Murder In Mumbai

by K. D. Calamur

  Before he could do that, however, Jay had to go over his notes on the burglaries. There had been nothing since the revelations about the surveillance videos. He’d spoken to Gaikwad last night and the inspector had assured him they were trying to find the man in the tape. But the inspector had also begged him not to print anything until they had someone in custody, lest they tip off the burglar. Deals with the police were not something Jay liked to strike often, but Gaikwad had promised to call him first if an arrest was imminent. That way he could still have the exclusive ahead of others.

  He looked at the clock at the top of his computer screen. He still had a couple of hours to kill before lunch. The newsroom was still empty. He picked up the phone and dialed his friend Shakil Shah.

  “Hello,” came a voice, muffled on the other side.

  “Sorry, yaar, did I wake you?”

  “I wish,” Shah replied, though he sounded tired. “Bloody kids woke up early and woke me up, too. Want to go to the beach today. So we’re making preparations.”

  “A day at the beach. Sounds like fun.”

  “It was fun when we were eighteen. Have you seen the bloody place now? Dirty and crowded. Besides, it’s damn hot, yaar. Where are the bloody rains when you need them?”

  “Achcha, so I need a favor.”

  “Haan, bol.” Tell me.

  “What do you know about Eagle Services?”

  “Eagle?” Shah’s voice dropped a register. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Professional curiosity.”

  “Bhai, let me tell you. Don’t get involved. Best not to.” The harassed, tired father of only a few moments ago had disappeared. Shah sounded serious.

  “Not getting involved. Just want to know.”

  “I can tell you, but don’t involve me in it.”

  “You know I won’t.”

  “You know Chhota Mirchi?”

  Jay knew the name well. Chhota Mirchi, or little chili, was one of the city’s most notorious gangsters. What would Hazra want with him?

  “Of course.”

  “It’s his.”

  “He owns it?”

  “Yes. Apparently, and this is weird, he wanted to be a cop as a kid.”

  “Chhota Mirchi wanted to be a cop?” Jay sounded amused.

  “Don’t laugh, yaar. Anyway, his chosen profession was such that he couldn’t do it, so he decided to open what he calls a full-service agency.”

  “Full service?”

  “Well, it’s owned by him, so they aren’t going to be doing divorce cases. But they do investigate and the rumor is that they also discreetly take care of any problem you might have.”

  “What kind?”

  “Don’t be stupid, yaar. I’m not going to spell it out. Any problem—you understand? Any problem.”

  “OK. I get it. Well, I won’t pester you anymore.”

  “You say that and two days later, you’ll be pestering me again,” Shah said, laughing. “And you never come home anymore. My mother was asking about you the other day.”

  “Yeah. It’s been busy, yaar. I’ll come soon.”

  “Yeah. Just pop in when you’re in the neighborhood. Anytime.”

  “Will do. Thanks again, man. Appreciate it.”

  What did Hazra want with the agency? Clearly, it was something dubious. And what did “anything”—which Shah had refused to elaborate on—actually mean? The trouble with such claims, Jay thought, was that they left a great deal of ambiguity. It could be that Shah himself did not know, but had assumed the worst because of the gangster’s reputation. But then given what he himself knew of the gangster, Jay knew that “anything” could mean exactly what it meant—all manner of unpleasantness.

  Should he pursue it further or let it go? As soon as he had that thought, Jay knew he couldn’t let it go. He would pursue it further, but first he had to get to his parents’ house for lunch.

  * * *

  Of course, nothing was that easy. For no reason at all, Jay was stuck in traffic. These days he felt like he spent most of his in traffic. The car was stationary. Vehicles behind him and in front of him and next to him were idling. Some blared their horns, in the futile hope that it would get the traffic moving. He was on the Western Express Highway, heading to his parents’ home in Andheri.

  Must be the bloody construction, he thought.

  After spending decades planning on being the next Singapore, the next Hong Kong and now the next Shanghai, city officials had finally come up with some sort of a blueprint that would transform Bombay into the twenty-first century. There were construction projects all over the city; everywhere cranes; everywhere emaciated men and women ferrying bricks and other material on their backs and heads, hauling them on primitive wooden wheelbarrows from one place to another so the city could put up another skyscraper; another flyover; another hotel; another gleaming office building. But in true Indian style, everything was fraught with chaos and graft. What should have taken one year or perhaps two would take five or perhaps ten. Meanwhile the city’s residents were strangely content in the knowledge that despite the disorder the project would one day be complete. They didn’t mind idling in their cars, waiting for the building project to end, so that one day they could make it home without lingering longer than they needed to in the endless, soul-sucking traffic.

  Jay’s phone rang. He looked at the number. It was Fr. Sandeep.

  “Hey, Sandeep,” he said, his irritation at being delayed quickly dissipating at the knowledge that his friend was calling, possibly with information. “What’s up, man?”

  “I have news for you, yaar.”

  “About the same thing?”

  “Yes. And it’s good stuff.”

  “Tell you what. Come home. I’m going to my parents’ place. You know, right. Andheri, yeah. Come there. We’ll have lunch.”

  “Sure. Give me half an hour.”

  “Don’t take the bloody highway. It’s backed up near the airport.”

  “OK. I’ll take the Parla flyover.”

  “Yeah. Avoid S.V. Road near Shopper’s Stop. They’re building that flyover to Juhu there. I was stuck there for an hour yesterday.”

  “This is why you should get a bike or scooter. Your car’s too big to maneuver.”

  “So, any hints about Khurana?”

  “Patience, son,” Sandeep said, laughing. “It’s a virtue.”

  * * *

  The familiar smell of the big Sunday meal greeted Jay as he rang the bell to his parents’ flat in Andheri.

  He’d opened the same wrought-iron red gate, badly in need of a coat of paint, that he had opened as a schoolboy; walked the same path, past the same watchman who smiled and greeted him and called him baba, or little boy. The watchman, once young, vital, full of strength, was wizened. But he kept his job because people here were used to him.

  Jay waved at a few familiar faces, children whom he used to play with. They were now parents of their own children. They still lived with their parents—except they now ran the households while their parents had retired, content to spoil their grandchildren. Kids played cricket at exactly the same spot he used to play. They paused to let him pass.

  “Hello, uncle,” some said, using the general terminology for all older men. He smiled back.

  From outside, Jay could see his mother hover over the kitchen stove, stirring something. For an instant, he was transported to his childhood. He expected to ring the bell, for the door to open and his brother and sister to be there, along with the competition over the last samosa, over who could eat more, over who was better read, over who was stronger.

  He could smell the food from outside. He instantly felt at ease. Unlike many other unmarried Indians, he’d moved away from his parents’ house. He had his brief marriage to Priyanka to thank for that. Many
of his friends who still lived in their childhood homes complained about being emotionally suffocated, though they did little to change that. Of course, his mother never ceased to remind him that they were getting older and could benefit from at least living with one of their children. If she felt hurt or shame, as people of her age often did, about his divorce, she never shared it. Some things were best left unsaid. Indians of her age had more in common with the citizens of Victorian-era England than they did with anyone else. The appearance of propriety was more important than propriety itself.

  His father opened the door and smiled. He seemed even more shrunken this time than the last. But the patch was gone. Jay entered. His mother scurried toward him from the kitchen. “Come, come,” she said, “what will you eat? Or would you prefer something to drink? Come, come. Tell me what’s new. It’s like you have no time for us. What will you eat?”

  Jay wanted to remind her that he’d seen her the previous day, but decided against it.

  While his father moved slowly, the speed of his mother’s actions belied her age or her fragility.

  “Ma, I speak to you practically every day and come here once a week!”

  This was their conversation each time: the aggrieved mother who complained she didn’t get enough of her son; the irritated son who pointed out that they saw each other enough. He even knew what would come next.

  “My friend Mridula, her children come every day to see her. But my children? Two are sitting in America and the one who is here never comes home.”

  “That’s because we cut their umbilical cord,” Jay’s father whispered, not wanting to interrupt his wife’s monologue lest it be deflected toward him. But Jay caught it and gave his old man a sly smile.

  “Before I forget,” Jay said, hoping to change the topic, “here are those things you wanted for the pooja.”

  “Thank you, kanna,” his mother said, her mock anger quickly dissipating.

  “And I invited Sandeep over, from school. You remember, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” said his mother, who never remembered names. “The priest, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is he? You’re in touch with him?”

  “Yes, ma. I’m in touch with most of them.”

  “OK—wait, let me get you something to drink.”

  Jay looked at his dad. He was rocking on his wooden chair, smiling benignly.

  “How’s the eye?”

  “I can see, but they’ve told me to keep it dry.”

  “Well, be careful.”

  “Yes, tell him to be careful,” his mother interjected. “We know how the men in this family think that the laws of nature apply to everyone else but them.”

  Jay looked at his father, who chuckled. They both knew she was right. Jay could only join in.

  * * *

  The conversation during lunch was the loudest it had been in years. Sandeep had arrived and they spent the meal reminiscing about school days while Jay’s mother offered them endless second helpings, all the while calling them “growing boys.” It was as if the clock had been turned back to when Jay and Sandeep were boys, regaling each other with tall tales, each jokingly mocking the other all the while devouring the pulao, dal, and aloo. After the meal, they went to Jay’s old room, the one he had shared with his brother. It looked just the same, as if at any moment the doorbell would ring and his brother would enter the flat in his school uniform and head to their room.

  “So, what do you have for me?” Jay said, coming straight to the point.

  “I’ll tell you the long version. I went to see Fr. Casale. As you know, he’s now retired, more than ninety but still sharp. And I casually asked him about Kabir Khurana.”

  “What did he say?”

  “At first, he refused to talk about him. Pretended he didn’t know who I was talking about.”

  “The senility defense?”

  “Yes. Except we both know he’s not senile. So anyway, I let it go. Thought I’d bring it back at a better time. He asked me about school, about the alumni association, about the dinner we’re organizing. That’s when I told him I was meeting with you about some publicity material for the dinner.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked how you were. And then he looks at me and says, ‘Is that why you asked me about Khurana?’”

  “No bloody way.”

  “Seriously. He put two and two together right away.”

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “I told the father that he was too smart for his own good, but yes, you were working on a story and were digging around and I had remembered that there was some gossip about Khurana, about his days at school, before he was sent to England.”

  “What did he say?”

  “For a long time he didn’t say anything. I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. He’s done that before. Not easy being close to a hundred. But then he sighs, looks up at me, and says, ‘That boy was bad news.’”

  “Oh?”

  “At the time he went to school, it was a boarding school with some day scholars who came in. Khurana was a boarder, even though he was from Bombay, because of his mother’s ill health, and his father’s long jail sentences, and possibly his peccadilloes.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “Casale wouldn’t go into details, but he did say, and I’m quoting him, ‘He was a cruel boy.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He wouldn’t say. I tried to prod him, but he just wouldn’t say. He said there were several incidents over the years, but one final one that broke the proverbial camel’s back. They called in his father and told him he would have to find an alternate school for his son. A week later, he was packed off to England and the older Khurana was back in jail.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothing. A few years later, Kabir Khurana came back to Bombay, took over the ailing family business, and turned it into a global conglomerate.”

  “That sounds like Khurana all right.”

  “Yes. But that’s what Casale told me.”

  “Not much to go on. You think he’d be averse to talking to me?”

  “Short answer, yes. But he never turns down an old boy. He loves the school and the boys it produced.”

  “Except Khurana, apparently,” Jay said.

  “Yeah, except him.”

  “Will you take me to see him?”

  “Sure. But why? You’ve done your story on him. You’re investigating thefts, right?”

  “I’m always looking for a story, Sandy, you know that. Besides, there’s something about his guy. He’s too . . .” Jay groped for a word.

  “Too clean?”

  “Yes. Squeaky clean. No one’s that clean.”

  Chapter 13

  Gaikwad’s first stop this morning was the city; he was due to meet his boss, DCP Adnan Khan. Gaikwad liked Khan. He was quiet and stayed out of the way. He gave his men leeway to solve crimes and backed them to the hilt when things went wrong, which they often did. But this was India; there was only so much even a supportive boss like Khan could do. Besides, Khan belonged to the Indian Police Service and could be transferred to another job; Gaikwad, on the other hand, belonged to the state police and was here to stay. This murder was getting too much attention in the media. Half-truths, outright lies, and bits of information supposedly known only to the investigating team were being printed in the papers and recited like the Gospel truth on television by reporters who looked young enough to be his children. Gaikwad knew Khan was under pressure from his own bosses—especially those of the political variety—and he was on his way to the DCP’s office to give him a rundown on the investigation.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Gaikwad,” he barked.

  �
��It’s Jay Ganesh.”

  “Yes, Jay?”

  “Can we meet this afternoon?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I’d like to know how the case is going.”

  “Which case?”

  “Come on inspector, we’ve been through this. I gave you information on the burglaries. You give me information on the murder. I won’t print anything without your say-so.”

  Gaikwad still wasn’t sure. Finally, he said, “OK. Where?”

  “Apsara. Noon.”

  * * *

  The restaurant was on Linking Road, surrounded by high rises and the glitzy malls that were popping up all around the city. Even at this time in the afternoon, the roads were packed. It was hot, and Gaikwad found himself sweating in his khaki uniform. Perhaps, he thought, I should start wearing civilian clothes. Students from nearby colleges milled about. Boys sat on walls eyeing girls who walked down the road, consciously ignoring their gaze. Students huddled in clusters with their textbooks, arguing over something they’d been taught; young couples shared stolen moments, conjuring up a semblance of privacy in a land that gave them none; families alighted from their imported cars—not Japanese, but German—and escaped into the air-conditioned comfort of the store, which, once inside, would be hard to distinguish from any in the West—even the models in the ads were Caucasian. Amid all this stood Apsara, a vestige of a more obviously sleazy era, oblivious of the world around it, the last refuge for men who sought solitude for one reason or another. Gaikwad climbed the stairs (the lower section was being prepared for the evening entertainment, a dancing girl named Maya). The space was poorly lit, with a low overhanging lamp above each table. Paintings above the tables showed women in the Mughal art style. Across the room, just in front of the kitchen, lay a small shrine to Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, attached to a hook on the wall. An incense stick blew thin wisps of sandalwood-scented smoke.