No Illusions in Xanadu

by Ruby Gupta

  ‘How do you know this?’ Bhogle asked a tad suspiciously.

  ‘Rajvir was a close friend and shared most things with me,’ Dr. Singhvi spoke guilelessly.

  Inspector Bhogle pulled the drawer. It slid open smoothly.

  It was empty, save for a couple of slim, transparent files with some typewritten A4 size papers in them.

  ‘There is no gun in this,’ he paused. ‘Are you sure this is where it was kept? And was the drawer always left open?’ he continued.

  ‘Yes. The gun was always kept in this drawer. But the drawer used to be locked and the key was kept in the second drawer beneath the top one,’ Singhvi said.

  ‘How convenient,’ the inspector spoke wryly, as he slid open the second drawer.

  It did contain a key.

  Bhogle slipped it in the keyhole of the top drawer and twisted it. There was a click, and the drawer was now locked.

  ‘Presumably Rajvir was killed with his own gun,’ Karan Ahuja spoke heavily.

  ‘Yes. Though we will have forensics ballistics confirm it for us,’ Inspector Bhogle said.

  No one said anything.

  ‘Well let us get on,’ Bhogle addressed his team.

  One of the constables held up a silver object that he fished out from under the settee. Everyone crowded around it. The object seemed to be some kind of ornament. It had two elongated pins that ended in an intricate mesh-like carved flower with a sparkling ruby embedded at its centre. None of them could figure out what it was. It seemed to be some kind of weird hair or dress accessory. Carefully, the inspector slipped it into another zip-bag. It could be important evidence.

  After examining the study, Bhogle and his men stepped out into the terrace to look for clues. The inspector paid special attention to the window that opened out from the study into the terrace. Perhaps the murderer could have been crouching outside beneath the window waiting for Rajvir. But there was nothing near the window or anything anywhere on the terrace to indicate anything out of the ordinary.

  Inspector Bhogle re-entered the study.

  ‘You should examine the passageway behind the bookcase,’ Karan Ahuja said to Bhogle as he pulled an innocuous-looking lever adjacent to the bookcase. Noiselessly the bookcase slid sideways to reveal a hidden door in the wall behind it.

  Bhogle opened the door and went inside. His team followed.

  Inside, Bhogle found himself in a narrow, well-lit passageway that led to a secret lift. Apparently, this lift was for Rajvir Kapoor’s exclusive use. The secret lift led directly down to the four-storey garage. The multi-storey garage was also connected via a common lift and common staircase to various upper floors and the lower common parking floors.

  The garage was awe-inspiring with a fleet of Bentleys, Jaguars, BMWs, Lamborghinis, Mini Coopers, and numerous other vintage, sports and fancy cars. Bhogle could not help but be confounded at the sight of so many impressive and shiny automobiles. He sighed deeply as he stroked his handlebar moustache. He could never hope to possess anything like this.

  The policemen closely examined the floors of the garage, lift and passageway. Everything seemed just as it should have been.

  Half an hour later, the police team returned to the study.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ Karan Ahuja asked.

  ‘No – I’m afraid not,’ Bhogle responded.

  Ahuja nodded. He had not really expected them to find anything. A killer who had the audacity to murder the star with his own gun, in his own study, in his own house, would not be so careless as to leave behind any evidence.

  A brief silence ensued.

  ‘Sir, we have done everything possible. Now the body must be taken for post-mortem,’ Inspector Bhogle broke the silence.

  ‘Yes,’ Karan Ahuja inclined his head.

  ‘And I think we should begin interrogating all the people in the house immediately,’ Inspector Bhogle paused. ‘Before they have time to recover, or time to establish alibis, or anything.’

  ‘See, I told you he is one of our best,’ Karan Ahuja spoke to Singhvi.

  Dr. Singhvi nodded.

  ‘I think you had better call Mrs. Kapoor and take her permission for us to carry the body to the mortuary and to begin the interrogation of the household staff and of everyone else in the house,’ Ahuja continued.

  A little later, Pallavi entered the room, followed by Rose. She looked completely recovered and normal.

  ‘We will have to take him now,’ Karan Ahuja spoke softly. ‘The sooner the post-mortem is carried out, the better.’

  ‘Yes, sure, please do what you must,’ Pallavi spoke evenly.

  ‘And this here is Inspector Bhogle,’ Karan Ahuja introduced the investigating officer. ‘He will need to begin his interrogation. Could you arrange for him to speak to everyone who is present in the house?’

  ‘Sure, I will have Rose arrange it,’ she looked towards her housekeeper, who nodded efficiently.

  ‘Umm, ah, I will need to talk to all the family members as well,’ Inspector Bhogle spoke delicately.

  ‘Oh!’ Pallavi looked surprised.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just police procedure,’ Karan Ahuja spoke soothingly.

  ‘Yes, right. Of course. Whatever needs to be done, must be done,’ Pallavi said.

  ‘The death seems to have occurred sometime late last night, so we would need to know who all were here last night as well,’ Inspector Bhogle said.

  ‘Oh… that will be very difficult.’ Helplessly, Pallavi looked towards Dr. Singhvi. ‘As you know we had a grand party last night. Rajvir had invited all the big names of politics, corporate, government, film, media and god knows who all, to celebrate the completion of his thirty years in the film industry,’ Pallavi said.

  Everyone fell silent. This was a difficult situation.

  ‘Yes, I know; I was here too. But surely you must have a guest list? Please provide us with a copy and we will see how to go about it,’ Karan Ahuja was the first to speak.

  ‘Yes, that will not be difficult. Rajvir’s secretary will have the guest list. But then there were also the caterers and additional temporary staff,’ Pallavi looked troubled.

  ‘Don’t you worry. We will jot down the details of everyone who was present and take care of it. You just make sure to let us know of anything you think that could be important,’ Karan Ahuja spoke softly. He knew Inspector Bhogle had a daunting task ahead of him. Interrogating so many people was a herculean proposition. Any one of the three hundred odd people who were here last night could have done the dastardly deed.

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. I’m sure Rose will be able to give us the details of the caterers and the temporary staff,’ Dr. Singhvi spoke quietly.

  ‘Madam, you don’t worry. I will coordinate everything with Rose and begin my interrogation,’ Inspector Bhogle said, and left the study with Rose.

  ‘I think we are done here. Inspector Bhogle and his men will take care of all other formalities, the taking away of the body, and other things. I will leave now and if you need anything, please do not hesitate to call,’ Karan Ahuja said. ‘Rajvir was a good friend – a good man. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Once again, please accept my condolences.’

  Left together, Pallavi and Dr. Singhvi moved into the adjacent living room. They could not bear to be in the study any longer. For a while, they sat quietly, lost in their thoughts.

  Pallavi was surprised at the sentiment that had sprung within her at the sight of the lifeless Rajvir. Unwittingly, all the emotions she had had for Rajvir twenty years ago, had returned like a deluge.

  Had that feeling truly been love?

  Mentally, she shook her head at the absurdity of what she was feeling.

  The news of the death had not really caused her pain – it was shock and disbelief really. But now, now she could not help but feel some kind of inexplicable sorrow.

  What was this? Where had her usual practicality disappeared?

  She did not love her husband; in fact, she despised him – had done so for a lon
g time now.

  Then why this sudden turnabout? Is this what death does? The living who are left behind forget all the warts, and focus only on the good that the departed possessed?

  ‘Well. What’s done is done,’ after a while, Pallavi spoke firmly. ‘Thank you Dr. Singhvi for coming. But you can leave now, if you like. I don’t want to impose more than is necessary upon you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Pallavi. You know very well that Rajvir was a dear friend. I cannot possibly rest until this thing is sorted. You are certainly not imposing on me. This is the very least that I can do. Rajvir would have done the same for me, had he been in my place. I think you should relax now. The rest of the family will soon be here, and you need to prepare yourself to deal with them. And also to deal with the world. I hope you realize that this is nothing less than a national tragedy and soon your home will be swamped.’

  ‘I know,’ Pallavi spoke ruefully. ‘It is all just beginning to sink in. But you don’t worry about me. You know how strong I am. I think the first thing to be done, is to release a formal statement to the press. Will you help me in it?’

  A while later, Rose peeped in and saw the two sitting side by side, working upon the finer details of the press release, funeral, cremation and sundry other details. Quietly, she sent in some tea and snacks to fortify them.

  Mridula stood pensively looking at the large photograph of her father that occupied the centre of the designer wall in her drawing room. She loved him – loved him deeply; loved him like she had not loved anyone in her life.

  It could not be possible that he was no more. It was impossible that death could touch a man as vital as Rajvir Kapoor. All through his career, he had suffered not a single scratch, not even when he had insisted on performing his own stunts – no matter how dangerous.

  There was no way that he could be dead.

  He had always been healthy – abnormally healthy. The aches, pains, fevers of the normal human experience had never touched him.

  Obviously, he could not have died himself, or due to anything of his own doing.

  It had to be something beyond the ordinary.

  Although Dr. Singhvi had been guarded on the phone and simply stated the fact of her father’s death, she knew, knew instinctively, that there was more to it than what the good doctor was letting on.

  She had known only one parent and that had been Rajvir. Admittedly, Rajvir had never been around during her growing up years. But the lack of attention had fuelled an obsessive love within her that had only grown with the passing years.

  Her mother had died during childbirth. She had been an upcoming starlet in the mid-eighties. She had been madly in love with the reigning superstar Rajvir Kapoor. Or had she just been angling for a big role?

  Or was it both?

  All her life, Mridula had to suffer the ignominy of hearing rude whispers that it was the latter that was the motive for her mother throwing herself at Rajvir.

  Unfortunately for her mother, she did not get a big role, but got pregnant instead.

  Destiny dealt her a further blow by prematurely snuffing out her insignificant life during childbirth.

  To the surprise of everyone, Rajvir decided to honour his responsibility and brought the new-born Mridula home.

  Later, when he married Pallavi, he adopted the then five-year-old Mridula.

  The house staff never made her forget the fact that she lived in luxury only due to Rajvir’s largesse.

  As a result, the young Mridula initially hated her father.

  The hate did not last long.

  She could not help but develop a fascination for this impressive stranger about whom she read reams in newspapers and magazines, and sometimes caught a glimpse of in passing.

  Rajvir had certainly done his duty towards Mridula.

  He had ensured she had the best schooling and the best looking-after as a child.

  Then he had her married to one of the top industrialists in Delhi. He gave her a lavish wedding and even bought her a luxurious home in posh South Delhi as a wedding gift.

  But it was only his money that he showered upon her, never his attention.

  He never spent time with her, never chatted with her, and never gave her the opportunity to experience what it was to have a father.

  In the years that followed, Mridula became the mother of two children, a boy and a girl. By rights, she should have been satisfied and happy; and to all appearances, she was.

  But try as she might, she could not be happy, for there was always the yearning in her heart to fulfil her self.

  There was only one thing in the world that could fulfil her and make her happy, and that was to become a star like her father.

  As far back as she could remember, Mridula would spend hours in front of the mirror, imitating some actress or the other. She knew she would become a heroine one day. It was just a matter of time.

  But it was not to be. Rajvir Kapoor was adamant that the film industry was no place for his daughter. The seventeen-year-old Mridula had pleaded desperately with Rajvir to let her become an actress.

  But it had not happened. Rajvir not only forbade her, but also was supremely scornful of her ability to make it in the film world. When she reminded him that she had won several prizes for acting in school, he had laughed. Then he had become cruel. His words, ‘Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?’ burned through her constantly, even to this day.

  Mridula was not beautiful. She had not inherited any of her mother’s striking features; instead, she bore the genetic imprint of her father. What was handsome on her father’s countenance was horsy on her. She was plain – her masculine features making her appear less than attractive.

  Yet, she had inherited her father’s acting ability in full measure. She knew she could act – had she been given a chance, she would have become a consummate actress, and all the best actress awards would have been hers for the asking.

  But that was not to be.

  She paid the price of being Rajvir Kapoor’s daughter.

  After her father’s refusal and after umpteen showdowns at home, Mridula had rebelled.

  She decided to forge ahead on her own. Using her pocket money, she had a portfolio made by the best agency in the business.

  She made rounds to all the producers.

  It was futile.

  As soon as people in the industry learnt that she was Rajvir’s daughter, no one agreed to take her on. They did not want to antagonise the superstar. One word from Rajvir and they would soon fade into oblivion.

  No one was willing to risk it all, merely for this horsy-looking, awkward girl -- no matter how talented.

  After a couple of years of struggle, Mridula gave up.

  She knew she was defeated.

  Rajvir magnanimously took her back in his fold.

  Plying her with his munificence, he sent her to Yale for her graduation.

  For all appearances, her rebellion against her father was forgotten and her dreams of becoming an actress became a distant memory.

  And now he was no more.

  How she had fantasized and hoped against hope, that in his old age, her father would seek her out and they would finally bond.

  This would never happen now.

  What sins had she committed to have never known a parent’s love?

  Tears of self-pity rolled down her cheeks. She let them flow, as she continued to stare blindly at Rajvir’s imposing photograph.

  An hour later, she was her usual brisk self. Rapidly she arranged for tickets to Mumbai, informed her husband, and instructed the nanny to take care of the children full-time in her absence.

  Chapter 3

  Pallavi and Dr. Singhvi sat in the middle of the now crowded sitting room at Xanadu. Rajvir Kapoor’s son, Amar and daughter-in-law, Remanika sat beside them. Not many words were exchanged. There was nothing to be said.

  The tragedy was too overpowering for them to say anything, except assimilate it within their consciousness as best as they could
.

  Amar was blank. His drug-induced stupor had probably still not been lifted. Or perhaps, he had drugged himself afresh, to deal with the ordeal.

  Remanika was her usual cool self. She seemed unmoved and soon retired to her room, pleading a headache. Probably wanted to catch up on her beauty sleep, Pallavi correctly surmised.

  There was a flurry of activity outside the door of the sitting room. The cause soon became apparent, as Rose led in Swami Maheshanandaji. The two disciples accompanying the swami deferentially waited outside.

  ‘Oh, I really am glad to see you,’ Pallavi spoke feelingly. ‘But how did you know?’

  ‘Is there anything I don’t know – or cannot know, if I want to, especially about this family?’ the swami smiled beatifically. ‘I knew – knew in my bones that my best friend, my childhood sakha is no more, and I came as soon as I could.’ Maheshanandaji put a reassuring hand on Pallavi’s head.

  ‘Though I should have known, known last night itself when I was here, that danger stalked my dearest Rajvir,’ the swami spoke ruefully.

  ‘Some things can never be known,’ Pallavi said.

  Maheshanandaji nodded. Then hugging the confused Amar, he pronounced, ‘You are the head of the house now.’

  Amar’s face took on an apprehensive expression in addition to the bewilderment already there. Clearly, he was completely out of his depth.

  ‘Now, now, don’t you worry. Given the circumstances, I will modify your medicine dosage. And in no time, you will feel better,’ the swami soothed Amar.

  Pallavi nodded towards Maheshanandaji in gratitude.

  Swami Maheshananda, or Mahesh as he was known then, was the childhood friend of Rajvir. The two had been best friends from their school days back in Varanasi. Growing up together, over the years, they had developed a bond that was as inexplicable as it was intense. On the surface, there was no similarity between the two. They came from different family backgrounds and had different temperaments; and yet, their friendship was such that they could die for each other.

  It was in the last years of school that the two began to subscribe to divergent ideologies. Where Rajvir was determined to make a success of himself in the material world, Mahesh began to question the very purpose of his existence.