thought he looked like the priest at the Hanuman temple.

  The man looked at her and smiled. ‘You are Tina,’ he said in Marathi.

  ‘Uncle, please take me home,’ she cried.

  ‘Ssh …’ he said, patting her head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.’

  ‘Make sure you don’t touch her,’ he said, turning to Mohan. ‘Light brown eyes and dark skin. She is a rare commodity, too precious for you to fiddle around with.’

  Mohan dropped his gaze. ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he said almost defiantly.

  ‘What?’ the man in white demanded.

  ‘Nothing, saab,’ Mohan said.

  ‘Good. I will let you know when to start for Bangalore,’ the man said, walking to the door. He turned to look at Tina. ‘Be a good girl!’

  The door slammed. Tina felt tears cascade down her cheeks. How was she to escape if the man took her away to Bangalore?

  ‘Stop crying,’ Mohan snapped. But she continued to howl. ‘Stop it,’ he said, twisting her arm. ‘I won’t let you go.’

  She stopped abruptly. ‘You will help me?’ she asked.

  ‘The thekedar thinks he is a big shit. But he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I can do,’ the man said.