Banquet on the Dead (2 page)

‘Unofficial?’

‘Yes.’ The doctor’s voice became uncertain again. ‘You know, that mullah friend of yours? Very smart man.’

‘Really?’ asked Nagarajan, a touch coldly. He didn’t ask the doctor how he knew of his friend’s smarts. He had a feeling he was going to be told anyway.

‘Yes, yes. I’ve been treating him off and on for about a year now. It’s always so interesting to talk to him. He’s always telling me of great criminals of the past and how they dodged the police and lived lives of great adventure. I’ve always wondered. Is he an ex-colleague of yours?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Ah, I thought so. A person who is
just
a mullah can never have such great stories to tell. Mullahs tend to be such dull people, don’t they? I knew he must have lived the dangerous life at some point. You know, he also once found my stethoscope.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Oh, it was just brilliant,’ Koteshwar Rao said, warming to the topic. ‘I’d misplaced my stethoscope, you see, and I was grumbling about it when I was with him. He asked me what the matter was, and then asked me a few questions—just simple ones, mind you, like ‘Where were you this morning?’, ‘What time did you come in?’, that sort of thing. Of course, he would ask one or two really weird questions—like ‘What was on TV this morning?’— I am not saying he asked me
that
, but that
sort
of thing, you know?’

Nagarajan nodded. He knew.

‘And suddenly,’ the doctor continued, ‘out of nowhere, he says, “Doctor saab, your stethoscope is in your wife’s jewellery box.” I asked him how he could guess that it was there, and he said to me, “Doctor saab, I am not guessing that it is there. I know it is there.” And then he told me everything that had happened that day and how the stethoscope ended up in my wife’s box. And when he explained it all, it was so very simple, wasn’t it? I tell you, Inspector, it was very much like being in a detective novel myself. Amazing!’

It was not the first time that Nagarajan had heard the adjective in relation to the man being discussed, and the meaning in the doctor’s speech was clear. So he asked, ‘You want me to take his advice on the matter of your grandmother’s death?’

Koteshwar Rao immediately returned to his subdued self. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, if it is not too much trouble for him—and to you.’

‘It’s no trouble, Doctor. But let me tell you something about him. If I am going to enlist his help on your request, I think you ought to know the truth.’

A concerned look came over the doctor’s face. ‘Yes?’

Nagarajan smiled. ‘Think about all the stories he has told you. Has he ever told you a story of a cop?’

The doctor thought for a while, then shook his head.

‘He must have told you a lot of stories of pickpockets, burglars, druglords, kidnappers, and all other kinds of criminals—but he hasn’t told you even one story about a policeman.’ Nagarajan saw the doctor’s face change, and he smiled to himself. Out loud he said, ‘Now what does that tell you about him?’

‘So when you said he was “something like” a colleague—’

‘Precisely. But he is now clean. He has been clean for more than fifteen years now.’

‘So—so he won’t pose any danger—’

‘He shouldn’t. But there is always a risk. You know what they say. Once a criminal, always a criminal.’

The doctor asked slowly, ‘You say he’s been clean for fifteen years?’

‘Yes, we watch all such people quite closely. As far as we know he hasn’t done anything illegal in that time.’

‘And he seems to be such a nice person.’

‘He
is
a nice person. But I thought I ought to tell you the truth.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Koteshwar Rao. ‘It doesn’t bother me. I know the man. You know the man. If you think he can help—’

‘He can.’

‘Then shall we call him in?’

Inspector Nagarajan looked away at the glass pane again. The air-conditioning had still not come on. Neither had the cold drinks arrived. He rang the bell again. To the head of the constable that peered in through the door he said, ‘Get me Hamid bhai’s number.’

2

A
S
I
NSPECTOR
N
AGARAJAN EASED
his old Rajdoot off the driveway and got on the main road—a jeep would invite stares where he was going—he became aware of a faint ache behind his right shoulder. He did not flinch or respond in any way; that would mean acknowledging its presence. He tried to ignore it. What had the doctor said? It was not really there. It was his mind playing tricks.

He focused on his bike. Handle. Clutch. Brake. Gear. Release.

The bike lurched into motion in the direction of the Chowrastha. He tried to remember where Hamid Pasha’s house exactly was. How long had it been since he had seen him last? About a year? Yes, last Bakri Id sounded about right. Then he had been living in one of those Muslim dwellings by the big sewer. He had not kept in touch with Hamid bhai, he knew. But he also knew Hamid bhai wouldn’t hold it against him. Neither of them was particularly good at social formalities. Even that previous visit on Bakri Id had been on business.

He crossed Podduturi Complex and approached Tailors’ Street. It got its name some time in the Eighties when, presumably, it teemed with tailor shops. But now you would have to hunt to find one. There were four grocers, two internet cafés, two clothes shops, three general stores, one hardware shop, and a litany of other bits and pieces— but no tailor shop.

However, one fact about Tailors’ Street remained unchanged from the time Nagarajan was a child. Then and now, Tailors’ Street was Hanamkonda’s ‘Old Hyderabad’. Less sensitive souls called it Pakistan. If Hanamkonda Main Road was the border, they said, Tailors’ Street was Pakistan and Vijaya Talkies Road, which branched off on the other side and sported a Devi temple at the very mouth, was India. It was a long-running joke in circles Nagarajan mingled in to tease any fashionably-dressed person with: ‘Did you get that from Pakistan?’ For the two clothes shops on Tailors’ Street stocked topnotch wares; much better in quality and much more reasonable in price than the more plush—and the more Indian— stores in Podduturi Complex.

Nagarajan waved a salute at the traffic constable—what was his name? Naresh? Suresh? Nagesh?—on the Chowrastha, and the pain returned when he lifted his right arm to do so. He started to wince, and caught himself halfway. (‘It’s not really there, Mr Nagarajan. Just your mind playing tricks.’) With tightened lips he turned into Tailors’ Street, dodging the stream of two-wheelers heading that way from Vijaya Talkies Road. Naresh had just opened the India-Pakistan border, Nagarajan thought with a half-smile, looking over his shoulder and cutting off in front of a lumbering grey Ambassador into the small lane that went straight to the big sewer.

The Big Sewer was Hanamkonda’s most prominent landmark bar none. You might live in Hanamkonda and meet people who’d never been to Vijaya Talkies, who might look askance at you if you mentioned Kakatiya University, even those who shook their heads when asked directions to the Thousand-Pillared Temple, but mention Big Sewer and the reply would come out in a trice. Hanamkonda built itself around the Big Sewer. There was a theory—not a far-fetched one—that the Chowrastha was where it was because of its proximity to the Big Sewer.

Such an important landmark, and what was its distinguishing feature? Mosquitoes. The Sewer was ‘completely covered’ according to the local municipal officers, but somehow mosquitoes the size of bees freely held court at all times of the day. Particularly at this time, just after sunset, just as the lights of the city were coming on, they would be out in their droves, buzzing for blood. If you lived by the Big Sewer, you didn’t open the windows of your house in the evenings unless you wanted to be eaten alive.

More than anything, it was that characteristic ear-piercing buzz of mosquitoes in flight that told Nagarajan that he was at the Big Sewer. Almost from memory he turned into the second left, dodging a goat and calling out to the skinny kid in front of him—who from every appearance was contemplating a jump across the road—to stay where he was.

It was somewhere here, wasn’t it, that he had come last year? The air was exactly as it had been that night. The lights in the dwellings (these could not be called houses) were dim and flickering. Lizards prowled around the tubelights and snapped at insects. Most windows were closed. The few which were open had been tempered with mosquito meshes.

There was no streetlight. He drove on best as he could, aided by just his headlight and the occasional beam from a house. The smell of fried mutton assaulted his nose from all sides. He gulped. For all his years in the department, he had not yet fallen so low as to eat meat. He had fallen to alcohol, yes, but not to meat. And as long as mutton held that horrible stench, he was in no danger of falling to it either.

A little further on, he realised his head had started to throb. So there were reasons other than his natural social reticence, he thought dryly, that had kept him from visiting Hamid Pasha at his house for a year. He was beginning to see what they were.

Somewhere here. Somewhere.

And just as he parked his vehicle at the front steps of a single-bedroom house and looked around, he heard a voice that he recognised—low and hoarse, but tender.

‘Begum!’ the voice said, ‘you make the best mutton in the whole wide world, Mashallah.’

And the begum said, ‘
Haanji.
’

A throat cleared itself, and the voice began:

Tamannaon ko zindaa, aarzuon ko javaan kar loon;
Yeh sharmili nazar keh de to kuch gustaakhiyan kar loon?

Shall I make my dreams alive, and my desires young;

Shall I, with the consent of these shy glances, dare to be insolent?

The begum giggled and said again, ‘Haanji.’

Nagarajan got off the bike and stood it up. He had reached the place. He stood looking at the front door pensively for a few seconds, then with a quick decisive nod, ran up the stairs, took off his cap, and knocked.

Nagarajan heard the commotion his knock had caused the little room that lay on the other side of the door. He could imagine what was going on. Hamid Pasha would have to scramble to get his shirt. The begum would put on her burkha and retire to the adjoining bedroom. Clothes had to be cleared off chairs. Dishes had to be carried to the kitchen. Hands had to be washed.

This and much more Nagarajan could read into the series of sounds he heard. He waited patiently.

Then he heard footsteps approaching the door. A mutter came to his hears: ‘
Iss waqt kaun hai, bhai
?’ The latch was lifted; the door opened. Nagarajan joined his hands in greeting at the man standing in the doorway.

He had not changed much from last year. In fact, he had not changed much in the twenty or so years he had known him. The beard had greyed, and beneath the mullah-cap Nagarajan imagined the hairline had receded a bit, but the core of the man was still intact. The paunch was still generous. The big, bushy eyebrows showed no intention of thinning. The calm, self-assured expression on the face that he had begun to don ever since he went clean was still there. The dark lips were set in a tight smile. It was his eyes, though, that still visibly carried scars from his past. While the rest of his countenance suggested peace and tranquillity, his eyes were always sharp, always furtive, looking about, as if danger could spring at him from any corner.

‘I’ve come alone, Hamid bhai.’

‘Rajan miyan,’ he said, and there was only a subtle hint of acknowledgment in his voice. ‘How did you remember me at this time of the day? Come in, come in. Before the mosquitoes do.’

As soon as Nagarajan went in and the door was closed, Hamid Pasha said, ‘Sit down, miyan.’

The pain in Nagarajan’s head had intensified. Everything in the room appeared to be made of mutton, so all-pervading was the smell. He looked around. He saw no chair to sit on. There were clothes, books, slippers, bags, a table with a hookah perched on top, and various other miscellaneous items squeezed into every inch, but there was nowehere to sit.

‘Sit down, miyan, sit down,’ Hamid Pasha insisted. He deftly stepped around Nagarajan and scooped a pile of clothes in his arms and tossed them aside, revealing a chair. ‘Sit down, and tell me how you came to be here at this time of the day.’

Nagarajan sat down. ‘Happy Id, Hamid bhai.’

The older man smiled, genuinely now, revealing his orange teeth. He stepped towards Nagarajan (his limp was just as prominent now, Nagarajan noticed) and held him by the shoulders. ‘
Allah aap ko khush rakhe,
miyan,’ he said, and after he had pushed away another pile of clothes and taken the seat opposite Nagarajan’s, he said, ‘You look well, Rajan miyan. You look very well.’

Nagarajan understood the meaning of that. He had been promoted around a year back, and the results of the jeep and air-conditioned office that he had been given were only too visible now—around his waist, in his cheeks, in his thighs; just about wherever one looked, really.

‘
Khair, chhodo
,’ said Hamid Pasha. ‘That is not important. You did not come here to merely wish me on Bakri Id, did you, miyan?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘It is a problem, eh?’

Nagarajan nodded. ‘A small one.’

‘Small enough for me, eh?’

Nagarajan couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, let us get to the important point, then. Who died?’

‘Kauveramma, the wife of Kakaji.’

‘Kakaji? Kakaji of Kakaji Colony?’

Nagarajan nodded.

Hamid Pasha closed his eyes and murmured a prayer in Urdu. ‘I am sorry, miyan, I have not been keeping in touch with happenings in the crime world.’

‘Yes, yes of course.’

‘How old was she?’

‘Nearing eighty, I’d say.’

‘Money?’

‘Oh yes, lots of it.’

‘Hmm. Sons?’

‘Three. Only one daughter. Two of the sons are unmarried.’

‘
Acha
? Why so?’

‘One of them’s a polio patient. He cannot walk.’

‘And the other?’

Nagarajan paused. ‘I don’t know.’

‘No matter. I was merely curious.’ He reached for the hookah and pulled the pipe towards him. Chewing on the end of it, he asked thoughtfully, ‘What was she like, this lady? Elderly widows with money usually tend to be tyrants.’ He took a long, deep puff and inclined his head questioningly at Nagarajan, holding out the pipe toward him.