Chain of Custody (23 page)

‘It's the nature of that class,' he had said. He had forgotten that I was and perhaps still am of ‘that class'. I saw it as a compliment
that he had forgotten how I had pulled myself out of the gutter I had been born in.

‘The first few days they are eager to please, then nothing satisfies them. But in this case, I am not surprised. The lawyer is an asshole too.' Had he even met the lawyer, I wondered. But the thekedar was like that. Sometimes he would take a violent dislike to people for no real reason.

It was a dusty road and the heat of the noonday sun was relentless. But the boys seemed unmoved by the heat or dust. Instead, they drank in the sight of the eucalyptus groves and the open spaces. I wondered what was going on in their minds.

There was a barbed-wire fence around the compound. The building itself was some way from the gate. From the distance nothing was visible. It looked run-down and unoccupied. A burly man peeled himself from the shadow of a tree and came towards the gate where I stood. ‘What do you want?' he asked. The brusqueness of his tone scared the boys. I smiled. My smile that can melt ice, open locks and douse a fire. His next question was less abrasive. ‘Who sent you?'

‘Nagu Reddy,' I murmured.

His brow cleared and he went back to a little room by the gate. A room made of unplastered concrete blocks and a tin roof. It was probably baking in there, which was why he had chosen to sit under the tree. He came back with a bunch of keys and opened the lock on the gate.

‘Where are the boys from?' he asked, giving Jogan and Barun a cursory look.

‘Odisha,' I said.

The man made a face. ‘Sneaky bastards! All of them! The moment they come in, they are looking for a way to run away!'

Jogan and Barun looked at my face, trying to read my expression. Not a muscle on my face moved. The watchman and I could have been discussing the weather for all they knew.

‘What about Ikshu dada?' Jogan asked.

‘Can you bring him here to us?' Barun asked. All three of them had grown up together but Barun and Ikshu were cousins.

‘Let me see. I'll do my best,' I promised them, knowing very well that I would never see them again.

I led the boys towards the building. It was a child's drawing of a factory – a long low shed with a tin roof and boxes cut out for windows. The windows were boarded up on the side that faced the road. And the door opened to the other side, where there was a high wall. Beyond that was a quarry. I could hear the sound of machines at work.

A green tin door was set into the wall. It was latched from within. I rapped on the door. The metal made a hollow noise. The door opened and a man stood framed by the shadows.

‘Nagu Reddy sent me,' I said. ‘I have two boys.'

I felt a slight tug on either hand as the boys stepped back. ‘Maybe we should go back to the lawyer's house,' Jogan said. ‘I think we were too hasty.'

I pulled in the boys. ‘It's a big factory,' I told them. ‘A place where they make school bags. The more bags you make, the more money you'll earn.'

I could hear a humming, the whirr of sewing machines, the rustle of plastic sheets, the shadows. But not a human sound. They were ordered to not chat or laugh. I pushed the boys in towards the man.

‘They get scrawnier by the day,' the man said, eyeing them.

I shrugged. ‘This is the best of the lot.'

The man shut the door and I walked back to the gate. I had made thirty thousand rupees for a morning's work. Once upon a time, fifteen would have gone to the thekedar. But this was mine. Every rupee of it.

Once, someone asked me if I felt guilty about what I did. No, I said. Guilt is a luxury for the poor. When one seeks to survive, a man has to put his interests first. It is his breath he safeguards before he thinks of anyone else. That was what the thekedar taught me. It was in the Gita as well. To die in one's duty is life; to live in another's is death.

I needed to make another lakh and forty-five in twenty-four hours. That was all I could think of now. I began counting the number in my head. By the time I reached 1,45,000, I knew I would have a plan.

Pujary glared at the TV as he ate his lunch. Gita still wasn't speaking to him beyond the bare essentials. But at least the tension between them had simmered down to an uneasy silence. In a few days, she would come around. He knew that.

When he had finished his lunch, Gita said, ‘I want you to tell me what is going on.'

‘What's going on where?' He put on a mock frown as he laughed.

‘What you are doing?' she began and stopped. ‘How can you?'

‘All of this …' He waved his hand around to indicate the 55-inch LED TV, the enclosed garden, the marble floors and the cunning little elevator she could use to go upstairs if he was not around to help her. ‘Where do you think it comes from? I do it for you, for us,' he added in a gentle voice.

She shook her head furiously. ‘I don't need any of this. Neither should you. We have each other. Isn't that enough?'

He smiled. His Gita was such a naïve child. Her body may have given up on her. But her mind was that of a young girl's. Radiant with hopes and ideals. Except that he knew when you were trying to make a life for the one you loved, you tossed out ideals and did what you had to do. Nevertheless, he had given in as she wanted him to and caressed her cheek. ‘That is enough, wife!'

‘You will stop what you are doing?' she had persisted. ‘Husband, you must … we don't need the money you earn this way.'

‘Gita,' he said quietly, moving to sit by her side. ‘What is it you think I do? I am not a bloody pimp.'

She flinched.

‘I deal in real estate. That's all.'

‘The girls you were referring to …' she said haltingly. ‘The twelve-year-old …'

‘Vittala, Vittala,' he guffawed, ‘is this what you are so perturbed about? Those were girls I had said I would help locate for someone I know who is making a video.'

She looked at him for a long moment. He held her gaze. She said nothing thereafter. He knew she was ashamed of having doubted him. But that too would pass.

She pressed the button of her wheelchair and rode into the kitchen. She returned with two small bowls of shrikhand.

He smiled. She knew it was his favourite sweet. This was a peace offering.

‘Husband, what is this business with the lawyer and the girls?'

He looked at her. She met his gaze. ‘The lawyer was supposed to help with the sale of a land but he changed his mind. The MLA is furious. It's a really huge deal. Two hundred crores. If it had gone through, I may never have needed to work again. So I spoke to a few contacts. One of them knows a buyer but he said the buyer is a strange man who likes watching young girls play. Hopscotch. Skip. On a swing. Down a slide. Up and down a seesaw. People, eh?'

She frowned. ‘Just play?'

‘Just play,' Pujary said. ‘I am corrupt, Gita, but not evil.'

‘It doesn't sound right,' she said.

‘What can I do to convince you?'

‘Nothing. But there's something else you can do,' she said, spooning the shrikhand and holding it to his lips. He licked the sweet off like a cat. She smiled.

‘What?' he asked, smiling back.

‘Take me to the lawyer. Let me talk to him,' Gita said.

Pujary stared at her in surprise. ‘He won't listen to you, wife. He is a shark. A shark with the soul of a python, wanting to swallow everything whole.'

‘Please,' she said. ‘Let me try and persuade him. I would prefer it if you had nothing to do with this girls business.'

I went to the building where I had left the three items last evening. There was no one there. I called the thekedar.

‘What do you mean they are not there?'

‘There's no sign of them. Neither Mohan, nor the girl and boy he brought with him. I asked the man who runs the petty shop in the corner. He says he doesn't know. He mentioned that a police jeep was there last night,' I added.

‘Mohan is an experienced man. He knows how to handle situations.' The thekedar exhaled. ‘He'll get in touch. He knows what to do. Where are you now?'

‘Near the shop.'

‘There is something else I want you to do,' he said.

‘What's in it for me?' I asked.

I heard the silence at the end of the line. But I refused to be intimidated. He was the one who taught me that there's no such thing as a free lunch.

Sid sat in the food court of the mall. He hadn't been here before. He glanced at his phone. It was almost two. The person he was supposed to meet was late.

A man had called him in the morning.

‘What happened?' he had asked. A polite, concerned, avuncular voice, almost as if it were enquiring about his ailing grandfather in Thrissur.

Sid had felt his heart beat faster.

‘I don't know, sir. I really don't know. She promised to meet me outside Koshy's, but she didn't show up,' he stammered. ‘I really don't understand, sir.'

‘Did you call her?'

‘I did. At least twenty times. I messaged her. WhatsApped her. I saw she had read the messages. After a while her phone was switched off,' Sid had tried to explain his helplessness. ‘Sir, I think the lawyer she went to meet the last time must have told her not to take my call.'

The voice at the other end of the phone had sighed. ‘These things happen!'

Sid had felt the knot in his chest loosen. ‘I am really sorry. She does everything I ask her to. I don't know why she didn't turn up last evening. Maybe …'

‘Maybe … what?' the voice had asked.

‘I don't know if her periods started. She acts weird then …' He had added quickly, ‘Sir, I'd like to return the advance.'

‘Yes, you must,' the voice said.

‘Where can I drop it off?' Sid asked, swearing to himself this would be the last time he did anything like this. And then, not wanting to take chances, he had decided to ask that they meet at a public place. ‘What about a mall, sir? With so many people there, no one will notice the money changing hands.'

‘Hmm …' the voice had said. ‘That's rather clever of you. One of my boys will come and pick it up. Make sure you are at Elements mall at the food court by 1.30 p.m.'

‘How will I know him?' Sid had asked, wondering where on earth Elements mall was.

He had hoped they could meet at one of the more central ones.

‘Don't worry about that. He'll find you. Just make sure you are there,' the voice had said and the phone had gone silent.

Sid looked at his FB timeline. He had posted a selfie yesterday afternoon and the number of likes had crossed 235. There was a whole bevy of friend requests as well.

‘Siddharth,' a voice said softly. He looked up to see a boy his age, if not younger. A thin dark boy with hair cut short and wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

‘Siddharth?' the boy said again.

Sid nodded.

‘I am here for the money,' the boy said.

What had he been so worried about, Sid asked himself as he twisted around to take his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.