Chain of Custody (5 page)

In an eight-kilometre radius, a golf village, a thirty-threefloor high rise, a web city, several gated communities and posh apartments were being built. Two colleges and a few international schools had sprung up in the neighbourhood that was speckled with kids from all over the world. Over the weekends the roads were filled with cyclists in their spandex suits and helmets discovering the bliss of cycling through bylanes past sugarcane fields, rose gardens, cauliflower patches, construction sites, vineyards and garbage heaps, all of which existed side by side.

From a quiet outpost, Neelgubbi station had become an important one and the number of complaints that filled the station diary pages often made Gowda think that this must be the crime hub of the city. Gambling, betting, bootlegging, drug dealing, dacoity, rape, murder, burglary, prostitution, and illegal possession of fire arms … whatever happened, Neelgubbi?

Nevertheless, it felt like coming home. And once again Gowda blanched at the thought: how is it that I have become the sort of man who sees his workplace as home?

But there was no time to brood, for Head Constable Gajendra, on hearing the jeep, was at the door and ushering him into his room. Gowda halted at the doorway at the sight of the person seated with his back to him. His breath snagged in his throat. How could it be?

The man rose and turned. He smiled. A wide grin of joy at having caught Gowda off guard. A white curving scar on his throat echoed the smile.

Sub-inspector Santosh.

The last time Gowda saw Santosh, he had been hitched to tubes and partially sedated to endure the long drive to his home in Dharwad. When his condition had stabilized, the doctors
said it was best he recuperate at home. No one was certain how long that would take; there was also the psychological trauma of having survived a near-murder. He hadn't expected Santosh back. He wouldn't have blamed him either, for wanting to put it behind him.

‘Good afternoon, sir.' Santosh's once clear and bright voice was now a whisper.

To the astonishment of everyone gathered there and Santosh, who had expected surprise but not such an effusive welcome, Gowda strode forward and clasped Santosh in a hug, muttering, ‘I don't believe this! You are here and on your feet!'

The collective gasp brought Gowda back to earth with a thud.

‘So this was the surprise?' Gowda asked David. He grinned. So did Byrappa and Devraj. ‘So all of you were in on this surprise?'

Gajendra called out, ‘Bring it in,' and one of the PCs came in with a box of laddoos.

‘SI sir said we mustn't tell you till you reached the station,' Gajendra said, gesturing to the PC to offer the sweet box to Gowda first.

When the laddoos had been eaten and everyone had disbursed, Gowda looked at Santosh carefully. ‘How have you been, Santosh?'

‘I think I am ready to join duty, sir,' Santosh said, not quite meeting Gowda's gaze. And not quite answering my question, Gowda thought. ‘How is madam, sir?' he asked before Gowda could speak.

Gowda was nonplussed. Which madam would that be? Mamtha or Urmila?

‘She sent me a get-well card a couple of months ago,' Santosh said, smiling.

‘Oh!' Gowda mumbled. It had to be Urmila. Mamtha didn't do get-well cards. ‘But how did she get your address?'

‘Email, sir. It was an e-card!'

Gowda nodded. It certainly had to be Urmila. But what the hell was an e-card?

‘And your son, sir? How is he?' Santosh said.

‘Sit down, Santosh.' Gowda sighed. ‘Or actually, don't. I'm going home. Come with me. We'll talk there. I need a shower and a shave. And I need my lunch. Have you eaten?'

Santosh looked at the table, unable to decide. ‘Sir, why don't you go home? I'll come by in the evening. I have an appointment at the Voice Therapy Institute in Lingarajapuram.'

For the first time that afternoon, their eyes met. They may not have mentioned it but Santosh's husky, whispering voice was a reminder of what had happened seven months ago. The glass-coated thread that had sawn through his throat as it almost strangled the life out of him.

The boys and I waited in the train for a bit and then got off. I wanted us to blend in with the family groups. This wasn't as simple as it once was. A group of vigilantes stalked these platforms. I wondered if we should have got off at Cantonment station but it was a brief stop of just two minutes and I wasn't sure if the boys would get off in time. They seemed to be sleepwalking. Besides, they would be conspicuous in the not-socrowded Cantonment station.

A woman walking past us stopped mid-stride and looked at us. She was just an ordinary woman and it wasn't as if she was wearing a uniform, but my boys pressed against each other. I thought of sheep being led out to graze. Not goats, they were too
rambunctious, but sheep. Silly stupid sheep who needed to be led and poked and prodded into taking the path you wanted them to follow. ‘Keep walking,' I muttered under my breath. The boys continued to walk but they had already given themselves away. I saw the woman call someone on her mobile. At the head of the staircase, two men were waiting for us. ‘Remember what I told you,' I said to the boys.

One of the men was tall and burly, dressed in khaki trousers and a navy blue shirt. His hair was short. Something about him suggested that he was in the police or the army. The other man was young and with a small beard. Where did they find them, I wondered, even as the men blocked our path. The other passengers looked at us curiously but continued to walk on. ‘Who are these children?' the younger one asked. His Odiya was patchy; coddled from a phrasebook perhaps.

‘My nephews,' I replied in Kannada.

‘Do you have any identification for them?' he asked.

I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driving licence. He gave it a cursory glance. ‘No, for the boys,' he said.

I shrugged. ‘They are children. What identification papers will they have?'

‘Show me your tickets.'

I gave him the tickets. He examined them. ‘You are from Andhra?' the older man asked the boys in Telegu.

They stared at him blankly. They had no idea what language he was speaking to them in. I wondered if I cauld make a dash for it with one of the boys at least. But the man beat me to it.

‘Come with us,' he said firmly, grabbing two of boys by their hands. The other man took the third boy's hand in his. They led the boys towards the Bosco Rescue Unit. I had no option but to follow them.

The boys were hungry and tired. I wasn't sure if they would hold up if questioned.

The boys sat at the edge of the black rexine seat in the booth. There were two other children in there. A boy and a girl with coarse hair, pinched faces and threadbare clothes. Their faces were streaked with dirt.

A white man sat behind a desk that seemed nailed to the wall of the booth. He was filling a sheet with the answers the children gave him. They spoke in Tamil. What did the white man understand of what they were saying? I laughed to myself. Then he spoke to them in Tamil. Didn't these fellows have anything to do in their own country? Why did they have to come here and mess around with us?

The children said they had run away from a brick factory near Hosur. Just as I had done, once.

The kiln supervisor gave us provisons for our food but there were a few things everyone needed to buy, and so we were allowed to go to the market once a week. But they kept a close vigil on us even then. Two men were sent along. I had no money to buy anything for myself but my uncle and the others needed someone to carry the goods back. I saw how, after every tenth pulse beat, the watchers turned to look at us. That was all I needed. Ten seconds to disappear.

My boys kept their eyes on the floor.

A man they called the coordinator went to sit beside them boys. He asked in Hindi, ‘Where are you from?'

My boys looked at my face. Then Jogan, the leader, said, ‘Andhra!'

‘Where in Andhra did you board the train?' the coordinator asked in Telugu.

How many languages did they have between them? They were clever, these Bosco people. And they made it difficult for people like me to do our jobs. What was wrong with children working? I started when I was six and look where I got. Going to school was all very well when your belly was full. Otherwise, that was all you could think of: hunger. I wondered if any of them knew what it was to be so hungry that you would forage with street dogs in a garbage bin and fight for a piece of bread that was green with mould. Let me help them fill their bellies first, after which you can take them to school or wherever, I wanted to tell them.

Jogan stared at him, unable to comprehend. These bastards knew how to fluster my boys. He looked at my face again, giving us away completely.

The coordinator asked in a gentle voice in Odiya, ‘What's your name?'

‘Jogan,' my boy said with relief. He was finally able to answer them.

‘So if you are from Odisha, why did you say you are from Andhra?' the man asked in an almost hurt voice.

Jogan finally did what I had asked him to. ‘I don't understand you,' he said in Odiya.

The man said nothing for a while. Then he tried again. ‘Where is your home? I know Odisha very well.'

‘Satpada,' Jogan said. The other two, Ikshu and Barun, cheeped, ‘We are from Satpada too. And he,' they said, looking at me, ‘is our dada.' And so they anointed me, Krishna, to be their big brother. I knew I had to do the brotherly thing.

‘How long is this going to take? The children haven't eaten in two days,' I interrupted, speaking in Kannada. I didn't want to give myself away by speaking in my rusty Odiya.

‘You haven't fed them for two days?' another woman asked. I glared at her. I knew all about these do-gooder types. Middle-aged women with empty nests, seeking to fill their lives by trying to be earth mother. They even dressed the part with muddy colours and clothes that hung on their bodies like tents. There was one who found me god-knows-where and brought me to her home in Bangalore. I was seven years old. I became her cause for the season and then I was left in a boys' home to fend for myself.

This one had a shapely bottom which her jeans defined. But I couldn't make out the size of her tits. She was wearing a rustcoloured angarakha. My grandfather used to wear one like that on market days.

Long earrings, bangles of silver and a diamond nose pin. I gave her my head-to-toe appraisal which was enough to intimidate most earth mothers. This one didn't flinch. So I told her with my eyes what I wanted to do to her. When I am done with you, you will be grovelling for mercy. Her gaze dropped. That was when I put on my humblest tone and said, ‘The children hated the food on the train. They will be eating their first proper meal when I take them home.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘Home food, I see.'

I pretended not to hear the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Yes, home-cooked food.' I wanted to slap her across her mouth. See her lips smash and blood erupt.

The boys' eyes darted between the woman and me. Suddenly the man pulled out a wad of one-thousand-rupee notes from his pocket. ‘It is very hot here. I am going to get something to drink. Would you boys like some? Jogan, some juice?'

The boys hesitated only for a fraction of a second. They nodded yes. I cursed myself for not having fed them earlier. If they'd had food and drink in them, they would have been less
amenable. But now the combination of fatigue, hunger, fear and the sight of so much money overwhelmed them and their loyalties were divided.

The rescue unit was bustling. The woman who pounced on us had just come back with another boy. Didn't these people have anything else to do? The white man and the one called coordinator stepped out with the woman. Only the earth mother was left. I thought of what the thekedar had said to me. All things have their price in this life. It is written in the Bhagwad Gita. Read the Gita, boy. It's all there. How to lead your life and how to get out of a difficult situation.

What would her price be, I wondered. ‘Akka,' I said, ‘would you be looking for any household help?' She frowned. ‘Several of my friends are here in Bangalore and they are always looking for a good place to work at.'

Her frown deepened. ‘I don't employ children.'

‘Not children. Grown-ups and, in fact, there is a couple. They are from Assam. They would be perfect for you.'

‘Hmm …' she said, writing the number of the rescue unit on a piece of paper. ‘Here is my number. Have them call me.'

I dutifully entered her number in my phone. ‘Would some money help?' I had to try. She looked at me uncomprehendingly. I added, ‘Would some money help to quicken this process? Look at the children. They are exhausted.'

Her face softened. ‘This is official work. It will take time. Maybe another half-hour.'

The man came back, speaking into his phone. I heard the word ‘shelter'.

I knew then that it was time to switch to plan B. For the flight of arrows begin.