Murder In Mumbai

by K. D. Calamur

  On the sides of the road, businesses thrived. A little tea stall brewed the concoction for weary workers heading home after a long day; a paan wallah sold cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and prepared betel leaves that would be chewed, its red spit stains providing a semi-permanent coloring on the city’s walls; worshippers stopped at adjacent makeshift shrines dedicated to the Virgin Mary and Sai Baba, an early twentieth-century saint worshipped by Hindus and Muslims, thereby uniting, at least temporarily, three of India’s four biggest faiths. Little boys, no older than twelve, but seemingly much younger, carried stacks of newspapers, magazines, and pirated versions of the latest paperback bestsellers (fiction as well as the “Chicken Soup for the Soul” variety) and offered them to those facing interminable rides home in their cars; beggars, usually accompanied by children, some maimed, silently and pathetically implored passengers for cash. They picked their targets well: usually guilty Westerners or Indians returning home after a long time, having forgotten the existence of such public squalor (the true city residents remained buried in their newspapers or carried on with their conversations, as if the beggars didn’t exist); a sinewy man, his muscles twisted and distorted, sweat pouring from his brow, pulled an impossibly heavy handcart laden with ice, covered with sawdust to prevent it from melting, toward an unknown destination. It would ultimately cool someone’s drink in South Bombay.

  Jay looked at the air conditioner. It was blowing hot air. He rolled down the window of his old Fiat. The fumes combined with the heat made it feel like a furnace. Jay’s skin burned. Most of the time, he felt immune to it, but there was something today that made it worse than usual. He coughed and wished he were someplace else.

  He went over the details of the burglaries. He had made a breakthrough that would help the police in its investigation, probably even result in the capture of the man in the video. He felt confident, an emotion that had long deserted him.

  Like many such things, luck had played a role.

  * * *

  Jay knew that without the tapes, he’d have been unable to make what seemed to be the first incision in the case. It had been an arduous process, but well worth the result. Once he’d determined that the videos had shown the same man walking into the apartment building, all he had to do was ensure that the watchman had seen him. And the Nepali watchman in custody at that very moment had remembered a man just like that. Of course, Jay knew that the Nepali was possibly ready to confess to anything given the time he’d spent in a jail cell, but it corroborated what he’d seen in the tapes. Even if the watchman were lying, Jay knew the tapes were not. So, the police were now looking for a man who strode confidently into apartment buildings and walked out just as calmly with a conspicuously large bag full of electronics. He also had the details from his friend in Lamington Road who had told him of attempts to sell stolen electronics on the days of the burglaries. Jay had kept that tidbit from Gaikwad. He intended to catch the thief himself.

  An hour and a bit later, Jay arrived for his meeting with an old school friend—now a Jesuit priest—who ran the alumni association.

  There was little to distinguish the Rev. Sandeep Fernandes, S.J., from the others at the Barista coffee shop near Lilavati Hospital in Bandra. He wore dark trousers and a white half-sleeved shirt and peered at his laptop through his Gandhi-style metal-rimmed glasses. That’s how Jay found him when he walked in twenty minutes late for their appointment.

  “Sorry, man,” he said. “The bloody traffic.”

  Fr. Sandeep Alfred smiled. “Your timekeeping was always crap.”

  “Yeah, and the traffic in this city doesn’t help. Still, twenty minutes isn’t so bad!”

  “No,” Sandeep said, smiling. “It allowed me to finish my notes for tomorrow’s class.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re a damn teacher—or a bloody priest.”

  “Sometimes neither can I,” his friend replied, chuckling as if the memories of teenage transgressions all came flooding back at once.

  A waiter approached and took their orders—both asked for black coffee—and returned a few minutes later. They sipped the hot drinks and oblivious of the waiter or the people around them regaled each other with stories from school.

  As schoolboys in the 1990s, the two had attended a well-known Jesuit boys’ school in Mazagaon, known for its grey stone walls and Gothic architecture, red mud and blue Mercedes school buses with its name proudly emblazoned on its sides. The boys wore white shirts and white trousers—invariably reddish brown by the end of the day—and blue ties, sang the school prayer, school song, and national anthem with equal zeal and eventually left with fond memories of the teachers, priests, and even the canings they received liberally. The school attracted a fervent following among its Old Boys, who met periodically to raise money for charity, to play cricket, or to just exchange gossip. Sandeep, now a teacher at St. Serephina in Bandra, headed the alumni association and periodically called his old friend Jay when he wanted media publicity for alumni events. Jay was only happy to oblige. Bombay may have been one of the biggest cities in the world, but in many ways it operated like a village: with things getting done through word of mouth; through friends and family; through someone who knew someone who knew someone else who’d only be happy to oblige. It was, as Sandeep liked to joke, the original social network.

  After they had finished discussing school-related matters, the topic inevitably turned to which Old Boy was doing what. They talked about the professors, the IT programmers and management consultants in the U.S., the athletes, the boys who’d seamlessly taken over their fathers’ businesses, the ones who were still adrift so many years after school.

  “What are you working on?” Sandeep asked.

  “These burglaries, you know. I just had a breakthrough. But the police still need to catch the guy.”

  “I read about those. What did you find?”

  Jay told him about the video, the man with the bag, the conversation with Gaikwad.

  “And you think the police wallah will keep his word?”

  “I’ve dealt with him before. He can be prickly, but he’s true to his word and, more importantly, I’ve never heard anything about him being on the take.”

  “That’s a rarity.”

  Jay nodded in agreement.

  “What else?” Sandeep asked. “Anything else that’s interesting?”

  “I did this profile of Kabir Khurana. We’re still waiting for the photos, but it’s going to run on the weekend.”

  “Khurana! He’s an Old Boy, you know?”

  “Really?” Jay asked in surprise. “I thought he studied at Harrow.”

  “He finished there, but his first few years were here. In fact, his father was at the school, too.”

  “Khulbushan Khurana? Really?”

  “Yeah. The freedom fighter. And I remember one of the old priests from the school telling me there was some controversy about the Khuranas. About how the father used his influence to make something go away.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not sure what it was. But it was hushed up. And the younger Khurana was then taken out of school and sent to the U.K.”

  “Any way to find out more?”

  “It’s just gossip, yaar,” Sandeep said. “Not something you can print.”

  “Arre, I won’t print it. Just gives me some background.”

  “I’ll check. Fr. Casale is still around. If anyone knows it, it’ll be him.”

  “He’s still around? He must be what—”

  “He turned ninety-nine this year. Still sharp as a tack. There’s something about these World War Two–type European fellows. Strong as an ox.”

  “Must be all that roast beef,” Jay replied.

  They laughed. It was a common joke because beef was difficult (but not impossible) to find in India—since Hindus view the cow as holy. Any feat
of physical prowess exhibited by non-Indians—from Pakistani fast bowlers to Jamaican sprinters—was usually attributed to beef.

  “Well, give him my best. And ask him.”

  “Arre, man, I said I will, nah. OK—anyway I should go. It’s prayer time.”

  “Isn’t it always prayer time for priests?”

  “No,” Sandeep said, laughing. “Only for sinners like you.”

  * * *

  The traffic gods took pity on Jay as he raced down the Western Express Highway toward his parents’ home in Andheri. His phone rang. It was his mother.

  “You’re coming this evening, no?”

  Jay scanned his memory for what he was supposed to be there for. Damn, he thought, it was the day of his father’s eye surgery. He felt guilty at having forgotten.

  “Of course, I’m coming over there right now.”

  “Achcha, I just wanted to check.”

  He picked up his parents and drove them to the ophthalmologist near Andheri station, where his father was due to have laser surgery to remove his cataract. On their ride there, Jay could not help but think how his parents’ roles had reversed over the years. When he was young, his father’s voice and laughter filled the room. Jay recalled how secure he felt holding his father’s giant hand as he walked to school. His mother, on the other hand, was the quiet one. But even at an early age, he could see that she got things done. Jay did not like to see his parents age—especially his father. Along with the usual ailments that accompany age, his father looked physically smaller now. He had shrunk. He was taciturn. His laughter no longer filled the house. Jay’s mother now filled that void. If she displayed quiet confidence then, she was dominant now. He was their only child who still lived in India. And because he met them more often than his siblings—but not often enough, if his mother was to be believed—her personality occasionally grated on Jay. Still, he was grateful for it. Visiting a silent home trapped in old memories would have been too sad to contemplate.

  Jay brought the car to a halt outside the clinic.

  “You wait here. It’ll be an hour,” his mother said. “Don’t go anywhere. I don’t want to be waiting here forever.”

  “I said I’ll wait here,” Jay said, his tone betraying the exasperation he felt.

  Jay watched his parents walk into the clinic. It was a reputable-looking place, assuaging his concerns that his father would yet again choose a smooth-talking, cut-rate operator who would provide substandard services. It was one thing when he did that for an electrician, a whole other thing with an eye surgeon.

  Jay double-parked his car. There was no way he could leave the vehicle here even if he wanted to. With all the construction work nearby for yet another flyover, he would be towed. In many ways, this felt like he was on a stakeout. He pulled the lever and reclined his seat. He checked his phone for messages, but there were none. It was the perfect time for a nap. Jay shut his eyes, but the noise outside made it impossible. There was noise from the construction work; noise from the chatter of the women workers who ferried bricks and cement on their heads from one part of the site to another, in an endless assembly line; noise from the scooters that darted recklessly around corners, blaring their horns in warning; noise from the solitary walking cow that had a bell around its neck; noise from the cawing crows that gathered near garbage dumps to eat scraps. Bombay was seldom silent and when silence came it was brief, and it brought peace. Not today though. Today, Jay waited for a silence that never came.

  He looked at the time. It had been barely fifteen minutes since his parents had gone in. They’d said one hour. So it was more likely that it would be ninety minutes to two hours. That’s how things worked. You tacked on time, expected nothing else, and asked no questions.

  Jay did not know when he first noticed the black BMW parked at the corner. On a normal day, he would not have paid any attention to it. But BMWs, Audis, and Mercedeses were much desired by the newly rich, and this was a solidly middle-class area. Even if someone were considered wealthy, they would spend their money on Japanese reliability, not German style: a Lexus, perhaps; certainly a Honda; definitely not a BMW 7-Series.

  Jay kept his attention on the car. The windows were tinted. He could not make out if there was anyone inside. He was tempted to get up and walk past it to see, but the fear of being towed and his mother’s wrath were not worth the risk. Besides, it was a car parked in the middle of the street. Nothing more than that. So what if it were a BMW? Perhaps this area was changing, too. It wouldn’t be the first.

  Just then Jay saw a man leave a ramshackle two-story building and approach the BMW. He wore a suit, yet did not look uncomfortable in it despite the heat. His mustache was trimmed. He wore his prosperity comfortably. The man looked around furtively before getting into the backseat, almost as if he did not want to be seen here. A moment later, the car glided away, oblivious of the stones, gravel, and potholes on the road. Jay immediately recognized the man. He’d never met him, of course, but his photograph had been in the papers recently. It was Vikram Hazra.

  What was he doing here? It could be an innocent visit. But why come here when he could send a legion of peons and supplicants? It must have been important. With nothing to go on except his instinct for a story, Jay got out of his car and walked toward the building from which Hazra had emerged.

  Jay looked around. There was a Xerox shop on the ground floor. College students stood in clusters, awaiting their orders of photocopied notes, pages from American biology textbooks, indifferent to the concept of copyright violations. A typist sat outside, his old Godrej typewriter replaced with a word processor, providing his services mainly for those needing legal paperwork for the courts nearby. The board on his rickety table informed the world that he was also empowered as a notary—a one-stop shop for all your legal needs. But Hazra wouldn’t have come from here. He had to have been upstairs.

  Jay walked to the entrance and looked at the board. On a worn wooden plate were the words Eagle Services. Something about the name jogged his memory. But what? He walked up the stairs to investigate. He tried the door, but it was locked. He looked for a bell, but there wasn’t one. What had Hazra been doing here?

  Jay realized he had to get back to the car, but he had to do one more thing. He walked down the stairs and walked up to the typist.

  “Bhai sahib,” he said, big brother. “Eagle Services?” He pointed up.

  The typist looked at him with curiosity. “You have to make an appointment.”

  “What do they do?”

  “If you don’t know, why are you asking?”

  “A friend told me about them.”

  “Then ask your friend what they do,” the typist said, laughing at his own joke.

  “Is there a number I can call?”

  “Sorry. Besides, I have work to do,” he said, pointing to the pile of papers he had to type up. “You know how much money I’m losing just by talking to you?”

  Jay knew where this was headed.

  “Sorry, bhai sahib,” he said. “I would like to compensate you for your loss.”

  “Achcha,” the typist replied, smiling.

  Jay removed his wallet and prayed that he had some money in it—an amount this man would not consider insulting. He took out two one hundred rupee notes. About $2.50. The man’s smile broadened. He took it.

  “They’re an investigating agency,” he said. “Very discreet. No one is supposed to know, even me. But their secretary left early one day to be with her boyfriend and gave me some papers to type. I put two and two together.” He looked content with his intelligence.

  “What do they investigate?” Jay asked.

  “Think of them more as problem solvers,” he said. “Yes. Problem solvers.”

  “What kind?”

  “Use your imagination, son. They’re discreet. Have an office in a crappy building, b
ut their clientele drive Mercedes and BMW cars. So probably not errant spouses.”

  Jay smiled. “You’ve been a big help, bhai sahib,” he said.

  But the man had already gone back to his typing.

  * * *

  Excited, Jay returned to his car. It was still there, just as he had left it. Later, his parents emerged from inside the clinic. His mother looked stoic. His father, with an eye patch, looked like a dissipated pirate. Jay smiled at them.

  His mother didn’t smile back. His father’s effort was half-hearted.

  “All good?” Jay asked.

  “Yes,” his mother replied. “We need to come back tomorrow, though, to take the patch off.”

  “That didn’t take much time,” Jay said.

  “They said an hour,” his mother said. “It took ninety minutes. No one in this country has any concept of time. They say one thing and do another. No respect for anyone.”

  Jay smiled to himself and drove them home, making small talk all the way. But all he could think of was what Vikram Hazra was doing at Eagle Services.