“Permission to speak freely, sir!” Dr. Death granted it with a nod. “There is another way to stop their rioting, sir. Give me three hours and then ask me again if these people have stopped rioting or not. These people”—he pointed accusingly at the UF minister—“want to hold this city hostage. They want senior officers like you to grovel before them, begging them to restrain their boys. Your SHOs are afraid of going out on the streets and doing their job. How dare these bastards bargain with the police? Ask them, why don’t they do anything in my area? Because they know that if they try it, I’ll teach them such a lesson that they would rather fornicate with their grandmothers than try to break the law again. Ask these men standing next to you, sahib, how they can dare to try and negotiate with us about breaking the law. We are the law!”
The outburst did not seem to have any impact on Dr. Death’s equilibrium, though the UF minister seemed to cringe when Akbar stared at him. “They say that their activist was killed extra judicially. He was the nephew of one of their MPs.”
“Call it what you will, sahib. These are legal terms, made up by judges and magistrates and senior police officers sitting in air-conditioned offices. All I know is that the people who use these words don’t live on the streets of this city. They don’t have to pick up the tortured bodies of their colleagues that the UF gangsters dumped by the side of the road. They have never had to explain to a constable’s son that all that’s left of his father is in a filthy canvas sack. These big shots have never heard the threats that were made to anyone who made the mistake of standing up against these madarchods. We go to work every day not knowing if we will come back in the evening. It’s the law of the jungle out there. Either we survive, or they survive. So yes, sahib, if you want to know, yes, I killed him. He opened fire on my men, and he would have done it again had he gotten the chance. I got my chance, and I killed him. Ask this snivelling bastard standing next to you if he believes in his heart that his nephew wasn’t a criminal. So what if the bloody MP was his uncle. No one grieves when we die, because everyone says we do it in the line of duty, and none of us have any uncles who are MPs.”
The UF representative spluttered with surprise and anger, but one look at the ferocity in Akbar’s eyes made him think better than speak out. The mood at the parade seemed to have changed after the outburst. The delegation from the UF, who had been so sure of securing Akbar’s head on a platter, had lost some of its swagger. There was silence for several moments, until, finally, the UF minister, having regained some composure, attempted to speak to Dr. Death but was cut short by his raised hand.
“Is this true? Did your man fire on police officers?”
“Well, no, it’s not that simple. You see, these are false allegations laid by this murderer—”
“Yes, sahib! Everything that Akbar Khan has said is true!” The voice belonged to an aged inspector who had been standing in line behind Akbar and Constantine. The old man was so frail that his entire body shook as he shouted out. “What can we do, sahib? When they kill us, nobody cares, but if one of them is killed, they burn down half the city. I have forty years of service, and I have never seen anybody slaughter policemen like they do. Every Friday, we line up on this same ground to say funeral prayers for our colleagues. I have borne the weight of too many coffins to remain silent now. Nobody hears our plight, sahib.”
“I am here to listen to you, barey mian. I am your commander. I do not know what the commanders before me did or didn’t do, but I have a very simple policy. From now onwards, if any criminal, belonging to any party, attacks a police officer, he is to be hunted down and killed. If I hear of a police officer’s body being found on the road, I want the body of a ward boss lying on the exact same spot within twenty-four hours. And I will hang the SHO who fails to do this. This is how I deal with criminals. I suggest, Mr. Minister, that you take your delegation off my parade ground before I decide to order your arrest as an accomplice to the murder of a police officer.” The horrified UF delegation beat a hasty retreat and sped off in their cavalcade. Dr. Death saw them go, then turned to Hanuman, who was at his side. “This Akbar Khan fellow. Promote him.”
Akbar chuckled as the parade was dismissed. “See, what did I tell you, Consendine? Nothing to worry. They call this one Dr. Death for a reason.”
8
October 1999
October was the worst month in the city. The cool sea breeze stopped, and the humidity rose to unbearable levels. By the time he got out of his car, Constantine’s heavily starched uniform was already wilting in the heat. His pickup had stopped outside a nondescript-looking video shop on a dusty street. Every building on the street had a low-hanging balcony draped with flowers strung together. In the evening, ladies of the night would come onto the balconies and parade their wares to the gawking customers on the street. Most of the shops masqueraded as music stores but were actually the entrances to the brothels. Constantine smiled. It had been a while since he had been back here on Napier Road.
Constantine was amazed to notice that the red-light area remained oblivious to the growing violence in the city. The local residents stared as his escort jumped off the pickup, wearing bulletproof vests with their assault rifles cocked, and formed a security perimeter around him. To the locals, they may as well have come from another planet.
The months since the IG’s durbar had been eventful. The ward bosses had started a full-fledged insurgency, and, under Dr. Death, the police weren’t taking any prisoners anymore. Soon after the IG’s durbar, Constantine had been given command of his own police station in north Karachi. It was hardly a plum assignment, being the second-worst police station in the city after Orangi, but as Akbar often joked with him, they had gotten so used to difficult areas by now that they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if they ever got a peaceful police station. By all accounts, Napier Road remained one of those cushy, peaceful areas. No matter what the level of violence in the city, everyone still needed to fuck, whether they were policemen or ward bosses. In the meantime, the pimps and tarts raked in the profits.
This was what had brought Constantine here in the first place. He had arrested many criminals in north Karachi, and the crime situation had been transformed since he had been posted there. But he had maintained his principled stance and restricted his operations against the UF to arresting their ward boys, rather than killing them in police encounters. However, he had not yet been able to capture the person who was number one on his most-wanted list—the ward boss called Ateeq Tension.
Ateeq Tension had become a big man in UF circles since Constantine had first heard of him that day in Akbar’s office. He was one of the most dangerous men in the city, a trained, cold-blooded killer. He had become the leader of the UF’s most vicious hit squad. It was rumored that he received his orders directly from the Don himself. If the Don called Ateeq Tension and gave him a name, it was the equivalent of a death warrant. He had such a bloodthirsty reputation that he even scared the more moderate members of his own party. He killed men on the slightest excuse. If he thought even for the briefest instant that a party member had been disloyal or a businessman was about to complain to the police about the extortion calls he was getting from the ward, their lives would be forfeit. He was absolutely ruthless, a high priest of murder, the chief enforcer of the reign of terror the Don had unleashed on the city. He had gained the sobriquet “Tension” because it was said that once you met him, there would be nothing but tension in your life.
Constantine had become particularly obsessed with Ateeq Tension. When he took over his new charge in north Karachi, he heard dozens of stories about how Tension and his men had terrorized the local residents and how the police had been powerless to stop it. But the one story that really rankled at him was how Tension had paid regular visits to the house of a slain police officer and repeatedly raped his young daughter, while the mother was forced to watch. The police officer’s quarters were at the back of the thana and, every time Constantine drove into the station,
it assailed his conscience. He spent many hours planning, scheming, dreaming about how he would catch Tension. He often fantasized about what he would do when he did catch him. If there was one man for whom Constantine was willing to violate his own rule about not killing criminals, it was Tension.
Then one day his luck changed. Wajahat had just been released after a short stint in prison, and he had contacted Constantine on his release and thanked him for his kindness. He also brought with him information about Tension. Apparently, he had fallen in love with a girl from the red-light area. He fawned over her, and was a frequent visitor to her kotha on Napier Road. The brothels were one place where even criminals lowered their guard. Like all men, they had urges, and when they came to fulfil them they were vulnerable. Wajahat had told Constantine that Tension could be picked up from there. The only problem was the naika. As chief madam of all the prostitutes, she had declared the red-light area as neutral territory. All men, irrespective of which side of the law they were on, were welcome to spend their money there. As a result, the police were not allowed to conduct raids on the brothels. The price for breaking the naika’s rules was hefty. If she grew angry, she would stop the local police station’s rather lucrative monthly payments. Law and order in the area would break down, and “sympathetic” journalists would start publishing unflattering stories about the local station in-charge in the tabloids. Sooner or later, a senior bureaucrat or police officer whom the naika had entertained would react to all the reports of “police brutality against women in the area” and sack the in-charge. After all, the naika had contacts everywhere, and it was a very brave or a very foolhardy SHO who’d choose to tangle with her.
It was no wonder then that the local police had never dared to cross her. And Constantine was aware that if he wanted to catch Tension, he would have to ask a huge favor of her, something she would not normally grant to anybody. But then, he had never been just anybody to her. Constantine’s first posting had been as picket in-charge of the Napier Road police post. He had been full of himself in those days—smart, young, energetic, an athlete with a body that girls swooned over. One such girl had been a young prostitute who, in spite of being new to the profession herself, had become famous for her dazzling beauty.
Salma Begum was the talk of all the kothas, and grown men would fight like boys just for the right to pay her any price she demanded. She was a smart businesswoman and made a small fortune in a very short time, but she had eyes only for the young Christian assistant sub-inspector. The feeling was mutual, and the two soon started seeing each other. He was like none of the men who frequented her kotha. Constantine was remarkably shy and old-fashioned around women, but she could see that he had an inner confidence, a sense of moral purpose that none of her very rich and powerful clients had. And he loved her zest for life and acerbic sense of humor. He fell madly in love with her. But the space she inhabited was far removed from his world and his puritanical upbringing. When he looked at her, he entertained thoughts of making a life with her. It wasn’t unheard of for policemen to marry prostitutes. In fact, many who were posted in the locality did. But Constantine knew how the others sniggered at these men in the station. It was whispered that they pimped their wives and prayed for the birth of daughters instead of sons, so that when their wives grew old and lost their looks, the daughters could enter into the business and fund their old age. No one took these men seriously anymore. They had no career prospects of their own, but remained in the force just to facilitate their business activities. Constantine didn’t want to become one of them. He couldn’t swallow his pride and ignore the snide comments made in the station, no matter how much money was on offer. If Salma had left her profession, it may have been a different story, still not an easy one but perhaps manageable. But she was a rising star of the area, and many were already looking to her as a future naika. Besides, she had never been ashamed of what she was.
He knew that their relationship was a fleeting one, but it was hard to reconcile. Neither of them wanted to accept the harsh reality of their situation. Finally, he decided to get himself posted away from Napier to make a clean break. He volunteered for a commando course that would take him away from the city for at least a year. The night before he left, they finally made love for the first time. Salma Begum had had hundreds of lovers before Constantine; she had performed this act on a daily basis. But never had it hurt so much as it did this one time.
Constantine’s feelings for her never died out completely, but he did his best to suppress them. When he returned from his training, he met her formally. When he was posted to Preedy, she would send messages to him, even after she became the all-powerful naika, but he would make excuses for not meeting her. She understood his reasons and accepted them, but she never got over him. She fawned over him, sending him expensive gifts, money, anything that he wanted. He refused to let her employ the considerable resources at her disposal to help him in his career. The only thing he would accept, from time to time, when his weakness overcame him, was her girls. To Salma Begum, in a strange way, it was as if he made love to her through her girls.
All of that had ended when Constantine left for Orangi. He hadn’t even spoken to her in over two years. But the desire to catch Ateeq Tension was so great that he had overcome his inhibitions and arrived at her doorstep. He entered the video store; an efficient-looking man sat behind the counter, poring over a thick, dusty ledger. He looked up at Constantine from glasses perched on the edge of his nose, and then, apparently not thinking much of a mere sub-inspector, went right back to his ledger.
“What do you want?” he asked in a rude tone.
“Tell the naika that the SHO of north Karachi has come to see her regarding an important official matter.”
“The naika doesn’t have the time or inclination to see every bloody police officer who comes by. You must have an appointment. If you don’t, then leave your name and number with me and, if she feels like it, she will contact you.”
Constantine stepped up to the counter and, gently but firmly, shut the man’s ledger. When the man looked up at him with some annoyance, he smiled. “My name is Constantine D’Souza, and I’m pretty sure she’ll want to see me. So I suggest you go upstairs and announce me.”
The man looked at Constantine for a moment, as if evaluating the seriousness of his purpose. Then he wordlessly turned and climbed the stairs to the kotha. From the sound of rushing feet, clattering silverware and hushed but excited tones, Constantine could make out that his arrival seemed to have electrified the household. The man rushed back down, almost tripping himself on the stairs, and wordlessly bowed his head and gestured for him to go up. As Constantine walked upstairs, he could see the opulently decorated private apartments of the naika. The room smelt of faded jasmine flowers. Plump velvet cushions lay on the floor, surrounding a low table made of solid silver. Richly brocaded silk curtains filtered the bright light from outside, and a couple of huge, hand-woven tapestries adorned the walls. In front of the silver table was a single, beautifully hand-carved mahogany rocking chair. The servant girl hurriedly brought a solid gold hookah and placed it next to the chair. Another maid came scurrying out of the kitchen carrying a tray laden with tea and an array of sweet and savory snacks. But despite the opulence of the room, there was a melancholy to it. The furniture felt like it had been placed without a personal touch. The Salma he remembered would have hated the décor. She always used to talk about how tacky all the naikas were, more interested in giving the impression of grandeur rather than investing in anything truly classy. At that time, she was still a small-town girl with limited exposure to the big city, but Constantine always thought she had an amazing sense of style in everything she did. As he looked around this room, he didn’t see any sign of the Salma he had known.
He had just taken his first sip of tea, when she walked in. Time had been kind to her. She remained a strikingly attractive woman, even in advancing middle age. Her skin was fair and flawless, her hair still trailed to the s
mall of her back, even though Constantine was surprised to see her head covered demurely in a dupatta. The Salma he remembered never used to cover her head. She was still a fit woman, perhaps not the classic hourglass figure of her youth, but not too far from it either. But her eyes, those gray-green eyes, were still as bewitching as when Constantine had first stared into them fifteen years ago.
She bowed her head slightly and lifted her hand to her temple to greet him, in the style of courtesans of old. He rose from the cushions out of deference for her position, and, only when she had seated herself on the chair and he was back on the cushions, did he understand why there were no other chairs in the room. Everyone who came here came as a humble supplicant, and thus had to sit at the naika’s feet.
“You look tired, Consendine.”
“It’s the long hours, Naika Begum.”
“You don’t have to call me that.”
“Oh, but I do. That is your title. Let’s not be naïve. It’s been a long time since you were merely Salma Begum.”
“Maybe. But have a care. The favor you come to ask can only be granted by Salma Begum, because the naika would not do such a thing for you.”
“How do you know what I come to ask for?”
She smiled at him. “Now who is being naïve? Everyone knows that you are looking for Ateeq Tension, and everybody knows that he sleeps regularly with one of my girls, Rukshanda.”
“Any number of criminals frequent your kothas. Why would you think I want Ateeq Tension in particular?”
“Because you are obsessed with catching him. He makes your blood boil because of what he did to that dead policeman’s daughter. Besides, he’s the only one left. Your friend Akbar Khan has killed nearly all the other ward bosses in the city.”
Constantine smiled. “And how do you come to all these conclusions about me? You must have some very good sources in my thana.”
The Prisoner Page 9