No Illusions in Xanadu

by Ruby Gupta

  He was heavily intoxicated.

  ‘Wake up, beta,’ she bent and spoke softly as her breath grazed his right ear.

  ‘Wha? What?’ Amar tried hard to open his eyes and look at her. He loved her. Loved her with an intensity that was surely unearthly.

  She stroked his hair and tried to find the right words.

  Amar looked at her in bewilderment.

  His mother never came to wake him up. There had to be something wrong, very wrong.

  Panic started to rise in him.

  Even in his drugged state, the anxiety got his heart pounding uncontrollably.

  An unknown fear took him in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Your papa is no more,’ Pallavi spoke softly.

  ‘Huh?’ Amar looked at her blankly. The words did not register. ‘What?’ he asked again.

  ‘Your papa is dead,’ she repeated.

  Amar could not fully comprehend the import of what she said. He only knew that he felt relieved. Relieved that there was nothing wrong with his beloved mother. Seeing her waking him up, his first thought had been for her safety. Instantly his mind had conjured up the frightening thought that she had come to tell him that she had cancer or some such thing and had only a few days to live.

  Thank God! Thank God!

  She was safe. Yes, nothing could happen to his adorable mother. This was the least that God could do for him.

  Instinctively, he buried his head into her lap. Pallavi stroked his head, willing her energy to flow into her son’s body, in a vain attempt to strengthen him.

  Words were unnecessary.

  They remained like that for a long time.

  ‘Apply harder strokes,’ she spoke imperiously.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ the masseuse was deferential

  Remanika observed herself in the ceiling mirror and stretched languorously She was gorgeous – no doubt about it, she concluded dispassionately. She was getting a massage in her special retiring suite that served as spa-cum makeup-cum-resting retreat. It had a massage area where all the walls and ceiling were covered with mirrors. Remanika had it specially refurbished, so that she could observe herself at all times from all angles. As she lay on her back, staring matter-of-factly at her reflection in the mirrors, she noted she was not as perky, or as fresh, as she used to be. She became somewhat alarmed. This would not do. The masseuse massaging her ankles followed her gaze to the ceiling, but then respectfully averted her eyes.

  Last night’s party had taken a toll. She was not young any longer, she reflected. One late night, and it extracted an immediate price in the form of a lacklustre appearance the day after. Of course, she had the privilege of a personal masseuse – to take care of any such emergency. It was imperative that she regain her freshness – she had a shoot scheduled at three in the afternoon. And she simply had to look her best.

  Her cell phone vibrated. Who had the temerity to disturb her? Remanika became angry. She let it buzz. The caller was persistent. The vibration refused to let up. She grabbed the mobile. It was her husband, Amar. Cursing under her breath, she switched it on, ‘You know, darling, I don’t like to be disturbed,’ she spoke sharply.

  ‘Papa is dead!’ Amar sounded frantic.

  He was probably in a drug-induced haze, Remanika thought. ‘No – darling. Just go back to sleep,’ she spoke softly.

  ‘He – he’s dead! Didn’t you hear me?’ Amar’s voice emerged in a hysterical croak.

  There was real panic in his tone, Remanika realized. She lifted herself abruptly from the massage bed. Her carelessly draped towel slid off. ‘Oh God! Are you sure?’ she was shocked.

  ‘Yes,’ Amar disconnected the line.

  The masseuse was flabbergasted at this bizarre behaviour. Till date, Remanika had not allowed anything to disrupt her massages. But she did not dare to question her mistress.

  With a flick of her hand, Remanika dismissed the masseuse.

  On her way to Xanadu, Remanika reflected that her father-in-law, the iconic film star Rajvir Kapoor, had it coming to him for a long time. ‘Serves him right, the bastard,’ she muttered as her Mercedes sped toward Xanadu, her marital home.

  ‘Cancel all my meetings,’ Girish Kapoor spoke into the intercom to his secretary. ‘And get me an immediate flight to Mumbai.’

  Girish leaned back into his plush chair and looked out of his large office window at the Singapore skyline dotted with high-rises.

  A spasm of sorrow rose in his heart. This was unforeseen. How could his younger brother die before him? It was inconceivable. He had never imagined it – was completely unprepared for it.

  Perhaps in some warped way, this was the way it was meant to be. Rajvir, though three years younger than him, had always been ahead of him in everything in their lives. It was perhaps fitting, in the larger scheme of things, that Rajvir would leave this earth too, before him.

  Girish had no affection for his younger brother since quite some time. An early jealousy had ensured that the love between them was soon lost.

  But now, the news of his death brought the childhood love flooding back.

  Blood was indeed thicker than water.

  One by one, childhood incidents flashed through his mind.

  He could see the five-year old Rajvir – innocent and unbelievably angelic-looking – following him everywhere and doing his bidding in everything.

  The young Rajvir had adored everything about his older brother. There was nothing that he would not do for Girish. Whether it was taking the fall for some mischief, lying to adults, or stealing sweetmeats, Rajvir was ready to do anything for his elder brother.

  All through childhood, the two had been inseparable.

  Even their parents could not scold one without the other supporting and defending the culprit.

  They were one against the entire world.

  Strangely enough, they never fought amongst themselves, as was otherwise the norm amongst most siblings.

  When had things started to go wrong? Girish tried to recall. It had started somewhere in their teenage years. When the gods had begun favouring Rajvir over him.

  He had a sneaking suspicion that their mother too favoured her younger son. Actually, he had always felt it was so, even when they were small.

  But his consciousness began registering this fact only when it became so very obvious that everything and everyone was in favour of Rajvir. His younger brother was fast becoming the darling of everyone – be it friends, relatives, neighbours, and even strangers.

  It was then that Girish realized and accepted that their mother too had always done that extra little bit for her younger son. Whether it was giving him the best piece of chicken, or the best seat in the movie theatre, or just spending a slightly longer time listening to his stories from when they came back from school…

  Earlier, Girish had never really noticed, or perhaps never paid much attention to it. But now, he knew for sure, that their mother clearly loved Rajvir more than she loved him. This gave birth to a fierce, searing pain at the core of his being – a pain he had never been able to overcome, even to this day.

  It was the ultimate betrayal by his mother. How could she be partial like this? She ought to have loved both her children equally – but she didn’t.

  This was unpardonable!

  Girish began disliking, perhaps even hating their mother and resenting Rajvir.

  It was only their father, who seemed unbiased. But then he had always been aloof from the family, so it hardly mattered. Most of the time, he was away on his touring job. When at home, he was submerged mostly in his files, or the umpteen heavy books that he was so fond of reading. He left all home affairs mostly to his wife and did not pay much attention to the boys. He did not think that the father ought to interfere too much in household stuff, or molly-coddle the kids. He did his bit by earning a living and providing for his family – what more did they need? Apart from that, he was entitled to some well-deserved time to himself, which he spent happily with his beloved books.

&n
bsp; The increasingly handsome Rajvir had a way about him. No one who met him could remain immune to his irresistible charms. Especially the opposite sex – young or old – he had them within his control within minutes of meeting him. They simply could not resist him – his voice, his words, his mannerisms, his looks – all were attractive to the extreme.

  What finally sealed the fate of their brotherly love was when Girish learnt that his girlfriend, the dazzling school beauty whom he was madly in love with, had accepted his proposal of friendship only in order to get close to Rajvir.

  This was more than he could bear.

  First, his mother whom he had loved unquestioningly had betrayed him; and now the love of his life too had betrayed him.

  And the cause was only one – Rajvir!

  Girish could have happily killed him at that time.

  Murdered him with a knife, poisoned him – no better still, strangled him with his bare hands – that would have given him the most satisfaction.

  He had spent months plotting his younger brother’s death.

  Somehow, better sense had prevailed and Girish had purged himself of the thoughts of fratricide and got over the betrayal.

  It took him almost a year, but he forced himself to do it. He immersed himself in academics. It was his last year in school.

  There was only one way out. He had to get through the competitive exams and leave home forever.

  He had to do this, if he wanted to preserve his sanity and his emotions.

  Rajvir could never understand what he had done, that caused his beloved Girish bhaiya to distance himself. Since the brothers had never learnt how to fight with each other, a cold war had ensued.

  Neither Girish could explain the reason for his resentment, nor could Rajvir bring himself to ask. They simply began moving away from each other.

  Rajvir reasoned that it was because his brother was under pressure due to the impending board exams and the competitions that were to follow.

  Girish never bothered to correct Rajvir’s assumptions.

  The resulting coldness that developed gradually turned to freezing ice and they drifted apart.

  By the time they became adults, started walking on different paths and made their own homes, all brotherly feelings had vanished.

  Chapter 2

  Karan Ahuja, Commissioner of Police, Mumbai, rapidly strode into Xanadu.

  This was not the first time he had been here.

  He, along with Dr. Singhvi, and a couple of the who’s who of the country’s elite, had shared some memorable evenings here with Rajvir Kapoor.

  The superstar had made it a point to sustain relationships with intellectuals and professionals. Originally, Rajvir had ambitions of a career in the business world with the goal of becoming a top-notch corporate honcho. This was before his love for histrionics had pulled him in another direction, and the rest was history.

  As Ahuja entered Rajvir’s study, he recalled that just last night he had been here attending the biggest social event of the year – the thirtieth anniversary of Rajvir Kapoor’s legendary stint in the film industry.

  What had happened in a few hours that had led to this unprecedented tragedy?

  After offering his condolences to Pallavi, Karan Ahuja walked close to the body and bent to inspect the wound.

  He had been shot from the back. The shot had been aimed at the medulla oblongata; where the brain stem joined the spinal cord. This was always fatal.

  It was a clean medium range shot. Gun residue clung to the hair, adjacent to the entry point in the skull. There was a reddish-brown area of grazed skin forming a kind of abrasion ring. Blood had pooled underneath the head and body.

  Evidently, the star had had no inkling of the impending attack.

  It was murder, no doubt about it.

  Had it been suicide, the wound would have been in the front, or on the side of the head. Since the injury was at the back of the head – it had to be someone else who would have shot him. It was murder!

  Besides, there was no way Rajvir could commit suicide – he was a man very much in love with life, and living it to the fullest.

  At first sight, it seemed clear that the gun used to shoot the star was the one lying right now next to the table. Obviously, there would be no fingerprints on it. If at all there were prints, they would be those of Rajvir possibly.

  There was no exit wound, so he was shot at from some distance. The bullet must be lodged inside the head. An examination of the bullet would easily tell whether it was from the gun lying here.

  Ahuja inspected the distance from the back of the chair to the wall. The wall had a large window, which was at a tangent from the position of the chair.

  On the right side of the wall with the window, were elaborate glass doors that opened onto Rajvir’s favourite retreat – his beautifully landscaped terrace garden, with a helipad on one side.

  Ahuja walked up to the window. It was open as usual, and it too overlooked onto the terrace garden.

  The glass doors that led into the garden were also open.

  Rajvir had a fetish for fresh air. Even though Xanadu had central air-conditioning, Rajvir preferred that his study let in as much natural air as was possible.

  Next to the window, on the left side, built into the wall, was an ornate bookcase that ran from floor to ceiling.

  Ahuja knew that the bookcase hid a doorway that led to the special four-storey garage that housed Rajvir’s precious collection of vintage, sports and other luxury cars.

  The hidden doorway was thus designed so Rajvir could make a quick and secret getaway whenever he wanted. He had had it specially constructed as per his specifications.

  Not many were privy to this information.

  Rajvir had revealed its existence only to a select group.

  Someone could just as easily have entered via the garage, through this hidden door, shot him and vanished back through it.

  Or, the person could have hidden in the terrace garden and then shot him from outside the window at an opportune moment.

  The terrace, study, and the secret doorway – all would have to be examined thoroughly for clues, Ahuja rapidly concluded as he looked around.

  Dr. Singhvi, Pallavi and Rose waited in silence.

  Looking at their questioning faces, Ahuja said, ‘A post-mortem would be in order.’

  Dr. Singhvi nodded.

  Pallavi looked blank.

  ‘In these kinds of death, this is how we proceed,’ Ahuja spoke gently. ‘This will help us to determine the cause and time of death, and gain possible clues about the identity of the murderer,’ he added.

  Pallavi’s face froze. Until now, the reality of the murder had not sunk in. Though a corner of her brain had already realized that it had, had to be murder. The gun, the manner in which Rajvir was slumped on the desk – all pointed to this simple fact. And yet, to hear it being spoken aloud by Ahuja sent a shiver through her entire being.

  ‘Umm, do whatever needs to be done,’ she mumbled.

  Addressing both of them, she continued, ‘Would you stay for a while, at least until, er… the … he, is taken away and my family reaches? I really am feeling quite faint now and would like to retire to my room for a little while. Just till I’m able to gather myself.’

  Pallavi was normally a strong woman; but now she felt weak – it was all a bit too much to stomach.

  Rose escorted her mistress to her room.

  Left behind, the men wondered what to say to each other.

  An uncomfortable silence built up.

  The CP made a call to the police station that had jurisdiction of this area in which Xanadu was located. It was only right that he should proceed as per protocol. But Rajvir deserved more than just protocol; he deserved the best man on the job.

  Karan Ahuja called up Detective Inspector Bhogle of the Mumbai Crime Branch. He was one of his most brilliant investigating officers. This case had to be handled by the Crime Branch. It could not be left to routine investigation that
would normally be carried out by the senior inspector of the local police station.

  A little later, Crime Branch Detective Inspector Bhogle entered, closely followed by the Inspector in-charge of the local police station along with a couple of constables and a photographer.

  Rapidly they went about their business, extremely conscious of the watchful gaze of the Commissioner.

  ‘Inspector Bhogle is one of our best men,’ the CP said to the doctor.

  Dr. Singhvi nodded, as he took in the reliable-looking demeanour of the tall, thin, handlebar moustachioed inspector, who was keenly examining the body.

  ‘I think Bhogle will do a good job of the investigation,’ Ahuja continued.

  ‘I suppose the press and media will have to be informed,’ Dr. Singhvi spoke ruefully.

  ‘Yes of course. It would be best to release a matter-of-fact statement about his death without giving any details.’ Karan Ahuja said.

  ‘Yes, but no matter what we release to the press, the media will soon be upon the family like vultures to feed on Rajvir’s death,’ Singhvi spoke, looking pained.

  ‘Yes, well, that cannot be avoided. But what we must be careful about is to keep the circumstances of his death confidential, as far as possible. It is murder and so we cannot afford to have some vital clues finding their way into the public domain,’ Ahuja said.

  Dr. Singhvi was quiet. There was nothing to be said. This was indeed a distressing situation.

  They fell silent, as they watched the photographer take several photographs of the body from all angles. He also took photographs of the room from all sides.

  Inspector Bhogle and his men dusted the entire room for fingerprints.

  The policemen went over the room inch by inch, to look for anything that should normally not belong there.

  The inspector picked up the gun with a gloved hand and dropped it in a transparent, plastic zip bag. ‘Does anyone recognize the gun?’ he asked no one in particular.

  ‘Er, yes. It looks like the one Rajvir has,’ hesitatingly Singhvi said.

  ‘Where did he keep his gun?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘In the top left drawer of the study table,’ Singhvi said.