by Anita Nair
And neither should you think asses, Gowda thought, but wisely kept his counsel.
‘Where is the so-called murderer?’ Gowda asked when the ACP had left to speak to the media.
‘He’s in the cell,’ Byrappa said, coming towards them.
Gowda walked towards the cell. In a corner sat a young man, cross-legged. There was a hint of a smile on his lips and an almost unnatural calm on his face.
Gowda stood still. The man looked back at Gowda without dropping his gaze. He had confessed, and so he was absolved, his eyes said.
‘Seen enough?’ he asked.
Gowda frowned and turned away. Then he turned again to look at him.
He knew he had seen him somewhere before. But he couldn’t remember where or when.
Gowda decided to go for a ride. It was either that or get drunk. And he didn’t want Roshan to see him drunk and angry.
He started his bike with one swift kick and rode out of the gate. Instead of making his way down Kalasanahalli, he decided to take the long route through Bilishivale. At the Association of People with Disability nursery gates, a lorry was backing up. Gowda halted. On a whim, he parked his bike and walked through the nursery, looking at the potted plants and greenhouses. A few minutes later, he was back on the road that would take him to Kothanur and beyond, as far as he would go.
He came back two hours later when he felt the rage in him had dwindled to something else. A resolution to find out more. It was as if the confession had been stage-managed to ensure that the investigation ceased before any real damage was done.
7.00 p.m.
Roshan sat in the living room, poring over what looked like a medical text. Gowda looked at him and asked, ‘How are you?’
‘I am sorry, Appa,’ the boy said, flushing.
‘What’s going on?’ Gowda asked. ‘I found Ecstasy in your rucksack and last night you were, what’s the word, wasted?’
Gowda sat down beside him. Roshan took a deep breath. ‘You fucked me up, the two of you,’ he said.
Gowda said nothing. He had thought as much about his parents when he was Roshan’s age.
‘All you do is snarl at each other, Amma and you. Because of you, I don’t believe in marriage or long-term relationships.’
‘So how is your getting drunk or doped out of your head going to change that?’ Gowda asked quietly.
‘My girlfriend broke up with me. She said I was a commitment-phobe …’ Roshan wiped his eyes furiously.
Gowda put his arm around his son. He didn’t know what to say or how to make his son feel better.
‘Does it feel like more than you can handle?’ he asked. Roshan turned into his shoulder and wept.
Gowda felt his eyes smart. He wrapped his arms around his son. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘Every generation thinks this. That our parents fucked us up. But we need to get a grip on ourselves, Roshan, you and I, we don’t realize how fortunate we are that our troubles are the type that can be dealt with, surmounted even …’
‘What do you mean?’ Roshan asked, raising his tear-streaked face to see a tear trickle down his father’s cheeks.
Gowda told him then of the goings-on, leaving nothing out so Roshan would know the extent of real evil and depravity. And that parents who snapped at each other were not the end of the world.
Roshan listened and said nothing. He had expected his father to rage at him. But this man who seemed as lost as him was a new sight. And he wasn’t too sure if he liked this vulnerable man who, despite the bike, the tattoo and the gruff manner, was clearly hurting.
‘Appa, what can I do to help?’
Gowda shrugged. ‘Just go easy on yourself. That’s all I ask. And on me. I may be your father, Roshan, but I am not infallible. I make mistakes too.’
Roshan nodded. ‘Appa,’ he said suddenly. ‘Somebody dropped off an envelope for you.’ He rose to get it.
Gowda opened the envelope. It was a scanned image of the portrait Shenoy had drawn as per Tina and Abdul’s description.
He looked at it for a long while and then he knew. The last piece had fallen into place.
9.00 p.m.
Gowda walked into the station that seemed curiously lifeless after the excitement of a few hours ago. The play had been performed to a standing ovation and the audience had left. The actor sat in his cell and elsewhere the director was patting himself on the back over how he had managed to pull it off. Not for the first time, perhaps.
‘Bring the boy to the interrogation room,’ Gowda said to one of the PCs on duty.
The man dithered. Another one of the ACP’s footsoldiers, Gowda thought, seeing the man’s hesitation. ‘The ACP …’ the PC began.
‘Do as the inspector tells you to,’ Gajendra snarled. He had been on his way out when he saw Gowda stride into the station.
The young man was handcuffed for the short walk from the cell to the interrogation room. Gowda sat across from him at the table. There was a particular glint of amusement in the young man’s eyes. He knew for certain then. ‘Sit down, Rakesh,’ Gowda said.
‘My name is not Rakesh. It’s Krishna,’ he said.
Gowda held his gaze. ‘Sit down.’ Turning to the PC, he said, ‘Take the handcuffs off. He is not going to run. The man surrendered, if you remember.’
The PC twisted his mouth to indicate displeasure, but did as asked.
‘Please wait outside,’ Gowda said. ‘And close the door after you.’
The young man waited for him to speak.
‘Rakesh,’ Gowda began.
‘I am not Rakesh. I am Krishna.’
Gowda took a deep breath and said, ‘You were the informant who led us towards Nandita.’
The young man smiled. He leaned forward and asked eagerly, ‘How is she?’
‘Krishna, I know you didn’t commit the murder, so why are you here?’
Krishna snorted. ‘What do you know?’
Gowda held his gaze. ‘I know that Pujary, or thekedar as you call him, went to see the lawyer.’
‘So?’
‘And that Pujary’s wife was with him. And that she killed the lawyer. So why have you confessed to something you had no hand in?’ Gowda said.
‘Because I am Krishna.’
Gowda wanted to reach across and smack him. Instead, he said in an even voice, ‘You are Rakesh. You are not Krishna and you do not know what you have taken on. Do you know that we have the death penalty in India?’
The young man threw his head back and laughed. ‘This is India. When that man who raped and killed a girl in Kerala, what’s his name, Govindaswamy, and that Delhi girl’s rapists are still alive, why do you think I’ll be hanged? And I confessed on my own and surrendered.’
Gowda stared at the table. It was an old one and the patina of age had worn the surface to a satiny smoothness.
‘Why, Krishna?’
‘Good. Now that you accept me for who I am, we can talk. I am curious. Why do think Gita-di killed the lawyer?’
‘Krishna,’ Gowda said, rising. Was the boy out of his mind? Or pretending? ‘This morning, I went to meet your thekedar and I met his wife as well. They said they had gone to visit the lawyer. They said they were family friends. Except that no one in the lawyer’s office had ever heard of them. Dr Rathore, they said, had no friends.’
‘And so you decided that helpless lady in a wheelchair killed him?’ The young man’s eyebrows rose.
‘I don’t arrive at conclusions on mere conjecture. So tell me, Krishna, what really happened? Nothing is going to change. You will go to the gallows or rot in jail. But that’s your choice. I just want to know what really happened.’
Krishna smiled. ‘You did rescue my Nandita. But once I step outside this room, I will deny everything I told you and say you forced me to retract my confession.’
Gowda sat back in his chair and said, ‘Go on, Krishna.’ The thekedar wanted to know what was special about Nandita.
I didn’t have an answer. Do we ever know why we fall in love? Bu
t once we do, wouldn’t we move heaven and earth to make sure that the one we love is safe and happy?
The thekedar would understand this, I thought. After all, he had devoted himself to caring for his crippled wife. I had watched them together and I knew he wasn’t pretending. She was everything to him.
I tried talking to him once again. ‘I will find you other girls,’ I told him.
But he wouldn’t agree. ‘There is too much money involved,’ he said.
And I thought perhaps if I arranged the money, he would let me take her away. The only person I could think of who would have that kind of money at home was the lawyer. My boys who had worked there had told me about a cupboard in the lawyer’s bedroom which he wouldn’t let anyone else touch.
I knew of the breach in the compound wall. I went in through that and entered the house through a ventilator in the servant’s bathroom at the back of the house. The lawyer was a cheapskate. He had put a ventilator with glass slats instead of a proper window. I took the slats down one by one.
I was waiting in the kitchen for him. I had my face wrapped in a cloth and in my hand was a cleaver I had found in the kitchen. The edge of the blade was sharp. German steel, the boys had mimicked him. If you look after it, it will serve you for life, he would tell them if one of them left a knife unwashed.
I was going to make him give me the money, then I would tie him up and leave. I knew he lived alone and by the time somebody came to his aid, I would be long gone.
Then I heard voices. I stepped into the passage from where the entrance was visible. I saw the thekedar come in. I saw him hold the door open for Gita-di’s wheelchair. I heard the thekedar speak to the lawyer about some land. But the lawyer was refusing to hear him out.
‘Look, Pujary,’ the lawyer said, ‘I told you the deal is off.’
‘Sir, I can sort out that non-encumbrance certificate. There won’t be any problem, I assure you. The MLA has assured me that he will handle it.’
‘No.’ The lawyer was adamant. ‘This isn’t going to work. I have a reputation and your deals are murky. I can’t take the risk.’
I could see Gita-di’s face change. Her body was beginning to tremble and her face had turned red. The lawyer was waving his hand as he gave the thekedar a lecture. The water bottle in his hand dropped. I saw him bend down to pick it up from beneath that half-moon table. That was when she reached for the stone Buddha on the table and slammed it on his head. Just above the left ear. One heavy blow. And then again. ‘You won’t let him change. You and others like you have turned him into this monster. You are evil. Not him,’ she screamed again and again at the lawyer, who had fallen face-down on the floor. I could see blood pooling around him. I could see the thekedar’s aghast face. I could see the tears streaming down Gita-di’s face.
They left hastily and, just as I expected, in ten minutes, he called me. He said there had been an accident, and he wanted me to fix it.
So I did. I wiped all the prints. I left some of my own in the kitchen. Then one of the men from the brothel called me. One of the girls there had died. And I knew that I had to get Nandita out. Even if the thekedar let her go, there would be some form of payback. I knew him well enough. He would get me if I tried to bargain with him. He would have me killed, and then my girl, my Nandita, would never escape. I needed to make sure she was safe. When I got out, I would find her.
I found a cheap phone in the kitchen. It was a phone he had given the boys to use. I knew it would come in handy for what I needed to do next. I called a woman whose number I had and told her about the brothel.
Gowda had listened without interrupting. But now he asked, ‘But why?’
Krishna smiled. ‘The thekedar will never say no to me again. He didn’t ask me to confess. I offered to. He likes to think he made me, but he didn’t. I created myself. I am Krishna. Besides, he will get me out. I have pictures of what happened on my phone and it’s someplace safe. I am the one who can make or break him. I am not just anybody. I am Krishna.’
The door opened and the ACP strode in furiously. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded, glaring at Gowda.
‘Nothing. I just called him in to say hello and thank him. I was on my way back from settling my stolen calf dispute, sir,’ Gowda said, at his laconic best.
‘You won’t get him,’ Krishna called out. ‘You’ll never get people like him.’
10.00 p.m.
Nandita pulled out the metal lighter from where she had kept it hidden. The night of the raid, Krishna had come into her cubicle and sat with her. He gave her his lighter and said, ‘Will you keep this for me?’
She had stared at him uncomprehendingly.
He pressed it into her palm. ‘One day I will come for you,’ he said.
She flicked open the lighter now and pressed the flint wheel.
A flame rose, tall and steady.
Nandita let it eat into the insides of her palm.
10.30 p.m.
They were all gathered in his living room. Michael and Urmila. Santosh, Ratna, Gajendra and Byrappa.
‘He sounds like he’s eighty-four …’ Byrappa said.
‘What?’ Michael asked.
Gajendra cleared his throat. ‘Section 84 of the IPC. Unsound mind.’
Gowda pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘That he is. And potentially dangerous. He said he would come back for Nandita.’ A silence crept into the room.
‘How did you know, Borei, that it was Pujary’s wife?’ Urmila asked.
‘So many things: the sight of the men in wheelchairs at the nursery, handling giant pots with ease; the strength of the upper body compensating for the wasted lower limbs; the enclosed garden in Pujary’s home that he said his wife looked after. Her shoulders and arms seemed well developed. I saw how easily she handled the full coffee pot when we went to their house; the casual lie about visiting the MLA. When I saw the portrait that Shenoy had drawn, it all fell into place. Dr Khan in his postmortem report had said the injury had been inflicted at a point where the maximum joints were. Pujary is too tall to have hit him there. Then I thought of the wife in the wheelchair. I saw it all in my head and the boy said that was exactly how it happened.’
‘So you think she found out what her husband was up to?’ Ratna asked.
Gowda nodded. ‘When you see them together, you will understand. They are proud of each other and for her to see him fall from grace might have been unbearable. He didn’t commit any of the crimes on his own; he was forced to do them. She needs to believe that.’
‘The Mumbai police are coming tomorrow,’ Michael said. ‘The FIR will be written then and they will take the trafficker back once the paperwork is done.’
‘And the children?’ Urmila asked.
‘Abdul’s father came in this evening. He will take the boy home,’ Michael said, not meeting her eye.
‘Tina?’
‘A social worker will travel with her once the formalities are complete. And she will be sent to a Catholic home.’
‘Why isn’t she being sent to her home?’ Urmila’s voice rose as she glared accusingly at Gowda.
‘The mother has gone missing,’ Michael said.
For a moment none of them spoke.
‘What now, sir?’ Santosh asked. ‘The boy goes to jail for a crime he didn’t commit? And that bastard walks free. The lives he has destroyed don’t seem to matter. What are we doing calling ourselves the police? We are useless, sir, we are bloody useless!’
Gowda smiled and rose from his chair. ‘There are more ways to skin a cat than one …’
Michael sat up. ‘What do you mean, Bob?’
EPILOGUE
18 MARCH, WEDNESDAY
9.00 a.m.
Gowda looked at himself in the mirror. He was tired and the fatigue showed, but his eyes were clear. He appraised himself and hoped his appearance reflected the person he was – an honest policeman trying to work within the system.
He had the file ready. He heard the jeep pull up outside.
Santosh and Ratna sat in the back seat. Gowda got in and smiled at them. He pulled his phone out. ‘Hello, Stanley, we are on our way to the Inspector General’s office. Where do we meet?’
Elsewhere, Michael and Urmila and their child welfare mates were headed to the chief secretary’s office.
Gajendra looked at Byrappa. ‘Didn’t you tell me you know a crime reporter at one of the Kannada newspapers?’
Byrappa nodded.
‘Call him,’ Gajendra said. ‘Let’s go talk to him. Let’s tell him what we know.’
One way or the other, they would get Pujary. He would be stopped. Human life had to be valued. They had to believe in that. They needed to.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always I owe much to V.K. Karthika, editor, publisher and friend, for understanding why this book needed to be written, and her implicit faith in my writing.
Researching this book was perhaps one of the most difficult things I have done, and so much of the information that I collated and my understanding of the sordid world of child trafficking wouldn’t have been possible without the support of the following people, all of whom work tirelessly to rescue and rehabilitate trafficked and abused children. I am indebted to them for making time for me despite their busy schedules, for letting me tag along in some instances, and for sharing information and true-life accounts:
Bosco Rescue Unit, Bangalore City Station
Nagamani V.S., Assistant Sub-inspector, Koramangala Police Station
Anita Kanhaiya, CEO, Freedom Project
Meena K. Jain, Former Chairperson CWC to Bangalore Urban
Brinda Adiga, Mentor, GlobalConcernsIndia.org
Suja Sukumaran, Advocacy & Integration Support, Enfold Health Trust, Bangalore.
A CUT-LIKE WOUND
ANITA NAIR
The first in the Inspector Gowda Series
It’s the first day of Ramadan in heat-soaked Bangalore. A young man begins to dress: makeup, a sari, and expensive pearl earrings. Before the mirror he is transformed into Bhuvana. She is a hijra, a transgender seeking love in the bazaars of the city. What Bhuvana wants, she nearly gets: a passing man is attracted to this elusive young woman-but someone points out that Bhuvana is no woman. For that, the interloper’s throat is cut. A case for Inspector Borei Gowda, going to seed, and at odds with those around him including his wife, his colleagues, even the informers he must deal with. More corpses and Urmila, Gowda’s ex-flame, are added to this spicy concoction of a mystery novel.