An hour later, after having gone through the papers over a cup of tea with two pieces of toast, he was driving down to Gurgaon. The streets were almost empty and Arjun stepped on the accelerator, feeling the power of his new Scorpio. He had sold his silver-grey Swift a few months ago, and was still getting used to the higher seating of the four-wheel-drive SUV. He had just crossed the border into Haryana when his phone rang. Who could it be this early on a Sunday? His club members weren’t in the habit of calling one another; you just showed up at the ground, or not. He answered the phone, and for the second time that morning found himself taken back to the past.
‘Major Arora?’ a gravelly voice inquired.
It sounded familiar, someone from many years ago . . .
‘Who is this?’
‘Arjun Arora? This is Trideep Roy here, Colonel Trideep Roy.’
It took him a moment to place the name. ‘Roy. I left the army a long time ago.’
‘I heard. Just wanted to see if you remembered me. How are you?’
‘Alive.’
‘Haven’t changed much, I see. Sorry for calling so early.’
‘How did you get my number?’
‘Praveen Kumble from the Rajput Regiment gave it to me. You don’t stay in touch with your old buddies, do you?’
‘Like I said, I left the army.’
‘Fair enough. Listen, Arora, I need a small favour. I’m in Pune now, but there’s an old friend of mine who’s in Delhi and needs help. Kumble told me you’re a detective now?’
‘Yes. I have my own agency. Ask your friend to come to my office tomorrow.’
‘I was hoping he could come and see you today.’
‘We’re closed on Sundays.’
‘Could you make an exception? He’s from out of town.’
‘Where from?’
‘Nagaland. Mokokchung, to be precise.’
X
After the game, Arjun drove back to his flat in Chittaranjan Park, took a shower and had his breakfast, then settled down on the sofa to watch the repeat telecast of an English Premier League game from the previous night. 11 a.m. came and went, but there was no sign of Roy’s friend. They must have met when Roy had been posted in Nagaland, Arjun thought. He went out to the balcony and lit a cigarette. Down in the park a group of boys were playing cricket with a worn tennis ball. November, but Delhi was still warm during the day. It seemed to take longer and longer with each passing year for the chill to set in. The man from Mokokchung . . . Arjun wasn’t superstitious, but he wondered why he had had that dream this morning. He hadn’t been told what help was required, just that it was a ‘serious personal problem’.
At 11.35 a.m. the doorbell rang, and when he went and opened the door there was a stocky, middle-aged tribal man with close-cropped hair standing there. He was wearing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and grey trousers, and was holding a green file folder in his thick hands.
‘Bendangtoshi Longkumer,’ the man said, extending his right hand. ‘Sorry I am late.’ There was real strength in the man’s calloused grip.
‘No problem,’ Arjun said, ‘please, come in. You don’t have to take your shoes off.’
In the sitting room, with the light falling on the man’s Mongoloid features, Arjun saw that he was old, the leathery brown skin scored with lines, the short hair an iron grey. His posture, though, was erect, his eyes bright—that was why he had seemed younger at the door.
‘Colonel Roy called me this morning,’ Arjun said. ‘How can I help you?’
The man placed the folder on the table and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He cleared his throat, fixed his eyes on Arjun and spoke.
‘I know Roy from many years ago, when he was posted in Wokha district. He suggested that I contact you. My youngest daughter Amenla was . . . she was killed here in Delhi. Last year. She was murdered. The police haven’t been able to catch anyone so far.’
The man spoke haltingly, even making allowances for the topic he had brought up. Arjun could guess that he wasn’t often out of his home town, nor required to speak in English much. He found himself softening towards the man, towards the loss suffered by a father. He vaguely recalled something in the newspapers from the previous year about the death of a young Naga girl. But still, after a year . . .
‘When exactly did this happen?’ Arjun asked.
‘Twenty-second September, last year. She was just twenty-nine years old.’
Time seemed to have dulled the loss for him. Arjun couldn’t help but think of Rhea.
‘But, Mr Longkumer, after an entire year . . .’
‘I waited one year, hoping, praying. But nothing. I am desperate now. Please help me. The room where she stayed is still the way it is. I’ve kept paying the rent. I just want to know who did this. She was such a kind-hearted girl . . .’ His voice trailed off and he looked down at his scarred hands.
Though Mr Longkumer appeared composed, Arjun had seen the sorrow in his eyes. To lose one’s daughter . . .
‘What exactly happened?’ he asked.
With his stubby fingers, Mr Longkumer untied the cord securing the folder, took out a photo from within and handed it to Arjun. It showed a young tribal woman in a white blouse and a wrap-around shawl woven in the style of the Ao tribe, red with blue stripes. Amenla Longkumer. She was of medium height, with long, straight hair falling over one shoulder and a black book, probably a Bible, in her hands. Her face was fair and long, with well-defined cheeks and jaw bones, and a direct gaze like her father’s. The ironic half-smile on her lips caught his attention most of all. She was standing alone, a tree and part of a house with a tin roof and some other people behind her.
Mr Longkumer said, ‘Her elder sister took this photo. Just after church service, the last time she had come home. She was going to come home for Christmas last year, but then . . .’ He took a deep breath before going on. ‘Amenla was working here in a call centre. She stayed alone in a barsati in Safdarjung Enclave. On 21st September last year she called me at night. My phone was at home and I had gone to a neighbour’s house to discuss some matters. When I came back I tried calling her but she didn’t pick up. I thought she was busy or had gone out. Then in the morning there was a call from her landlady.’
Here he paused, and looked away. Arjun had questions, but he knew when to wait.
‘They found her body in the morning. She had been strangled.’ Mr Longkumer’s voice was choking, and he took another break. ‘Me, my wife and my son—we managed to reach Delhi the next evening. By then the post-mortem had already been done. So we decided to bury her here. That was done the next day. Some people from our community arranged it at the cemetery in Paharganj. The Delhi Police had registered a case but even now, after one year, nothing has happened.’ He paused again. ‘Can you please help Amenla get justice, Mr Arora?’ he finally said, in a small but firm voice.
A proud man from the hills, Arjun could see, not used to asking for anything, except now, in this situation. He needed time to think, and asked Mr Longkumer if he wanted tea or coffee, to which the visitor said he only wanted some water. Arjun went to the kitchen, poured out two glasses of water, placed them on a tray. He usually avoided murder cases because the Delhi Police would be involved. But the father in him recognized the man’s distress. And his dream that morning about heading to Mokokchung . . . was there something more to it?
He went back to the sitting room, where Mr Longkumer drained his glass in one go.
‘So you’re from Mokokchung?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But our original village is Longkhum, it’s nearby.’
Had he been in the army, or in one of the insurgent groups? There was something martial about the man. Then again, they were tough people, especially the older ones.
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Three. Amenla was the youngest. I was forty-two when she was born. My eldest daughter is in Kohima, and my son in Dimapur. There’s only me and my wife left at home now.’
Forty-two
years—the age he was now. Arjun could see that the man was still waiting for an answer to his question.
He said, ‘I do want to help you. But a year has passed . . . and the Delhi Police is involved too. Just give me some time to think, please. I’ll let you know by tonight.’
Mr Longkumer bowed his head. Arjun didn’t know what more to say.
‘The police had arrested a friend of Amenla’s,’ Mr Longkumer said, looking up. ‘An Indian boy. But then they let him go.’ There was a pleading look in his eyes. ‘Colonel Roy said you grew up in the North-east, that’s why I came to you. You are our last hope, Mr Arora.’
Indian. It had been a while since Arjun had heard the word used in that context. ‘Give me some time to decide,’ he said.
After Mr Longkumer left, Arjun went out to the balcony and lit a cigarette. On the other side of the park he could see the elderly Naga man walking slowly towards a small white taxi. He was going to do it; he was going to take the case. He went back inside and opened the folder with the clippings and photos Mr Longkumer had left with him.
‘North-east girl found dead in South Delhi’ was the headline of one story in a national daily, the newspaper where Poppy Barua worked. The story corresponded to what Mr Longkumer had told him. The girl’s body had been found in her room by the landlady in the morning, after she had noticed that the door leading to the terrace was ajar. The previous day had apparently been Amenla’s day off at the call centre, so she was at home that evening instead of at work. The landlady had told the police that there had been a quarrel between Amenla and a male friend of hers a day earlier, just before she had left for work. Was he the ‘Indian boy’ Mr Longkumer had mentioned? Arjun went through the rest of the articles, a photocopy of the FIR filed by the police at the Safdarjung Police Station against ‘unknown persons’, and photos of Amenla, one which appeared to be on the terrace outside her room and another in her office. But it was the photo of her at home that he returned to, with that enigmatic half-smile on her lips. There seemed to be something hidden there . . .
One of the newspaper reports mentioned one Rohit Chaudhry, a Delhi resident, being picked up by the police, and then released. Another quoted Oyum Tagu, president of the NESAD (North East Students’ Association, Delhi), as saying that the police were ‘racially biased’. Arjun made a mental note of both names as he tied the cord of the folder. There was something immeasurably sad about the father’s attempts at chronicling the aftermath of his daughter’s murder. What hopes and disappointments he must have had to endure in this city far from home. Putting the folder aside, Arjun went into the kitchen to make his lunch.
4
THE NEXT MORNING ARJUN WAS in Safdarjung Enclave’s B Block looking for a place to park. The dashboard clock showed 10.05 a.m. and Led Zeppelin played on low volume on the car stereo. He had crossed Rajinder Da Dhaba on his way: it had been a while since he had been there for the fried fish.
The previous evening he had called Mr Longkumer, who was staying at the Nagaland House on Aurangzeb Road, and told him he would accept the case. Mr Longkumer had given him the address of Amenla’s barsati in Safdarjung and the phone number she had been using (her phone had disappeared following her murder, he said—the only item missing). Arjun of course already had these two pieces of information with him from the copy of the FIR. His new client said he would be in Delhi for a couple more days. Arjun told Mr Longkumer they would discuss his payment once he’d managed to get any leads. He may have accepted the case, but he was still sceptical about how much he could find out after all this time. The first thing Arjun had done was to ask Computer Baba to get him the call detail records, or CDRs, for the number from a year earlier.
He found an empty slot for the car beside a small MCD park at whose entrance a chhole–kulche-wallah with a cycle had set up shop, and walked back to the lane mentioned in the address. There was a residents’ welfare association (RWA) gate, now open, at the entrance to the lane, and on the other side of the road from it were a grocery store and a men’s salon. An upper-middle-class locality. But most cars still had to be parked outside on the street for lack of space. Just being rich was of no use in Delhi—one had to be very, very rich to avoid even such basic problems. At least the streetlights seemed to be undamaged, Arjun observed.
The house in question was to the left at the intersection of another lane, and the first impression it made upon Arjun was of modesty. A plain, two-storey structure painted a light green that looked to be at least forty to fifty years old, going by its straight lines and brickwork. Not many such houses remained in Delhi; most had been torn down or built over for larger and grander residences. There was a doorbell by the gate and Arjun pressed it. All around were bigger three-storey structures, and the place Amenla had called home was spared being dwarfed by them on account of its location at the corner of the crossroads of the two lanes. A high wall blocked out the lane to its left, while behind and to its right were the usual large buildings with balconies that had top-to-bottom grilles. Above the first floor Arjun could make out part of the rooms Amenla would have occupied.
The gate creaked open, and he saw an elderly woman in a cream-coloured salwar–kameez. She had shoulder-length white hair, a high forehead and a sharp nose. A pair of reading glasses hung around her neck.
‘Mrs Sodhi?’ Arjun asked, at which the woman nodded.
‘Arjun Arora.’
‘Amenla’s father told me about you. You’re the detective?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded and beckoned him to follow her.
‘I’ll show you her place first. Come.’
There was something commanding about the lady. Arjun followed her along the driveway to the left, past potted plants and an old Fiat. Had Amenla found this place comforting, somehow reminiscent of home? The entrance was off the driveway, and he noted the folded iron grille with three large locks by the main door and the three doorbells in a row marked Ground, 1st and 2nd. Outside and above the entrance, on the levels of the two upper floors, there were two small, barred windows. Mrs Sodhi opened the door, and there was another door about ten feet in, after the staircase on the left. There was a wood-framed mirror beside the door, and a wrought-iron lamp at the corner of the staircase.
‘The place has been lying like this for a year, gathering dust,’ Mrs Sodhi said, going up the steps slowly, a hand on the wooden banister. ‘I don’t know what you’ll find.’
‘The iron grille: what time would you close it when Amenla was here?’ Arjun asked.
‘At 11 p.m. We still do. She would leave for work at 8 p.m. and get back by 6 a.m. I would open the grille around 5 a.m., after I got up. You can’t sleep much at my age.’
She paused for a moment on the first-floor landing. Above the door were tribal handicrafts from central India: spindly figures of men and women shaped out of wire.
‘Who stays here?’
‘My son,’ Mrs Sodhi said, resuming her climb. ‘He’s in Singapore right now.’
‘Amenla had an off that day, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. I closed the iron grille as usual—if she was going out she would tell me. That day I saw her get back in the evening from the market with some shopping.’
‘What time?’
‘Around 7 p.m.’
‘What had she bought?’
‘Vegetables. Milk. We spoke for a while. She was such a nice girl.’
They had reached the second-floor door. The white paint on it was starting to peel, and there was a peephole. Above was a filament bulb, with a switch by the door. Mrs Sodhi produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the heavy lock, then turned back to Arjun.
‘The next morning after I opened the grille I came up to put off the outside light on the first floor. Then I noticed this light on top was off. I came up a few steps, and saw that the door was ajar. So I came up to have a look . . .’
She opened the door and stepped on to the terrace, with Arjun behind her. He noticed there was another switch on the inside, whi
le the door opened to the outside. The flooring of the terrace was blackened and discoloured by dust and rain, while a waist-high wall ran around its ends. Roughly in the middle was a two-room structure with a flat roof, an old-fashioned 1.5-litre air conditioner unit sticking out of one window.
‘It’s a bit dirty now, but she used to keep the place very clean when she was here,’ Mrs Sodhi said.
While Mrs Sodhi looked for the keys in her bunch, Arjun walked over to the edge and looked down. It was a sheer drop to the ground: no outer ledges around the building, except for the parapet over the entrance. Some distance away, towards the rear and to one side, were the blank side walls of the adjacent buildings. He looked around at the dusty, built-up view—only a few trees in sight. What would it have been like for a girl from the hills to live here?
‘Come, have a look,’ Mrs Sodhi said, throwing open both doors.
The larger room had a bed, television and almirah, with a plastic-looking door that Arjun supposed led to the bathroom. The smaller room beside it was the kitchen, with a double burner and a sink. As Mrs Sodhi had mentioned, there was a layer of dust on top of everything.
She said, appearing to have read Arjun’s mind, ‘I sent the maid up here to clean it a couple of times. But it’s so dusty now, and she doesn’t like to keep coming up here. You know how workers are, spirits and ghosts and all that.’
Arjun nodded as he put on a pair of white surgical gloves. He entered the kitchen first. There was a faint smell of something familiar—bamboo shoots—and he saw a few bottles of the stuff in chunks on one of the shelves. That was one way of keeping home close to you. He opened the drawers. In one were packets of dried raja mircha and dried shredded meat, which had started mouldering inside. He stepped up on a stool to check what was on the high shelves: empty cardboard boxes, rope, broken utensils. On one of them were a couple of cheap plastic soap cases and small yellow containers Arjun recognized as being Golden khaini tins. He smiled to himself; the shredded and scented tobacco was an unseemly habit of some tribal girls from the North-east. Everything was coated in dust, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The fridge, switched off, was empty. Mrs Sodhi, standing in the doorway, looked on.
More Bodies Will Fall Page 2