by Vivaan Shah
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ asked Nadeem, as he walked out of the lobby in his shorts and slippers.
‘As you can see,’ began Mrs Miranda, ‘we, the residents of this society, have taken it upon ourselves to explore all possible facets of the situation and come to a satisfactory conclusion so that we may judge for ourselves who the culprit was.’
‘Isn’t this the police’s job?’ asked Nadeem.
‘There are certain things that we would like to know for ourselves,’ said Mrs Miranda, with her hands folded.
‘And will you submit this information to the police?’
‘If we think it necessary.’
‘Who is “we”? Is there a committee that is going to sit on it? Do I have a say as a society member?’
‘If you pay your last month’s rent, you do!’ shouted Machhiwaala.
‘Otherwise,’ continued Mrs Miranda, ‘you can come along on our investigation as a casual observer. We, however, cannot take your opinions into consideration.’
The Courier Delivery Boy
The courier boy, Suresh, was the first to be questioned.
‘I never deliver personal mail,’ he began. ‘Strictly bank notices, phone bills, circulars and a hell of a lot of official paperwork. Sometimes, I come for long-distance packaging. Once or twice he [Makhija] was even kind enough to let me in because it was very hot. He offered me a drink of water. Sometimes, when he was in a bad mood and I disturbed him in the middle of his afternoon nap, he would scribble his sign and refuse to share his phone number.’
‘When did you make the last delivery?’ asked Mrs Miranda.
‘The last two times that I came, he did not answer the door. He did not seem to have employed a cook or maid. He took care of the apartment pretty much all by himself. So there was no one there to receive his mails. I ended up leaving them in his rusted postbox which probably hadn’t been used for centuries.’
‘When was the last time he received his mail personally?’ she asked.
‘A week before the last. There was a package for him from some hospital, I forget which . . .’
‘What was it?’ asked Machhiwaala.
‘I have no idea. I will have to check the records at my branch. I think the hospital’s postal address was somewhere in Malad, near Inorbit mall if I’m not mistaken. The courier envelope was so big that I can’t be sure what it contained. Once, I had fallen sick and was unable to go on deliveries, so my colleague, who works for the same agency and was new on the job, delivered a parcel for me to 502. Since I pretty much handle this entire road, I had to instruct him where to deliver which courier so that he didn’t go to the wrong address by mistake. I personally supervised the transfer of those couriers. There was nothing suspicious about them.’
The Plumber
Mrs Miranda, Machhiwaala and Nadeem took the plumber up to the terrace to have a look at the water tank connected to flat no. 502. They climbed the stepladder over the elevator control room (where the lift wires converged into a pulley system) to where the tanks were placed.
Once all four of them were on the raised area of the terrace, they were able to locate Makhija’s tank. The plumber opened the lid to peer inside. It was completely empty.
‘This tank has a capacity of about 300 litres,’ he said.
‘How long would it take to drain that much water?’ asked Nadeem.
‘Depends on how fast the water was flowing out of the tap. If it had been left running at full speed, it would finish within a day, but if it was dripping, then maybe up to two days, sometimes three, depending on the speed of circulation.’
‘Was there any water shortage on the day he was found dead?’ asked Mrs Miranda.
‘No,’ he affirmed. ‘There had been a water shortage two days before that. There was no water in the entire area that day.’
‘When was the last time you were called to the building?’ asked the secretary.
‘Day before yesterday in the morning. There was a leakage in Mr Goyale’s bathroom. The whole place was flooded, so I went to fix it. It was just a minor geyser implosion. Nothing big. All the water had spurted out. No one got hurt.’
‘If you’re not telling the truth, you know what’s in store for you, don’t you?’ said Mrs Miranda.
‘Why wouldn’t I be telling the truth?’
‘The mali said he saw you fixing the pipes on the fifth floor, outside Mr Makhija’s house,’ said Mr Machhiwaala.
‘That’s not true. I was on the fourth floor, inside the bathroom. I may have popped my hand out of the window to reattach the pipe from the geyser, but I certainly wasn’t outside fixing the main pipeline.’
‘That’s not what the mali had to say. He said you spent quite a bit of time fixing the pipes on the outside, not the inside.’
The Mali
The mali was busy watering the plants with the irrigation tube connected to a pipe, which in turn was connected to the tap in the staff bathroom.
‘I think I was watering these plants,’ he recollected, ‘when all of a sudden I saw somebody on the side of the parapet of the fifth floor. He must have made his way down there from the terrace.’
‘The terrace door is locked at all times,’ said Nadeem. ‘The only one who has the keys is Kishorie Lal. There is no way he could have gone up to the terrace without Kishorie Lal knowing. I’ve tried to go up to the terrace a few times myself.’
‘He claims he was working on the fourth floor in Mr Goyale’s bathroom,’ said Mrs Miranda. ‘We’ll have to cross-check that with Mr Goyale.’
‘He could have climbed up the pipes to the fifth floor parapet from a window on the fourth floor,’ the mali suggested.
‘It seems highly improbable,’ remarked Nadeem. ‘He’d have to be an acrobat to pull that kind of stunt off.’
‘Not so,’ insisted the mali. ‘It is an easy feat often accomplished by labourers who work on the bamboos during renovation jobs in multi-storeyed buildings. I clearly remember that I saw him hanging off the railings, fixing the pipes to Mr Makhija’s house. A rather dangerous job! He must have got paid a lot of money to do it. What was strange was that I saw him open the valve of the main pipeline which hangs off the side of his bathroom.’
The secretary looked at Machhiwaala, who in turn looked at Nadeem.
‘Are you suggesting that the plumber contaminated his water supply?’ asked Nadeem.
‘Didn’t you mention that the taps had been left on when you discovered the body?’ he asked.
‘How does that have anything to do with the plumber? The taps could have only been turned on by someone who was inside the house.’
‘There is a way to turn on the tap by adjusting the lever on the connecting pipeline. I do it all the time when my irrigation pipe needs water and the staff bathroom is occupied. I can turn the water on from the inside as well as the outside,’ said the mali.
The Electrician
Next to the garage, in the farthest corner of the building, lay the meter room.
‘You said one entire phase had gone. When were you last called in?’ asked Mrs Miranda.
‘Well, madam,’ said the electrician, ‘as you know, the good folks of this building only call upon my services where there is something urgent. I don’t go loitering about the building premises when I’m not required. I was called in two nights before the tragedy. Mr Goyale had been having some trouble with his extension board. It was an eight-plug board. Too much load on his . . . uh . . . main circuit. I went to open the panel of the switchboard, and as I turned one of the switches off, an entire phase went off like a phool jhadi [a sparkler]! It was scary, madam! I nearly burnt my hand, but then again, these hands are used to it. They’ve taken more voltage and electrical shocks than any generator in the world!’
‘Was there anything wrong with the geyser in Mr Goyale’s house?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes! I heard it blew up the following day. You know how it is; the children must have left it switched on for a long time.’
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bsp; ‘So, how long do you think the lights were gone in Makhija’s flat?’ asked Nadeem.
‘It would be difficult to say. Often, when the circuit blows in one house, the neighbouring apartments too suffer the repercussions—those on the same phase—till however long it takes them to muster up the courage to open the switchboard and turn the main switch on.’
‘Perhaps that’s why all the lights and fans were running when I entered the apartment,’ said Nadeem.
‘Mr Makhija must have put the switches on and waited for the electricity to come back, not realizing that it was just a phase that had blown.’
The Bhaajiwaali
The bhaajiwaali sat on the floor near the lobby with all her vegetables laid out on a mat. She emptied her basket to show Mrs Miranda and Machhiwaala that she was carrying nothing that she wished to hide from the authorities.
She was an elderly lady who spoke in a shrill, piercing voice, like that of a mechanized drill. She protested vehemently at being questioned, maintaining that she had always considered Makhija to be a peculiar fellow. She was always suspicious of anyone who ate their vegetables out of an MTR packet and never spent a buck on the real stuff.
‘Perhaps he died of malnutrition,’ she speculated. ‘In today’s day and age, all doctors stress the importance of a healthy and balanced diet. Anyone who prefers synthetic food for the sake of saving a little money is penny-wise and pound-foolish. They don’t realize what they are missing out in the long run. God didn’t create the good green earth simply for an old lady like me to squat on day in and day out. The packets and plastic wrappers are depleting its goodness and nourishment.’
‘What about non-vegetarians?’ asked Nadeem.
‘There’s a special place in heaven for them,’ she said. ‘Or maybe a place in hell. To deprive one of God’s creatures of life to fill one’s own stomach is as good as murder.’
The Dhobi
The dhobi, a wiry and morose-looking man who wore his blank face like a passport-sized photograph, unravelled his bundles to show what they contained. By now, Nadeem was beginning to wonder how futile and moronic the investigation had become. It had degenerated into a worn-out ego trip for the secretary and Machhiwaala to assert their authority on those beneath them in the economic food chain. If it carried on like this, they would probably get the garbage man to empty the building dustbin just to prove his innocence, thought Nadeem.
According to the dhobi, the late Mr Makhija did not own a washing machine and seldom sent his clothes for washing. He wore the same clothes often and was never home to receive his laundry. The dhobi even informed him that he came once at 11 a.m. and then at 7 p.m., and that he could not alter his daily routine for the sake of one man’s convenience. It finally came to a point where he began leaving Makhija’s bundle of clothes with the watchman.
There was one occasion, however, that he had stumbled upon a slip of paper in one of Makhija’s trouser pockets, while folding and ironing his clothes. He handed it back to him when he delivered the laundry and Makhija clutched at it protectively as if he were embarrassed to reveal it. There was a number written on it in fairly illegible handwriting, and as the dhobi tried to decipher whether or not it was an article of any importance, he ended up looking at the paper a number of times, thereby having memorized the number by heart.
‘Do you remember the number?’ asked the secretary.
‘Yes. It was 09820241675.’
Nadeem immediately dialled it on his phone. The phone rang but no one picked it up. He tried again and was cut off just as it began to ring. In two minutes, there was a call from the same number.
‘Hello!’ Nadeem spoke softly into his phone. ‘Who’s speaking?’
‘You tell me who’s speaking,’ the voice answered in unfriendly haste. ‘You were the one who called!’
‘I got this number from Chintan Makhija! I’m calling with regard to his death!’
‘Oh! I’m sorry to hear that!’ The man’s initial curtness gradually dissolving into courtesy. ‘When did he die?’
‘He was found yesterday.’
‘I wasn’t aware.’
‘What business did you have with him?’
‘He owed me a considerable sum of money!’
‘What for, if I may ask?’
‘It’s a little complicated. He didn’t exactly owe me money per se, he actually owed a client of mine who owed me. My client had asked me to collect the money from him . . . wait a minute! Who am I talking to?’
Nadeem immediately cut the call. The man called back without missing a beat. He didn’t want to be left hanging mid-sentence, but Nadeem reckoned it wouldn’t be wise to communicate with someone whose identity he wasn’t as yet certain of. He didn’t answer the call, instead, he stored the number in his contacts under the name ‘MAKHIJA CREDITOR’. He would look into the matter at ease.
The Kabaadiwaala
The kabaadiwaala was one of the select few who had been granted the privilege of entering Makhija’s humble abode just three days prior to the day he was found dead. He remembered the house being in quite a mess. It did not look like it had been cleaned for a while. The plaster was beginning to peel off the walls, the tiling was getting weathered, there was a pile of clothes on the bathroom floor, dishes were piled up in the kitchen sink and the bed had not been made. The only thing that seemed to be functional was the television, which was perennially switched on, whether or not anyone was sitting in front of it. He happened to vaguely remember that the fans were not working and that he sweated profusely as he gathered objects and dismantled hardware from the cupboards and cabinets, such as broken mugs, shredded wires, aluminium foils, cardboard cartons, glass bottles of Duke’s lemonade, phenyl, sprays, toiletries, mosquito repellents, tin cans, tiffin boxes and containers. He remembered Makhija bargained for quite a few hours before he could leave with all the stuff. He finally settled on a measly sum of a hundred and forty rupees for a truckload of unusable household supplies.
Before leaving the house, after having wrapped up and parcelled the items and articles that he had purchased, the kabaadiwaala had noticed a half-empty bottle of Phensedyl cough syrup next to the medicine cabinet. He picked it up to take a look and, seeing that it was half-empty, asked whether Makhija would be interested in parting with it. But Makhija took it as a moral affront and aggressively refused, showing him the door and asking him how he had dared to take the liberty to look around his house. He said he had not opened up a store for people to come and pick up and buy whatever they liked and that there were certain things money could not buy.
It was just a bottle of cough syrup and the kabaadiwaala had wondered why Makhija got so upset. According to Machhiwaala, when he inspected the house, the bottle was still lying next to the medicine cabinet. It was also one of the few objects that Rohini had claimed as her own on her brief yet thorough visit to the house. She, however, was not allowed by the police to pick it up as it was considered a piece of evidence.
Dr Vengsarkar
After having wrapped up the interrogation with the building staff, Nadeem went back to his apartment to change into presentable clothes so that he could step out.
There was something peculiar about both the plumber’s and the electrician’s statements. It seemed as though they were either withholding information or covering up for each other. The mali was the only eyewitness to their activities. They could have been doing anything. No one, not even the watchman, notices in detail what a plumber and an electrician are doing all day long. If the switches had been left on and the phase had blown, then the electricity would have come back only if someone went to Mr Makhija’s switchboard and turned on his inverter. If he had done so himself, then perhaps the lights, fans and television in the living room wouldn’t have been left switched on considering how stingy he was known to be. Nadeem was certain that the electricity and water had been turned on by whoever had committed this vile atrocity. Perhaps to give the impression that all was well inside the house. He had the n
umber that the dhobi had mentioned stored on his mobile phone, and he planned to check on it as soon as he could. Then, there was the irregularly large package that he had received from the courier boy, but all along it was the kabaadiwaala’s mention of the cough syrup which seemed to play on his mind and occupy utmost importance on his list of concerns. As Warren awoke, he shared his findings with him. Warren did not seem particularly interested at first, but after having washed his face and woken up properly, he walked up to the balcony and looked out of it in deep thought.
‘What it looks like, Nadeem, is that there are five distinct possibilities of a freak occurrence or mishap within the day-to-day routine and daily scheme of things. One is that he was electrocuted by someone who had control over the voltage in his house.’
‘How’s that possible?’
‘You send a current through a zinc wire and you can zap anyone who has got his or her hands or feet anywhere near it.’
‘Two?’
‘Two is that he received a parcel that directly or indirectly had something to do with his demise.’
‘Highly unlikely.’
‘Three is that his water source was contaminated.’
‘He would need to drink copious amounts of tap water for that to happen, which might be possible. Bisleri has started costing twenty bucks a bottle.’
‘Four is that the kabaadiwaala was involved in some way, as he is the only one to be heard of officially entering Makhija’s house.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘And the fifth is that our two visitors unlawfully gained entry into his house and are responsible for the acts of violence perpetrated against him. The last six people to have open access to his house were the courier guy, the plumber, the electrician, the kabaadiwaala and our two visitors, as the watchman claims Makhija hadn’t stepped out in weeks and had had no visitors of his own save for the daily denizens and frequenters of the building.’