A little past 11 p.m., Archana stepped out of the car and into her role. As she ascended the stairs to the club, Imran noticed that even the uniformly polite guards stole secretive glances at the retreating buttocks of Monika Mathur.
The models, fashionistas and beauty contestants were still at one another’s houses, sipping whiskies and sniffing white lines. The Mexican DJ advertised on the door with his hair on fire, was yet to make an appearance. For now, canned music and disco lights stroked a vacant dance floor while moneyed men past their prime sat around in tight flashy clothes, pretending to lip sync, praying that for once they would not be paying cash for romance. What would they not give for an emotional upheaval of the sort that fill the young with despair.
The boy was sitting alone. Monika took a table where hungry eyes could feast on her and looked around for a waiter. She ordered a Margarita frozen. The fluorescent lights gave her dress a strange glow and she was unhappy with the effect. Men stared and she made eye contact engagingly. The drink came and she started playing with her mobile phone, sending imaginary and real texts including one to Imran that the target was here and he should call in forty-five minutes.
Monika knew that the boy was trying to summon up the courage to approach her. She refused to be less intimidating. He would have to work at it; must feel that he had achieved something. Let it take its time.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked, bending down close to her.
She looked up, startled, and then smiled. ‘I am waiting for someone.’ Seeing his slightly crestfallen face, she added, ‘But I don’t see why not. Have a seat.’
Amit Mahajan sat down quickly. His heart was pounding and his throat was parched. It had taken all his willpower, and then some more, to walk the few steps to her table. He waved at a waiter. ‘What will you have?’ he asked her. She ordered a second Margarita and he a Tom Collins. ‘They make it well here,’ he said as the waiter left. ‘How is your drink?’
‘Not the greatest I have had, nor the worst.’
He felt tongue-tied and looked down at the table.
‘What is your name?’
‘Amit Mahajan.’
‘I am Monika Mathur,’ she said, extending her hand. He shook it quickly.
‘I am sorry if I have intruded,’ Amit offered after a short silence.
‘No … I was getting a bit bored waiting. My fiancé should have been here half an hour back, but …’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘So how old are you?’ Monika asked Amit as the waiter set down their drinks.
‘Twenty-five,’ he replied.
‘Yeah right, and I am eighteen.’ Monika laughed. ‘But I don’t mind as long as it is not illegal to drink with you.’
‘It’s not,’ Amit said, smiling shyly.
They clinked their glasses and Monika appraised the boy. He had worked hard at looking grown-up. Good; he had definitely taken the bait. When should he be allowed to bite?
‘Is your drink OK?’ Monika asked him.
‘Yes, thank you. And yours?’
Monika nodded. The call came as instructed, and she spoke on her phone briefly before turning to him. ‘Looks like it is your lucky night,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘Dhruv just cancelled on me. He is stuck at the office. Can I buy you a drink? Or am I keeping you?’
‘No-no, not at all. I mean it will be a pleasure.’
‘Good,’ she said, looking at him over the glass.
Amit admitted to Monika that he was actually twenty-one. He had graduated a year back from Delhi University and was going to the US in the autumn to study media management at Maryland. His two elder brothers were settled in the US and his father wanted him to join them. He had been helping out in the family business in Delhi and Punjab recently, but was not sure that he wanted to work in construction. He liked music. Rock was his favourite. He liked the older bands: Deep Purple and Dire Straits; also U2 and Bob Dylan. He hated hip hop. He was an avid reader – mostly fiction. He loved comics; Calvin and Hobbes and Peanuts were his favourites. He also liked The Far Side. She hadn’t heard of it? Oh, but she must read them. Gary Larson, the cartoonist, had a great sense of humour. Maybe he could send a few to her. He had seen her last Friday actually. Did she come here regularly?
Just her second time, Monika told him. She had recently moved to Delhi from New Jersey where she had been working at IBM as a software developer. Her fiancé, Dhruv Chowdhury, was a banker in New York and they had been trying to get a posting back to India for a while now. They were planning marriage, kids and a future here. ‘My playing days are coming to an end. Got to settle down and be an Indian wife – a desi bahu.’ She giggled, and he laughed with her.
For Amit, the evening flew by. Monika was the easiest person to talk to. She laughed a lot, and loudly. Her conversation was interesting. And he could not keep his eyes off her. He wanted to see her again.
‘I want to see you again,’ Amit blurted.
‘Why not?’ Monika said after a moment’s pause. ‘I am not married yet, and nothing wrong with meeting a most interesting young man,’ she added, touching his arm lightly. ‘But tonight I have to rush, my dear. I have your number. Shall I call you?’
‘Yes-yes.’ Amit couldn’t believe it. ‘Will you really call?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’
Giving Amit a light peck on the cheek, Monika swept away.
W
ith a nominally six-day work week, frequently seven, most reporters tended to take it easy on Saturdays. Bosses were lenient on employees arriving after noon or leaving early for an evening show. The pages relied on features, long articles and stories held back from earlier in the week. Public offices being closed, the reportage of public servants’ shenanigans got a break.
Abhishek, not yet clued in to the languid pace of weekends, had arrived at his usual time of just a few minutes past 9 a.m. At the morning meeting, the editor Mihir Ghosh praised his story, ‘Pakistani visas come at a high commission’, and Amir announced that a departmental inquiry had been set up against the policemen. The general exuberance which met Abhishek’s first story, however, was not repeated by his colleagues.
Abhishek had aligned himself to the younger lobby of reporters, and Rahul and Maya were protective of him. He had learnt very quickly that everything he said could be and would be misinterpreted: insignificant comments could lead to ferocious enmities. Having already stepped on a few toes and suddenly become Amir’s blue-eyed boy, Abhishek attracted hostility, particularly from senior reporters.
Maya had tried to tell him that nothing was neutral in a reporting room, but it still took getting used to. Rahul, in his customarily blunt manner, counselled: ‘They will bugger you anyway. If you bugger them back, they might do it cautiously next time.’
He may not have enjoyed newsroom politics, but Abhishek certainly liked the attention. He also admired the casual arrogance of his fraternity; their belief that they knew better. In the pressroom at the police headquarters, reporters dissected crime scenes and cases, made pronouncements against police officers, described their intimate relationships with gangsters, and how, at one time or other, their scoops had seen officers quaking in their boots. That two of his exclusives had actually created trouble was not lost on the young journalist. He was working on the arrogance.
Two nights ago he had called his mother to tell her that he wouldn’t be joining the family on their annual visit to Kolkata this December. Holidays had always meant aunts, uncles, cousins, and their large family home in Jorasanko. His mother had never demanded anything else and his father, homesick even after sixteen years of living in Benares, never desired another destination.
‘When will we see you?’ his mother had asked, disappointed.
He wasn’t sure, Abhishek had replied, but not before the probation period was over. That would be another five months. Yes, he liked the work and the salary was sufficient.
‘We have been reading your stories,’ his father had told him. ‘Be careful o
f the police. They can be ruthless.’
‘Yes, Baba,’ Abhishek had replied politely.
It was almost 2 p.m. now and Abhishek felt hungry. He had done the routine checks and Delhi seemed to be enjoying the respite of the winter weekend. Rahul was the only reporter in the office.
‘Boss, how about lunch?’ Abhishek asked him.
Rahul looked at his watch. ‘Wait another ten minutes. I know Shruti Sen, the features editor, has ordered food. It’s her birthday today. I have told reception to let me know as soon as it comes. We can land up to wish her.’
Abhishek laughed. ‘But I don’t even know her.’
‘You will get to when you wish her. Now let me finish this report.’
Abhishek’s phone rang. It was the police press officer, Vikram Singh. The east district police was going to have a press conference at 4 p.m.; a murder had been solved. ‘Do come,’ Vikram said. ‘I have never heard of anything more gruesome in my thirty years of service.’
‘Of course, sir. I will be there.’
‘What?’ Rahul asked as Abhishek disconnected.
‘Some murder case that East Delhi police has solved.’
Now the phone on Rahul’s desk rang. He grabbed the receiver. ‘Birthday food is here,’ he announced as he hung up.
The two reporters gleefully made their way, uninvited, to the features desk for their lunch.
D
eputy commissioner of police, east district, Soumya Patnaik – call sign Echo 1 – was feeling good about the press conference. He had not allowed for any leaks and had told his junior officers that even a word to the press beforehand would be dealt with severely. The case was so horrifying and brutal that the news channels would have a field day. Prime-time coverage was assured.
By the time Soumya and his deputy entered the conference room, it was packed with chattering reporters. The red suitcase had been placed on a table, centre stage, as Soumya had instructed. He was relishing his impending moment of glory. After greeting a few familiar journalists he took a seat, indicating to his deputy to sit beside him. Vikram Singh had already parked himself in front of the cameras.
‘Shall we start, friends?’ Soumya began, and waited for the room to quieten down. ‘East Delhi police this morning arrested a forty-three-year-old man from Seelampur in connection with a murder. Two weeks back a suitcase was found near Dilshad Garden.’ The DCP paused dramatically and pointed at the red suitcase as cameras zoomed in on it. ‘Upon opening it, the beat constable found a dismembered body of a child, a girl. We sent the body for immediate autopsy.’
Vikram had not exaggerated, Abhishek thought, as he took notes. He looked around. Even the older, hardened lot of crime reporters appeared squeamish and uncomfortable. The man arrested for the murder was the father of the eleven-yearold girl whose decomposing body was found chopped into bits. Soumya said that after strangling the child to death, the accused had masturbated on the body and then hacked it into several pieces.
‘He had travelled with her from Allahabad, his home town, where his wife and two sons remain. We have sent a notice to the police there,’ the officer said.
Baldev Pujara was a tailor who had been unemployed for nearly two years after the factory where he worked shut down. He told his wife that he had found employment in Delhi and would take their daughter with him, as managing three children would be difficult for her. In the city he had taken shelter in a slum, close to where the suitcase had been found.
‘He paid for a room for a week. We found the owner of the place and questioned him, which gave us clues leading to the arrest,’ Soumya added. Pujara, during interrogation, had confessed to the police that he had killed his daughter on his fourth night in Delhi. ‘For three days, he aimlessly roamed the streets with the child. We are not yet sure why he waited or what he was intending. We hope to get custody of him from the magistrate tomorrow and continue the interrogation.’
After the press conference, the television reporters were the first to rush back to their offices to meet their prime-time deadlines. The newspaper reporters hung around a while, finishing their tea and snacks.
Abhishek approached the glowing DCP.
‘Nice to meet you, Abhishek. I have been reading your stories and am told that you are the new kid on the block. Good, good,’ Soumya said. ‘If you have any questions on the case …’
‘Can I meet the accused, sir?’ The reporter knew it was an unreasonable, almost impossible request.
‘What? No, absolutely not. That is out of the question.’ The policeman seemed taken aback.
‘Why? He must still be in your lock-up, no?’ Abhishek persisted.
‘Yes. But I cannot give you permission. My boss will not allow it. I am sorry.’ The boy was quite impertinent, Soumya thought.
Abhishek politely took his leave, retreated to a corner of the hall and dialled the commissioner’s number. Delhi’s topmost policeman came on the line immediately.
‘I am very sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Abhishek said.
‘Not at all, Abhishek. It is a rare weekend off, actually. How are you doing?’ Pratap said.
‘I am well, sir, but I’m calling with an urgent request.’
‘Yes, of course. Tell me.’ The commissioner listened to Abhishek and decided to accede. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked.
‘Still at the press conference venue and DCP Patnaik is here too.’
‘OK, let me get back to you.’
Abhishek’s heart pounded as he disconnected. There was no doubt that calling the police commissioner on his mobile phone on a Saturday was a breach of protocol, but it was done now.
Abhishek sat down and waited. He was not entirely sure why he wanted to meet this horrific murderer, but remembered what Amir had told him: ‘Keep asking why.’ Soumya Patnaik’s statements gave no clue to the motive for such a morbid crime. And Abhishek knew it would be a terrific scoop if he did manage to meet the man. He was following Amir’s other advice: go the extra distance in a routine story.
Across the room he saw Soumya take a call, and knew from the way the policeman came to attention that it must be from the commissioner.
As Soumya hung up, his eyes searched the room. He saw Abhishek and then turned towards his deputy. The two men had a quick chat and Soumya beckoned to the reporter.
‘Hi … the commissioner just called me.’ The confusion and embarrassment in the officer’s voice were apparent. There was no easy way to convey that what he had ruled out minutes ago, he would now have to arrange.
Abhishek tried to help. ‘I am sorry, Mr Patnaik. I called the commissioner. I just thought it might be helpful for readers to understand, if possible, what this accused is like. But really, if you think …’
‘No-no …’ Soumya was intelligent enough to grab the olive branch of respect being offered. ‘Let’s do this. But I’m warning you; it will not be an easy assignment. I will keep a police constable in the room.’
Abhishek was taken to an adjoining building. On the first floor, along a bare corridor lit by a single low-wattage bulb, he was shown into a cell. The constable hit a switch and a light came on. There was a table, two chairs and a wooden bed without mattresses. In the corner, a dark-brown puddle gave off a putrid smell.
‘Sit. I shall be back in a moment,’ the constable told him as he went to bring the man Abhishek wanted to meet.
A
bhishek shivered from the winter chill, accentuated by the fear that gripped him. The murderer sitting opposite him was not more than five feet tall. Everything about him appeared tiny – his head, his moustache, his eyes and face. Abhishek suddenly visualized the act: those small hands circling the neck of a terrified, uncomprehending child … The journalist kept his gaze on his notepad.
From the moment Baldev Pujara had entered the room, Abhishek had been off-footed. He had not known whether to greet the accused or stay silent. His middle-class, university upbringing had not prepared him for the nuances of starting a conversation with a man who had con
fessed to jerking off on his daughter’s dead body. The constable who sat on the steel bed seemed tickled at Abhishek’s discomfiture.
‘Why did you do it?’ It was the first question Abhishek could think of.
There was no response.
The constable, grinning, urged Baldev, ‘Tell sir, go on.’
‘What?’ the accused asked, fixing his eyes on the nervous reporter.
Abhishek stumbled, unsure of what to say next. ‘To your daughter … I mean …’
The man kept staring at him.
The policeman, almost friendly, prodded again: ‘Sir is asking, why did you kill your daughter? Why did you put her in a suitcase?’
‘I don’t know. Just like that.’
If Abhishek had been expecting denials or reasoned explanations, he was to be disappointed. ‘Did you plan this? When you came from Allahabad, did you know that you would do this?’ he tried again.
‘Yes,’ Baldev said simply.
‘You planned to put your daughter in a suitcase? Cut her up?’ Abhishek asked, incredulity creeping into his question. He still couldn’t bring himself to ask the man in front of him why he had masturbated on a dead child.
‘No, I did not know that.’
‘Then why … ?’
Baldev looked up at Abhishek and then at the constable. ‘It happened.’
After ten minutes of similar responses, Abhishek decided to call it quits. He did not have the skills to extract or understand the motives behind the crime. He already had material for his exclusive: the atmosphere, his meeting with the accused – that was enough for six hundred words. He signalled to the constable and got up.
The policeman took Baldev back to his cell and Abhishek walked towards DCP Patnaik’s office across the courtyard.
‘How did you find him?’ Soumya asked as he entered.
The Price You Pay Page 11