Murder In Mumbai

by K. D. Calamur

  “Borkar?” he asked, before repeating the name louder.

  A head peered out from behind the curtains. “Yes?”

  “My name is Inspector Vijay Gaikwad,” he said, showing him his badge. “I’m here to talk about Liz Baar-Tone madam.”

  Borkar did not look happy at the intrusion but invited Gaikwad in, probably knowing that refusing a cop was a bad idea. ”How can I help you?” he asked, his tone guarded.

  “I’ve heard that you were close to her.”

  “She was a good woman.”

  “Can you tell me anything else? Who could have killed her? Did she have enemies?”

  “I don’t know about that. But she was getting threats.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I think it was quite a few times but I only saw it once.”

  “You saw it?”

  “Yes. I dropped her off at home and was parking the car. Then my phone rang. She was screaming. She said many things in English but she was speaking too fast for me to understand. But she said, ‘Come up. Come up.’ So I rushed up and found her hysterical. She showed me to the bathroom where on the mirror there was a threat written in red.”

  “What did it say?”

  “‘No more warnings.’”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I read a little English. Enough to know that I am right.”

  “What about her husband? Where was he?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard he had another woman, but she seemed OK with him. He came later and comforted her.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “She was insistent that we not do that.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “I didn’t want to get involved.”

  “Are you still working for them?”

  “No. I don’t have a job anymore. After her death, her husband said, ‘Don’t come.’”

  “He said that? Why?”

  “I don’t know. So I stopped going.”

  “Can you think of anything else? Anyone else she was close to?”

  “No. She mostly kept to herself. Sometimes she chatted in the car to her brother in Amrika. She would go out with her husband sometimes. Sometimes she would talk to Hazra sahib at the office, and a few times I dropped her off at Prithvi Theatre for coffee. She would meet that Khurana sahib there.”

  “Khurana sahib?”

  “Yes, the industrialist.”

  “Was it business?”

  “Not sure. They were friendly.”

  “As in, were they having a relationship?”

  The driver thought for a while. “No. I can’t say for sure they weren’t, but mostly they just talked. I never noticed any hanky-panky that you notice when married people are doing things they shouldn’t be doing.”

  “Are you sure she didn’t have any enemies?”

  “I told you—I don’t know. But she was a very good woman. Every day she would talk to me in her broken Hindi. She treated me like a human being. You won’t understand, sahib, but people like us live on the margins and our employers act like we don’t exist. We’re invisible beings who open their car doors and clean their houses. They tell their friends that we’re like their family, but we still are made to sit on the floor in their houses and drink tea or water from ‘special’ glasses. There is always that sense that we are less.

  “But madam was not like that. She asked about my wife and children. About my kids’ education, offered to pay for their fees in an English-medium school.”

  Gaikwad knew exactly what Borkar was talking about. As a young man, it used to infuriate him. Now that he was on the other side of the divide, he just thought of it as the Indian way.

  “Were you with her on the day she came back from Singapore?”

  “Yes, sir. She’d called me on my mobile. Told me to come to Sahar airport. I waited there and took her home.”

  “And she was fine?”

  “She seemed a little anxious. She was trying her husband’s number but couldn’t get through. Then she made another call. Not sure to whom, but she spoke for a little while and hung up.”

  “How long did you stay?”

  “Not long. When I dropped the keys off, she told me to go home.”

  “And you did?”

  “I came down and waited with the watchman, smoking.”

  “For how long?”

  “Only ten to fifteen minutes.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “I saw that Gaja Kohli sahib, that NGO wallah, waiting in his car.”

  “Kohli? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sahib. Because there was that party incident and we knew that he had threatened her.”

  “And you didn’t do anything?”

  “What could I do? He was sitting in his car. I don’t know what he was doing there.”

  “Anything else you can think of? Any arguments she might have had?”

  The driver paused for a brief moment, enough for Gaikwad to know he was remembering something.

  “It might be nothing.”

  “However insignificant, it may be important.”

  “A week before she went to Singapore, I went to her office to give her something. But that Hazra sahib was there. The office was empty and they were arguing. Loudly.”

  “What about?”

  “Don’t know, sahib. They were speaking in English and it was very fast and it was loud and he stormed out of the office.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Yes. But he didn’t acknowledge me. These people never acknowledge us.”

  Gaikwad processed what the driver was saying. It was frustrating. And then he thought about the murder victim as a person—someone with the same hopes, aspirations, drive, compassion, and fears as the rest of humanity. But someone had decided to end her life.

  “Please call if you remember anything,” Gaikwad said, knowing that the driver had little more to offer. “This is my personal cell phone number.”

  * * *

  It was late by the time he finished with the driver, returned to the station, changed back into his uniform, and finished dealing with the requisite paperwork of the day. Gaikwad decided that he would visit Gaja Kohli. He found it hard to believe that this mild-mannered man, known around the world for his principles, could be involved in something like murder, but his experience also told him that there were no “murdering types.” We are all capable of horrible acts; some people are better than others at curbing their baser instincts. Which category did Kohli fall into?

  He’d allowed Kohli to pick the venue for his interview the last time—the Udupi restaurant. This time, Gaikwad wanted to be in control. He thought about calling him to the police station—after all, he did lie during questioning—but Gaikwad found that talking to people in their own surroundings put them more at ease. There was too much fear introduced into the equation at the police station. Everyone expected to come in and get slapped around or worse, and they would confess to anything, including murders that had taken place fifty years earlier. Still, Gaikwad knew he’d have to put Kohli on the spot, enough to get the complete truth out of him.

  * * *

  “Yes, inspector, how can I help you?” Kohli said when Gaikwad called.

  In truth, the inspector was relieved that Kohli’s partner, Arundhati, hadn’t answered. The women he’d met on this case—Arundhati and Uma—both intimidated him: one for her overt aggression and the other for her overt sexuality.

  “I’d like to discuss the Barton murder with you.”

  “I’ve told you all I know, inspector,” Kohli replied in Marathi, his voice still friendly.

  “Just a couple of loose ends
that need tying up,” Gaikwad said, not wanting to give anything away.

  “Glad to help. Same place?”

  “No. Either the police station or your apartment.”

  Kohli paused. “Why don’t you come here?” he replied. “We can talk in a more relaxed setting.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  * * *

  Gaikwad was surprised at the building in front of him. It was old and he’d had a hard time finding it. This was the old part of Mumbai; the residents didn’t care to show that they were wealthy, and many were, fabulously so. But if you knew the city, you knew who lived here and what they did. It was an old building near Opera House, the Baroque-style building that had lain crumbling for as long as Gaikwad could remember (but which was the object of restoration plans for as long as he was alive). The area was mainly commercial, but people still lived here, people for whom Bombay rarely stretched beyond Worli. Their flats were tucked away in hidden lanes in invisible buildings that were known only to the most wizened paan wallahs who’d run businesses here for decades, watching the city change even as they remained virtually unchanged.

  The building begged for a coat of paint; the only vestige of its once proud past was its art deco design, now hidden behind scaffolding. Gaikwad looked up: Air conditioners jutted out of every window, clothes were being hung out to dry. Smokers and children stood at their balconies, peering down, curious as to what a policeman might be doing here. Gaikwad walked into the unlit foyer (there was no watchman; the bulb had gone out) and groped his way in the darkness to the wooden stairwell. The stairs creaked with each step, as if crying out, unable to stand the burden of the decades. Gaikwad hoped for some light, but there was none. Eventually, he came to the top of the flight of stairs. He could make out a door. He felt like a blind man as he moved his hand along the wall, hoping to find a bell. He rang it.

  “Jee?” It was a girl; she looked no older than twelve. Her clothes were of high quality, but worn, the kind worn by servants in the homes of the affluent. Despite the hand-me-downs, the girl smiled.

  “Kohli sahib aahe ka?” Gaikwad asked in Marathi. Is Kohli there?

  “Yes, come in,” the girl replied in halting English, still smiling.

  Gaikwad entered. The outside of the building belied the inside of this flat. The hall, as the living room is called, was capacious and, in contrast to the stairwell, well-lit. Light from the setting sun streamed in through the large windows. Bookshelves lined the wall, sagging under the weight of carefully selected tomes, many of which looked unread, tribal pottery, and art. A large abstract painting in orange dominated one wall; on another was a giant poster that read, “No justice, no peace.” An old-school record player stood at the far end of the room; Gaikwad was pleasantly surprised that there was no television here. He walked up to the bookshelves and recognized only some of the names. They were what you would expect in the home of every Indian intellectual: Gandhi, Marx, the Frankfurt School, Subaltern studies. Gaja Kohli might have come from very humble beginnings, Gaikwad thought, but he’d built a comfortable existence for himself.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, inspector,” Kohli said.

  Gaikwad turned around and smiled.

  “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”

  “My pleasure. Anything to drink? Thanda ya garam?” Hot or cold?

  “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  “Inspector, you’ve come as a guest, you must have something. Priya,” he called out. The girl who opened the door appeared, still smiling. “Two teas. No sugar for me. You, inspector?”

  “None for me, either.”

  “OK, two teas. No sugar.”

  The girl bobbed her head to signal she’d understood and retreated to the kitchen. Gaikwad couldn’t help but think that no matter what political cause Indians espoused, they didn’t think twice about having servants—even child servants—who did their chores for them. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he, for some inexplicable reason, expected Kohli to live up to the ideals he espoused: self-reliance, dignity.

  He decided to come straight to the point.

  “Kohli sahib,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me that you’d gone to visit the American woman on the day she died?”

  Gaikwad could see blood drain from Kohli’s face. His jaw dropped slightly, and the years of self-confidence that he’d built up seemed to instantly dissipate. Gaikwad could see he was battling with himself about whether to come clean. He decided to help Kohli along.

  “We have a witness.”

  Kohli sighed, and shook his head. “She was alive, I swear it,” he said, and then desperately added: “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Gaikwad could only think of the formidable Arundhati Hingorani. He certainly didn’t want her here now, but he couldn’t deny this man representation.

  “That’s up to you,” he said. “We’re having a conversation and you’re cooperating. If you’d prefer to get a lawyer, we can continue this at the station.”

  Kohli seemed to assess this offer for a while. He nodded. “No. Let’s talk here.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “She called me to talk. Said she’d like to address the concerns my group had. I wasn’t going to say no. I went there. She’d just come back from a trip. She seemed relaxed. We spoke. She was very gracious. That’s it.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “My group’s goals. How Mohini could help in those goals.”

  “Was she offering you money?”

  “She offered me support, inspector. It’s tough running an NGO. More costs than you can imagine.”

  Gaikwad looked around the room, dripping with refinement, and thought that the appearance of poverty cost a lot of money, too.

  “Did you take it?”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  “Did she appear worried?”

  “No. I’d only met her once before.”

  “At the party where you threatened her?”

  He looked sheepish. “Yes, at that party.”

  “What made her contact you?”

  “I’m not sure. It was a surprise to me, too.”

  “Why did you not tell us this?”

  “How would it look, inspector? I’d be a convenient suspect and your force has a reputation.”

  Gaikwad let it pass.

  “Still,” Kohli continued, “if you want to look at someone, look at Hazra. He approached me about increasing the protests against Mohini.”

  “Vikram Hazra?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You must ask him.”

  “What did he offer you in return?”

  Kohli hesitated.

  “This is in confidence, right?”

  Gaikwad nodded.

  “He offered support for the NGO.”

  “And you took it?”

  “Yes. It was an easy choice. Mohini was a target anyway. If we were getting paid to target them, so be it.”

  Gaikwad felt revulsion at this man. The servant appeared, still smiling, holding a tray balancing two cups of tea.

  “Here’s the tea, inspector,” Kohli said.

  “Thank you, but I must go,” Gaikwad replied abruptly, no longer wanting to share the same air as this man, let alone a cup of chai. At least on the force, he thought, people were openly crooked; here they adopted public piety but did the same thing.

  He made his way through the dark stairwell, this time his memory easily finding the footing. He had to talk to Vikram Hazra.

  Chapter 10

  Jay should have been happy about the breakthrough in the burglaries; instead he was annoyed. The drinks with Janet never happened. By the time they finished with the videos at the police station, the bars h
ad been closed. He was tempted to invite her home for a drink, but the last thing he wanted was for her to think he was lecherous.

  He spent the morning at work, putting together the notes he’d taken on the burglaries. He looked for Janet, but her desk was empty.

  “Anyone seen D’Souza?” he asked a photographer.

  “She’s out on an all-day assignment,” he replied. “Won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  Disappointed, Jay thought about calling her, but decided instead to wait. He felt indecisive. He hated being indecisive.

  Jay returned to his office where he went over the Khurana interview again. There was little to add to the story. He called a few police stations to see if there was anything else going on in the city. It was quiet.

  After what seemed like an eternity, it was time for him to head to Bandra to meet an old friend. Almost immediately, he found himself stuck in traffic. It was hard to describe traffic patterns in the city. The only thing that could be said with certainty was that it was getting worse every day. There was no such thing as rush-hour traffic; there was no such thing as driving against the flow. The city’s old commercial houses and businesses were based in Nariman Point, the newer ones in Bandra Kurla Complex, the media houses in Bandra, Andheri, and Versova, the ad agencies in Parel. And since there wasn’t one place where the city’s population worked, everyone seemed to be everywhere all at once. They said four hundred new vehicles were added to the city’s roads each day. Jay felt as if each of those four hundred vehicles were at this time trying to occupy the same tiny spot in front of him. True, the roads had lanes, neatly demarcated with white lines. But these were ignored. While this road, in theory, had three lanes, five rows of vehicles packed it, each aggressively inching forward, ensuring that no other vehicle could move ahead or, God forbid, change lanes. It was like the adage about the exhibit of crustaceans from around the world and the Indian crabs being the only ones in open glass bottles. There was no worry of one escaping, the story went, as the others ensured it would never make it out. Cars, trucks, buses, taxis, auto rickshaws that worked the suburbs, bicycles, and pedestrian traffic vied for space, each content in spending an hour and a half on the road, so long as no one else got home earlier.