‘He checked in using his middle name,’ Arjun said, handing over the phone.
Rhea looked at the photo closely before handing it back.
‘So Tony was here with Amenla over a year ago, at this very table?’
‘That’s what it looks like.’
‘And it was a memorable occasion for her?’
Arjun nodded. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘So would he have killed her?’
‘That’s what we don’t know.’
‘So what are you going to do then?’
‘Go and talk to her father. Tell him whatever I’ve found out so far.’
‘And this guy Tony is in the North-east now, maybe Manipur?’
‘That’s where he should be.’
‘What if her father wants you to go find him?’
‘No way. Besides, he can do that better himself.’
‘But you were in the North-east too. And wasn’t Dadaji in Manipur as well?’
‘We were there, but I don’t see myself going back there to look for an insurgent or ex-insurgent.’
Their dim sums arrived. Arjun found them slightly chewy and dry. What his daughter had said was weighing on his mind. If he was honest with himself, hadn’t he taken this assignment on the off chance that it might lead to the North-east?
‘And what’s the deal with this Kuki–Naga conflict?’ Rhea asked him after a sip of the fresh lime soda.
‘A territorial clash in the mid-1990s. The Kukis are part of this larger Zo group, which includes the Mizos in Mizoram and the Chin in Myanmar. Some of them moved north into the Naga areas during the British period, and were used against them as soldiers. So there was always a bit of bad blood. Then in the early- to middle-1990s, one of the main Naga insurgent groups split, and it became imperative for one of the factions to gain a strong foothold in their own territory, which is why they then served eviction notices to Kuki villages. Many people were slaughtered, on both sides. The Kukis still have a Black Day.’
‘My God. And most people don’t even know about this.’
Arjun shrugged. ‘It’s history now. Something from the pre–mobile phone and pre-Internet days. Like the Bhagalpur blindings or the Hashimpura massacre.’
‘The what?’
‘Never mind. Here, you finish these, I’m still full from lunch.’
He watched as she ate, and felt a great sense of contentment. To be here with her, talking to her, his own flesh and blood, was worth everything.
‘Good work with the Instagram photo,’ he told her. ‘It was helpful.’
‘And?’
‘A consultant’s fee will be transferred to your account.’
She made a face at him. ‘Thanks, Papa.’
On their way back from the mall to Arjun’s place she seemed somewhat preoccupied.
‘Those troubles you told me about,’ she said, ‘were you involved in them?’
‘Involved how?’
‘Did the army have to deal with it?’
‘We did, to some extent. I saw some pretty nasty stuff.’
‘Mama told me once you never talked about it.’
‘It’s not something to be discussed in a family, Rhea.’
Besides, he thought, there were worse things he had done back then, things he had managed to keep buried inside so far. But once you started scratching at old wounds . . .
‘But what about the people who were involved, the Kukis and the Nagas?’
‘That’s life, Rhea. Your dadaji had to flee his village in Punjab during the Partition.’
She left a short while after they got back. Whether she was upset with him for not talking about what he had done back then or if it was just one of her moods, he couldn’t tell. He stood out on the balcony smoking a cigarette as darkness fell. His phone started ringing and he went inside to get it. A landline number. It turned out to be the man from the American embassy.
‘Good evening, Mr Arora,’ Cooper Grant said. ‘Are you free this evening?’
22
HE TOOK A SHOWER AND changed into a pair of grey trousers and a dark-purple full-sleeved shirt. Looking at the almirah mirror, Arjun felt like he was looking at someone else: the past couple of years it had mostly always been trackpants and Wrangler jeans for him. But the change of attire was required, for Cooper Grant had fixed an appointment at one of the more exclusive addresses in Delhi. Before he set off, Arjun opened the almirah, looked at his small collection of perfume bottles and took out one his ex-wife, Sonali, had given him as a birthday present four years ago. He sprayed some of it on; if he was going to the Piano Man Jazz Club, then he would certainly look and smell the part.
The club sat high on top one of the more exclusive five-star hotels in the capital, between the embassy zone and the area known as Lutyens’ Delhi. It was a different ball game here, Arjun thought some thirty minutes later, watching a sleek yellow Lamborghini Aventador slide away as he brought his Scorpio up to the entrance. This was no place for ordinary mortals. The unseemly opulence of the hotel and its guests seemed to distract him, for he got off the lift at a different floor where there was a restaurant instead of the bar. As he made his way back to the lift he first saw one, and then a second, familiar face in a row of people talking and moving towards the restaurant. He couldn’t move to the other end of the corridor—there was a group coming out from the restaurant—and so he stopped near a potted plant and looked down at his phone. Too late he remembered the perfume he was wearing.
‘Arjun?’ his ex-wife said. ‘What are you doing here?’
Sonali had bought him the perfume as she loved the smell; she would have smelt it now too.
‘Meeting someone,’ he said.
The second face belonged to the executive Rohit Khanna, with his usual gelled hair and pointed leather shoes, Sonali’s new husband.
‘Isn’t Rhea with you?’ Sonali continued.
‘Was,’ he said. ‘I made lunch for her, and then we went out.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking at Khanna, who seemed unsure whether to greet Arjun or not.
She looked at their companions, who had walked ahead, and then at Arjun, and started to say something when he cut her off.
‘I got off at the wrong floor, Sonali. See you.’
He walked to the lift without looking back. Of all the people in the world, he thought, as he got off on the next floor and headed for the club, of all the people in the world, he had to run into Sonali and Rohit Khanna, and he had to be wearing a perfume she had gifted him years ago. Would she think he still missed her and so wore that old fragrance? A mood of irritation enveloped him as he entered the dimly lit environs of the club.
The continuous glass windows along two of the outer walls gave a view of the scattered lights of Delhi down below. An old white-haired man was playing the piano, and the tinkling melodies somehow further increased Arjun’s irritation. On his left was the bar, and the sights of various exotic spirits and liquors lined up on the back-lit shelves momentarily tempted him. He took a few steps forward and looked around the club, where mostly middle-aged men and women sat conversing quietly.
A man sitting alone at a table for two a little down to Arjun’s right raised a hand, and he turned that way. As he came closer, a tall Caucasian in cream trousers and a white shirt stood up. They shook hands; Cooper Grant’s hand was slightly rough. As they sat Arjun turned his chair slightly to the right. He saw that Grant had picked a good spot—well in the shadows and yet with a good view of the entire place. There was a glass before him, half-empty; he had come early.
‘You like jazz, I hope?’ the American queried.
‘It’ll do,’ Arjun replied brusquely. ‘How did you recognize me?’
‘You’re right on time, and you were looking around for someone.’
Arjun nodded. Or Grant had managed to look him up. There was something spare and monastic about the American, a calm watchfulness along with a lithe physique. A waiter in a white shirt and black bow tie approached them.
/> ‘What’ll you have?’ Grant inquired. ‘I’ve ordered myself a whisky sour.’
‘A cold Coke with a slice of lime,’ Arjun said to the waiter.
Grant raised his eyebrows. No glasses, as Arjun had imagined, but he could be wearing contacts. No way though could he be described as being of medium height.
Arjun cleared his throat. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘Really? I thought being a detective . . .’
Arjun gave him a thin smile. ‘This isn’t LA, and I’m not Marlowe.’
He was having a hard time controlling his reaction at seeing Sonali again. Grant reminded him of it again: privilege, superiority. His father, and he, had never had that luxury.
‘Delhi is a different sort of place,’ Grant said. ‘So much more . . . ancient.’
‘So, what do you do at the embassy?’
The American spread his palms in a gesture that brought to mind the word ‘oriental’.
‘This and that. Cultural things, mostly.’
Arjun’s drink arrived, and he took a sip. There was a low smattering of applause as the pianist stopped; the white-haired man drank from a glass of water and started again.
‘Is that what led you to Nagaland?’
Grant looked at him for a few seconds. ‘You could say that, yes.’
‘And that’s where you met Amenla?’
The American shook his head. ‘Not that I recall. You are a detective, aren’t you?’
Arjun took out a visiting card and handed it to Grant.
‘A bona fide detective. I’m carrying on from where the Delhi Police left. They’re behind me on this one, by the way. So, where did you meet her?’
‘At a party thrown by someone from the French embassy. She was with a friend.’
‘And you travelled to Nagaland . . . after that?’
‘That was before.’
‘Which places? I’m just curious.’
‘Kohima, Khonoma, Wokha, Mokokchung.’
‘Did you find them interesting?’
‘Yes. Culturally. So much is being lost though.’
‘Abeni, Amenla’s ex-roommate, told me you knew a lot about their state. The tribes, the insurgent groups. You visited twice, I believe.’
Grant fixed Arjun with a steady gaze. ‘I have an interest in that, yes.’
‘Now, when did the NNC sign the Shillong Accord?’ Arjun mused, almost to himself.
‘1975,’ came the prompt reply, and then Grant looked down at his glass.
‘That’s impressive.’
‘Hardly. Anyone with an interest in the affairs of the state would know that.’
‘But that level of detail, Mr Grant. Let me be frank with you. Amenla’s father has hired me to look into her . . . death. Considering the police couldn’t or wouldn’t do much. I’ve spoken to several people so far, and there will be more after you. So if you told me what your relationship with Amenla was, it would help. Were you going around with her?’
Grant appeared not to have heard him, looking at the pianist tinkling away.
‘I suppose you don’t like jazz, Mr Arora. Do you know who that piano player is? Tito Menezes from Bombay. He used to play in places like Volga in Connaught Place in the sixties and seventies. I know that because I have an interest in jazz. My dad used to play the saxophone.’ He turned to face Arjun. ‘You strike me as being a smart fellow. Part of the reason I chose to meet you. Let me be honest with you, so that there are no misunderstandings between us. As you might have figured out by now, part of my job is looking into certain . . . sensitive areas. That was the root of my interest in Amenla. However,’ here Grant took a deep breath and exhaled, ‘after a couple of meetings, I realized I was starting to develop a liking for her. I’m sure you understand. She was a charming young woman. But in my line of work that can be something of a liability, not to mention a source of danger for the other person. So I started to distance myself from her. This was a couple of months before her death.’
‘Never get too close to a source, is that it?’
Grant gave him a rueful smile and picked up his glass.
‘How did Amenla take it? Was she upset?’
‘No, no. Puzzled would be more the word. She handled it well though. We even met once or twice after my . . . decision.’
‘Did you ever meet at the Hungry Rabbit?’
‘Where?’
‘Never mind. Do you think anyone killed her to get to you?’
‘No! My God. I’m not James Bond or anything, just a government employee.’
‘Or maybe to get back at you?’
‘What are you saying? Wait, the ex-boyfriend? An unpleasant fellow, but I doubt he’d be capable of murder.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised, Mr Grant. So what do you think happened?’
The American scratched his cheek. ‘I don’t know, honestly. There was something . . . hidden . . . about Amenla, something private, a side to her I never got to know. Maybe that had something to do with it.’
Arjun’s irritation had started to fade, and he felt a grudging respect for the American.
‘Or it could have just been a random crime,’ Grant said. ‘I doubt you’d want a second one of those?’
‘No, I’m done.’
Grant signalled to their waiter for the bill.
‘I have a dinner invitation, so . . . got to go. What do you say we catch up for a drink again?’
Arjun chuckled. ‘Mr Grant, I have my own rule about sources too.’
The American raised his hands. ‘Fair enough.’
‘You should try and catch hold of the president of the North East Students’ Association, Delhi, though. I can give you his number, if you want.’
They parted outside the hotel, the doorman calling out for Grant’s taxi. Arjun turned down the American’s invitation to accompany him for dinner. It was at a friend’s place in Vasant Vihar, and he told Arjun there would be some ‘interesting people’ in attendance.
‘I don’t think so, Mr Grant. See you around sometime.’
Grant looked at him for a while, then said, ‘All the best, Mr Arora.’
‘Thanks.’
He watched the American get into the back of the large air-conditioned taxi and wave goodbye, then told the doorman the number of his vehicle.
But driving back home alone through the night-time roads, his irritation returned, along with a feeling of loneliness. Just a year or two ago he would have bought a half-bottle of whisky and headed for Yamini Tiwari’s flat, but now both those options were closed to him. He felt trapped, digging himself deeper and deeper into his own hole. Sonali and the wretched perfume he had to wear tonight of all nights, the American with his embassy taxi and a father who played the saxophone and dinner invitations to Vasant Vihar. The only thing his father had ever played was gilli–danda and hockey in their village before fleeing during Partition.
He found himself passing AIIMS, and saw that there were still a few paratha-wallahs plying their trade from carts. Stopping at one, he asked for parathas and tea, and bought a packet of cigarettes from a nearby stall. He stood near the cart as his anda paratha was cooked, and lit a cigarette by the glare of the petromax, the greasy fumes from the kerosene stove and tawa swirling past him. Let his ex-wife and the embassy guy enjoy their fancy dinners, he thought. Arjun Arora was a man of the streets, a solitary and sober one at that.
23
FRIDAY MORNING. ARJUN HEADED UP north across the city before the rush hour started clogging up the streets. The skies had cleared but an unseasonal chill still hung in the air. Going up KG Marg, he swept around Connaught Circus before exiting past Regal Cinema on to Panchkuian Road, heading towards Jhandewalan. About a kilometre and a half down he crossed the Ramakrishna Ashram Marg metro station, and ahead of that took a U-turn. Past the state cottage emporiums (Manipur’s was there too), yet to open at this hour, he took a left on to Ramdwara Road and soon came upon Nehru Bazar, two lines of modest shops that mostly sold cheap home fittings and furnishings.
He parked outside a chhole–bhature shop, next to a few other cars, and walked back till he came to the gate between the shops, a white arch above it on which were painted the words ‘Indian Christian Cemetery, Paharganj’.
Inside, among the gravestones on the grass under the neem trees, there was a hushed silence. Arjun had never been here, hadn’t even known the place existed; he had got directions from Mr Longkumer. Paharganj, with its seedy hotels and the railway station, would be behind the cemetery grounds, but that seemed far away as Arjun made his way through the gravestones, some topped with marble, some with flowers and candles on them. A little distance away was the poorer section, where rough cemented tombs stood on bare earth.
He found the Naga girl’s tombstone, and laid on it a loose bunch of flowers he had bought from the flower seller at the entrance. It was finished in black marble, with a white cross on top. Her name was under the cross, followed by the dates of birth and death (Mokokchung and Delhi added respectively in brackets after each one) and a simple two-line epitaph: ‘Here lies our dear daughter. May the good Lord watch over her.’ The simple inscription reminded him of those at the Kohima War Cemetery, made all the more touching by its lack of artifice. How far she had come from the hills of Nagaland!
Arjun looked around. There were only two or three other people here at this early hour, heads bowed over the graves of loved ones. He bent down and touched the cold marble. There were no prayers he could say, but he willed her to give him the strength to give her justice. A while later he walked out of the cemetery, lighting a cigarette as soon as he had passed the gates.
X
In his room at Nagaland House, Mr Longkumer was sitting on the bed wearing his pyjamas watching the news.
‘There was a bus accident yesterday between Kohima and Dimapur,’ he told Arjun. ‘Several killed. I thought they might show something about it. But nothing so far.’
More Bodies Will Fall Page 13