More Bodies Will Fall

by Ankush Saikia

  The old hardbound diary turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. From the date/place mentioned above the entries he saw they were all written in Shillong or in Mokokchung, from the year 1994 to 2001, when she would have been studying in Shillong. Had she stopped the practice once she moved to Delhi? The entries were short, in a tight cursive handwriting. As he turned the pages and read snatches, he realized they sounded familiar—their dramatic, inward-looking tone (Why is Miss D. such a pain? Always after me for the smallest thing and All girls talk too much—it’s better reading a book on my own in my corner.) reminded him of Rhea in her last years of school. And in some of the entries, especially those written at home, there seemed to be a yearning, a desire for escape. Was that why she had come to Delhi and then never gone back? Or was it just normal adolescent ennui? He flipped through the pages a second time, and then stopped and went back to the beginning, having noticed something. Who was this ‘T’ who kept being mentioned in the first half of the diary? As he read the relevant lines, he understood—a boyfriend, possibly her first. There seemed to have been some tension in the relationship though (Coming from different places, can me and T ever hope to be together?). Could T have been a Khasi boy from Shillong? He was missing from the second half of the diary though. The last mention of him was: This is it. The end. Will not be meeting T again. Feeling hollow inside, but I tell myself it’s all for the better.

  That left just the photo album, a small rectangular one with a faded print of flowers on the plastic cover. Arjun had two or three of these in a box somewhere, old photos of his parents and him, of the first few years with Sonali and Rhea. He didn’t take them out too often. This one, as he had half-suspected, was a collection of old photos, of Amenla as a child at home, and in what appeared to be the hostel in Shillong. There was, in the pre-digital innocence of these photos, with their wood-and-plaster walls in the background, and the smiling faces of children and adults dressed in modest clothing, something deeply recognizable for him. In one, a group of barefooted children were sitting on the grass, eating rice and meat from wild banana leaves, while in the background were the blurry figures of people and beyond them the hills. He thought he could make out Mr Longkumer, in jeans and a shirt. They were like glimpses into a world now lost to him for good. One photo made him pause: it showed Amenla, possibly in her early teens, standing against a cemented barrier, wearing a flowery dress and a denim jacket, a faint smile on her face as the sun fell on her long, glossy hair. There was a cliff face behind her—it looked like somewhere in Cherrapunji to Arjun. A school picnic probably, or a family trip before heading back home. She was beautiful; T, whoever he was, would have been broken-hearted. It was her smile though, similar to the one in the photo in Mr Longkumer’s folder, that caught his attention—a hint of things kept hidden. Who had she really been? And who was Mr Longkumer?

  He put the album back in the box, closed the lid and went out to the balcony where he lit a Gold Flake and stood with his hands on the metal railing with its peeling paint. Down in the park a group of young boys were crowded around one of the benches, laughing as they looked into someone’s mobile phone. Amenla’s phone was the only thing that was said to have gone missing; he should try and have a look at her Facebook and other social media accounts. The fact that she had preserved those old letters and photos gave her death a certain poignancy, Arjun thought. At the same time, he needed to watch out against getting sidetracked by trying to recreate the girl’s personality. The killer was out there somewhere; it was his job now to find them.

  Stubbing his cigarette out in a flowerpot, Arjun turned to leave for his appointment with Amenla’s father.

  8

  HE WENT UP TOWARDS NIZAMUDDIN from the Ring Road then took a left and a right, headed towards the IIC and Khan Market, from where he turned left towards South End Road. Turning left again from the Claridges at the roundabout, he came on to Aurangzeb Road. He turned to look as he passed an apartment complex set back from high, black, granite-covered walls. He had visited it the previous year to meet Sunny Chadha in the case involving an air hostess and a missing actress. Sunny Chadha had ended up dead at a building site on the way to Greater Noida, pushed out of a window by Arjun. Memento mori: remember death.

  Nagaland House was one of those state bhawans Arjun had last visited years ago, and as he drove his Scorpio in after talking to the NAP guards at the gate, he saw that the white-painted, block-like structure looked much the same, only slightly dowdier being in the immediate vicinity of the sleek new flats. He parked the car and got out. As he walked up to the entrance a group of sharply dressed Naga youth (some of the girls in their wrap-around shawls), perhaps there for a students’ meeting, looked at him appraisingly. There was a faint smell of bamboo shoot and akhuni, or the fermented soya bean, from the kitchens behind. Something inside him stirred at the sights and smells. But then he was an exile, just as Amenla had been.

  Mr Longkumer was in a room on the third floor, one of the larger ones. When he opened the door Arjun saw he had company: a group of four men in late middle-age, three of who were heavyset and noticeably Naga. The men rose to leave as Arjun entered, still chuckling over something amusing. The fourth man was of smaller build and wore a navy-blue blazer and rimless glasses, his hair oiled and combed, clutching a tin of Rajnigandha paan masala in one hand. He looked at Arjun as they filed out of the room.

  ‘Sorry to have disturbed you,’ Arjun said after Mr Longkumer had closed the door.

  The elderly man waved his hand. ‘Not at all. They came and disturbed me. Please sit down.’ He took a seat as well on the large sofa, then picked up the telephone and spoke in Nagamese: ‘Send two cups of tea up to my room.’ Arjun found he could still follow the pidgin.

  He put down the receiver. ‘Mining rights in Ao Naga areas. Those ministers and the bureaucrat came to talk to me.’

  Here, inside his state’s house, he seemed more at ease, more confident than he had been the previous day. Arjun decided to clear one point right at the start.

  ‘Mr Longkumer, something I needed to ask you. Were you ever with any of the . . . NPGs?’

  He had chosen the more diplomatic term, national political groups, instead of UG, or underground.

  ‘Yes, I was,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Right from the beginning, with Phizo’s group. Then I carried on with other groups after the Shillong Accord. Nowadays of course I,’ he spread both hands and smiled, ‘don’t have to be in hiding.’

  His reply reminded Arjun of just how common it had been in Naga society to have their men fighting the Indian state, and also the factionalism that had been the bane of the Naga movement.

  ‘Now I am a member of the Ao Senden; that’s why those people came to meet me,’ he continued. ‘But thank you for agreeing to help. I’m sure you’ll find something.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Arjun said. ‘I visited the barsati this morning and met the Sodhis. You met them when Amenla was there?’

  ‘Yes. They were very nice people. Treated her like their own daughter.’

  His gaze fell, and he seemed to be lost in thought for a moment.

  ‘What about their son, the doctor? Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘No. He stays somewhere outside India.’

  ‘Did Amenla ever mention him?’

  Mr Longkumer shook his head.

  ‘I took the shoebox from Mrs Sodhi. To have a look at the things inside. You didn’t want to keep it?’

  ‘Yes, we will keep it with us. But as long as the house is there . . . I feel like she is still there. So I left those things in a box with Mrs Sodhi.’

  Arjun caught a glimpse in the man’s eyes of the grief buried deep within. Once again, he thought of Rhea. To lose one’s daughter . . .

  ‘The letters she wrote to you. Do you have those with you?’

  ‘Yes, I have kept all of them in a box at home.’

  ‘Was there anything in them about her being worried, or scared about something? In the more recent ones? Or did sh
e mention something on the phone?’

  ‘I read all her letters to me after she passed away. Several times. But nothing about her being . . . scared. Not on the phone also. She was a brave girl.’

  Arjun nodded. ‘There was an old diary of hers in the box. I went through it. There was someone called “T” mentioned in it. Do you know who it could have been?’

  The other man frowned and shook his head. ‘No, sorry.’

  He didn’t like probing into these matters. But justice had to be done, it was up to him.

  ‘There are some questions you might find uncomfortable, Mr Longkumer. But for me to do my job . . .’

  ‘You ask me what you want, Mr Arora. I just want to know who did this.’

  But if he found the person, Arjun thought, how then might the old man decide to settle matters? The doorbell rang; their tea had arrived. After the bearer had placed two cups of tea and some biscuits on the table and left, Arjun resumed his questioning.

  ‘This Indian boy you mentioned, was his name Rohit Chaudhry?’

  Mr Longkumer nodded, his face suddenly grim.

  ‘Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘I met him once. I didn’t like him. No respect for elder people.’

  He had answered Arjun’s next two questions without being asked. Arjun carried on.

  ‘Do you think he was . . . your daughter’s boyfriend?’

  ‘They were friends. I respected her choices.’

  Arjun decided to move on.

  ‘Did you know an American friend of hers? Cooper Grant? From the US embassy?’

  The elderly man thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘I went through some of your letters to her. You wanted her to sit for the civil services, I think? You also wanted her to come back home?’

  ‘I thought, how long will she keep working in a call centre, doing night duty. But she always had her own ideas.’ He smiled to himself. ‘It’s not easy for our children. They are caught between trying to be like us, and trying to be like the outside world.’

  A difficult truth, but one he had expressed succinctly. There was a shrewdness in him, Arjun thought, something which could well have been passed on to the daughter. He drank some of his tea and bit into a biscuit.

  ‘Did she like her job? Amenla?’

  ‘Yes, she was doing well. Good salary also. We were proud of her. But we also wanted her to come back to Nagaland, find herself a good boy.’ He shook his head. ‘And now she lies buried here. I visited her grave this morning, placed some flowers on it.’

  I need to go and have a look at it too, Arjun thought.

  ‘Did she have any . . . Naga boyfriends here in Delhi?’ he asked.

  ‘There were boys from Nagaland she knew. For that you should talk to her cousin, Nancy. My elder sister’s daughter.’

  ‘Where does she stay?’ Arjun asked, remembering Mrs Sodhi had mentioned her.

  ‘Shillong. She teaches in a private college there. She was very close to Amenla.’

  ‘I’ll take her number from you. There were two former roommates of your daughter?’

  Mr Longkumer nodded. ‘Two girls, yes. One Lotha, one Tangkhul. Nancy will have their numbers too with her.’

  ‘Do you remember the investigating officer for the case? From the police.’

  ‘Inspector Kapil Sharma. He didn’t seem . . . serious to me.’

  ‘Why did they let this boy, Rohit, go?’

  ‘Sharma said he had an alibi. But I don’t trust these people, you know.’

  Arjun could understand. Even though he had fought the Indian Army in the Naga hills, Delhi would seem like a far more hostile place.

  ‘I’ll talk to him, see what I can find out. Can you think of anything else that might be linked to what happened to Amenla?’

  He was thinking of the crumbling tablet he had found inside the decorative bamboo tube, but Amenla’s father just shook his head.

  ‘You had mentioned a post-mortem?’

  Amenla’s father nodded.

  ‘What was the cause of death mentioned as?’

  ‘Death caused by . . . strangulation. Most possibly with a cord.’

  ‘I see.’

  Arjun finished his cold tea, and took down Amenla’s cousin’s number on his phone.

  ‘And what about your payment, Mr Arora?’ the elder man asked him.

  ‘Like I said, let me get some new information and then we can talk.’

  He stood up and shook Mr Longkumer’s rough hand.

  9

  EIGHT P.M., AND ARJUN WAS outside the Safdarjung Enclave thana, lighting yet another cigarette. Nearby, in the semi-darkness, various desperate characters stood or squatted along the pavement, waiting. In one corner a constable palavered with a group of such men. Arjun rubbed his eyes; it had been a long day, and the smog didn’t help matters.

  From Nagaland House he had driven down to the DCP south office, near the busy traffic point between Hauz Khas and Shahpur Jat. A policeman he knew there, a PR officer, greeted him without much enthusiasm, buried as he was under a pile of paperwork. He listened to Arjun and then fobbed him off to the ACP South office. Arjun had then driven across to RK Puram via the Outer Ring Road, packed now with evening traffic. It was a dusty little complex on Kaifi Azmi Marg, with motorcycles parked at random all around, and when Arjun went into the duty officer’s room to inquire, he was told that ACP sahab was out. The PR officer had given Arjun his number, so he called the ACP, who asked him to wait for him.

  There were only dusty government flats around, and a cigarette shop beside the CNG station on the main road, so Arjun had gone to the ramshackle canteen at the back of the ACP office where he had a cup of tea and an oily aloo paratha while listening to a couple of policemen talking about a five-year-old who had been kidnapped and was now feared to have been killed. No one gave him a second glance; with his short hair and erect posture, he still had the aura of an ex-forces man. Two cigarettes later, the ACP had turned up, an avuncular, elderly man who asked for tea when Arjun stepped into his large, white-tiled office. Arjun explained that he was a detective, and gave the official a gist of the case. His openness had been influenced by the man he saw in front of him, and it appeared to work. The ACP put a call through to the SHO of the Safdarjung Enclave thana and asked Arjun to go meet him. His one request, as Arjun got up to leave, was for ‘cooperation’ with the SHO.

  The SHO had told the ACP that he would be back from a meeting by 7.30 p.m., but at 8.25 p.m. there was still no sign of him. Arjun stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside. The Safdarjung thana occupied the grounds with the older Sarojini Nagar thana; the former had been set up with the increase in the area’s population, with a newer office for the SHO, and a smaller reporting room for the duty officer at the front of the Sarojini Nagar thana reporting room. Arjun was standing near the open main gate trying to figure out an argument between two dishevelled men, one of whom had his wife and son with him, and didn’t notice the man striding in past the gate. The person stopped at the sight of Arjun, and came up to him.

  ‘Are you in trouble, Aroraji?’

  Arjun turned and saw a grinning face: DCP Prem Tanwar. For a moment he didn’t know what to say, before blurting out that he had to meet someone.

  ‘Meeting someone? Am I not there in Delhi Police any more?’ Tanwar cried in mock grievance, the familiar smell of whisky on his breath. ‘Who are you meeting?’

  ‘SHO Safdarjung thana.’

  Tanwar nodded, his cold eyes scanning Arjun’s face. ‘You’ve forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten you. Let me know if you need any help.’

  With that he headed for the older Sarojini Nagar SHO’s office. Arjun swore under his breath and turned around. The last person he wanted to meet. They had begun establishing a working relationship around two years back, but after getting to know the cop better, Arjun had chosen to keep his distance. From crooked property deals to fake encounters, Tanwar was an embodiment of the Delhi Police’s dark sid
e.

  The Safdarjung Enclave SHO turned up a few minutes later, just after 8.30 p.m., his Gypsy entering the gates and screeching to a stop. Arjun followed the tall uniformed figure to his office beside the reporting room, knocked on the door and entered. SHO Kamlesh had a bristly moustache and his eyes were red with exhaustion. He regarded Arjun without curiosity and asked him to sit.

  ‘I’m detective Arjun Arora. I have a firm called Nexus Security in Kalkaji.’

  ‘Tell me, of what service can I be to you?’ Kamlesh asked, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘The young girl from Nagaland who was killed last year in Safdarjung—her family has asked me to look into it and see if I can find anything new.’ Then he added, ‘ACP sahab asked me to cooperate with you.’

  Arjun had taken care to sound humble, sitting on the edge of the chair like someone who had unexpectedly found himself in grand surroundings. Kamlesh looked up at the ceiling, his long fingers stroking his moustache. Above him was a board with the divisions and beats of the Safdarjung thana listed out, on the wall opposite him (behind Arjun) was the daily crime numbers chart and on another wall was the map of the Safdarjung thana area, below the Ring Road.

  ‘I served in Nagaland when I was in the army,’ Arjun went on, ‘and that was one reason why the girl’s father approached me, through a common friend in the army.’

  Kamlesh looked at Arjun with interest, but before he could say anything, a constable burst into the office, saying a call had come in from a ‘ladies’ at Arjun Nagar whose husband had doused her with petrol and tried to set her ablaze. Stone-faced, the young man explained that the woman was okay, but that several household items had been burnt. Kamlesh lifted one of the three phones on a table beside his desk and asked for a PCR vehicle to rush to the place.

  The constable left. Kamlesh considered Arjun in silence for a while, then lifted another phone and asked for Inspector Kapil Sharma to be sent over.