Delhi Noir (3 page)

Suhasini just stared at her cell phone for a while, trying to make sense of things.

At that moment her first phone started vibrating. The screen glowed, telling her it was Triloki calling.

She didn’t know what to do and watched the phone vibrate slowly across the table. Then she grabbed it, stabbing the cancel button. A moment later it started vibrating again, again from Triloki’s number. She canceled the call a second time and quickly text messaged him,
In meeting. Problem?

There was no reply for a few minutes, and she told herself to relax. Maybe Triloki was in some sort of trouble and had asked a friend to answer his phone while he dropped from sight. Maybe he was just calling up to tell her that, and also to notify her about the package with Sunny. He’d served with India’s premiere investigating agency, after all. He knew what he was doing.

The message that came back from his phone shattered the idea:
Are you attending inauguration of Academy of Investigators?

What’s that?
she messaged, and there was no reply. She waited, watching the phone suspiciously, but even after a good quarter of an hour there was no reply. Whatever Triloki was involved with, he was in big trouble.

Picking up the phone, she called Sunny and received a suspicious “Yes?” for her pains.

“Where are you?” She was in no mood for his tantrums, and just wanted to get to the point. The brusqueness must have had its effect, and he replied tamely enough, “Nizamuddin.”

“I’ll be at the railway station in half an hour, at 5 o’clock. Meet me there. Bring the package.” She sensed him about to protest and added, “Sunny, it’s not a good time.”

It took her five minutes to lock up. The guard at the gate nodded to her and she asked, on impulse, “See anybody strange, Altaf?”

He shook his head, “No, madam. Nobody strange.”

“Keep an eye out, all right?”

He nodded back at her. Altaf and his brother, Abdul, had been hired by Triloki six years ago, when the agency had first opened. They knew what kind of people could come looking for private detectives.

There was very little traffic on the roads, and she was happy that it was a Sunday. It took her barely fifteen minutes to get to the Nizamuddin Railway Station but another five minutes to find a decent place to park. It was a long walk to the station, and the damned road smelled of piss. But at least the walk allowed her to make sure nobody was following her.

Sunny was already there, looking anxious and shooting suspicious glances at the policemen around him. She rarely met him like this. He was guaranteed to attract the wrong sort of attention. The policemen gave Sunny the once-over, and then her too.

“What is it?” she asked, and he thrust a grubby envelope toward her. “Just this?” and he nodded energetically. “Okay then,” she said. She wanted to tell him to fuck off but restrained herself from being stupid with anger again. “You’ll find the packet in the usual place,” she added, letting him know he’d be paid.

He nodded, scuttled off, and was lost among the crowd in moments. She thought about going inside the station to read Triloki’s letter and have a cup of tea. There was a certain anonymity to the crowds there. But Sunny’s antics meant that she could be assured of the policemen paying close attention to her.

Instead she strode back to her car, and then over the bridge. On a whim, she decided to walk into the alleyways of Jalebi Central, midway between Nizamuddin and Ashram. Itasn’t the sort of place you found women on their own, certainly not ones dressed like her in a shirt and jeans. Had it been later in the day, after the sun had gone down, she might have driven elsewhere, but she just needed to walk.

This had been a prosperous part of town at some point in time; you could tell from the bits and pieces of old buildings, the edges of bungalows now gone. It had become a refugee zone after Partition, and the construction had the hallmark of the era’s ugly structures. These places were to be lived in and nothing more, small boxy buildings with unfinished brick surfaces everywhere. Now it was full of pushy Punjabi families; large, loud, and boisterous. Usually she couldn’t handle it, but right now the shouting, the four-story buildings with barely any space between them, and all the hefty women somehow made her feel better.

Yet after a few moments the claustrophobia got to her, and she was relieved to finally make it through to a tea shop near Mathura Road, with Hotel Rajdoot looming nearby and the flyover to the Ashram crossroads just beyond it. It wasn’t that big of a building, but here, in the tropical jungle of alleyways and bylanes, it looked much larger than normal. Nevertheless, it still maintained a grubby air, as if the paint just couldn’t hold, or maybe the combined sweaty existence of everybody living in Jalebi Central somehow tarnished all the buildings in its vicinity.

Right next to the hotel was a bungalow which you couldn’t really see from the road. Purani Haveli, where Arjun Singh lived.

She ordered a cup of tea and tore the envelope open. The tea stall owner gave her a look—she wasn’t the usual sort of customer—but she ignored it.

There was only a single sheet of paper, with Triloki’s spiky handwriting.

Suhasini,

There’s no real point in saying sorries at this time, but
I wish the thing with Suparna had never happened. I don’t
know what came over me, she had so much money and
here I was poor after so many years of work. Anyway,
that doesn’t matter now, but maybe this case I’m working
on is a penance of sorts. I know I’m not doing it for money. And that fucker, Arjun Singh, doesn’t even understand
how things work. He won’t even give me the diary. If you
take this case, get the diary. That’s your only chance, your
only safety. I’ve got nothing, but I’m going to confront that
fucking politician. My work with the IB will help. I’ve got
to prove that there is some good in me. If you get the diary,
though, I’ve told Ramdev, the police inspector stationed at
Nizamuddin police station, about the case. His number is
98––––. Don’t trust anybody but him. I’m sorry about
everything. Remember me kindly.

She folded the letter and put it in her packet. Taking a sip of her tea, she thought coldly that whoever Triloki had gone to confront hadn’t been very impressed by his IB background.

She recalled the voice over the cell phone this morning and figured that if it was the same man, Triloki hadn’t stood a chance.

Suddenly, unexpected tears came to her eyes.
Such a
waste. The poor fuck. What was the point of doing penance now? So he had blackmailed Suparna for a few lakhs—big shit. Her
husband was a property developer; God only knew how much of their money was stained with blood and deceit.

In a burst of sudden anger she punched Arjun Singh’s number into her cell phone. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hello? Mr. Singh, this is Suhasini Das. I am already here.

Can we meet now?”

He didn’t ask why, just told her to come. There was some satisfaction in that, in getting on with work rather than having to wait. She reached the gate of his house in five minutes. The guard had been forewarned of her arrival, and he escorted her down the long driveway to the house.

Something was subtly wrong here. She could just sense it, like something glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. There was a long car parked in front of the house, a canary-yellow Chevrolet, beautifully maintained and at least a couple of decades old. And the house too seemed somehow old and yet new, like something from a classic film. It was a beautiful bungalow out of place here and maintained in a way that had gone out of style twenty years ago.

The guard let her into the house and asked her to sit in the drawing room. As soon as he was gone, she got up to look around. Things felt even stranger here. The calendar hanging on the wall was out of date—in fact it showed the months of 1984. But it was brand-new, as if somebody had just unpacked it. There was a large poster for the Hindi film
Naam
that she remembered from her college days, but again the thing looked almost untouched, un-aged.

“Thank you for coming here, Ms. Das.”

When she turned to face the person entering from a side door, her voice caught in her throat. He could have been an actor in some period film. The hairstyle and the cut of clothes were perfect for the early ’80s. What was even more disconcerting was that she knew Arjun Singh was in his late forties, yet the man standing before her looked like a twenty-year-old. It was only when she stepped up closer to shake hands that she noticed the small wrinkles, the skin at the edge of his neck, the very subtle signs of age almost perfectly hidden.

“I’m sorry for the rush, Ms. Das, but I have very little time. Mr. Triloki has been working on a case for me for five months. There is a man who I have been looking for … for a very long time, someone who took something very precious from me.”

Suhasini nodded. It sounded a not-too-unusual story.

“Mr. Triloki located that person,” Arjun Singh said, “and was supposed to set up a meeting in two days. Except then Triloki disappeared.”

“Who was he searching for?” she asked.

“Rajan Pandey,” Arjun Singh said, and seeing the blank look on her face, explained, “He isn’t a high-profile person, just a party worker, a fixer.”

Surprising herself, she nodded. “I’ve heard his name.” She couldn’t remember when, but the reference seemed familiar.

She’d always been good with names and numbers, just not very good at linking them together. Triloki had called it her best asset and biggest flaw.

Arjun Singh looked at her oddly. “It took Mr. Triloki four months to even find where he was.”

“He’s in Delhi, lives in a big place in Greater Kailash II,” she found herself replying, unsure where the information came from, just that her brain had secreted it away at some point from some investigation. “In K-block. Lots of money and manpower.”

Arjun Singh’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Maybe I should have come to you first.”

“What do you want him for?” she asked.

“It’s difficult to explain,” he replied.

“Try, Mr. Singh, try.”

He sighed, and then suddenly realizing they were still standing, said, “Why don’t we sit down, Ms. Das?”

She did but remained at the edge of her chair. Arjun Singh took off his watch and gave it to her. “Do you notice anything about this?” he asked.

It took her only a glance. The second hand was moving backwards, and as it completed a full sweep, she saw the minute hand move back. Looking up, she said, “What is this?”

“Do you know what today is?” he asked, and at the shake of her head, answered his own question. “It is the twenty-fourth anniversary of the day that Indira Gandhi, the prime minister of India, was gunned down by her Sikh bodyguards because she had ordered an assault on the Golden Temple, the holiest of Sikh shrines. This was also the day that her son, Rajiv Gandhi, assumed the leadership of the Congress Party, and during the days that followed hundreds, thousands, of innocent Sikhs were killed by mobs while his administration did nothing.”

Suhasini nodded her head. She was still in Calcutta at that time, but she remembered when the news of the assassination had come through. There had been mob violence in Calcutta, but nothing like what happened in Delhi.

“You may not realize, Ms. Das, but I too am a Sikh. I started shaving and cutting my hair after my involvement with left-wing student politics in college. I became an atheist and rejected all of that. But I was still a Sikh in some ways at that time, something I understood when, that day in Delhi, they started killing people of the religion I no longer believed in.

“For two days I waited, safe in my apartment two blocks from here, where people only knew my name and had never seen me as a Sikh. But then I decided I’d hidden for too long and that the world posed no threat to a rational man. My faith in rationality took me out for a walk.

“Nevertheless, despite my rationality, I was fearful. I may have been clean-shaven, but other Sikhs had also tried to save themselves by shaving. Often this act had not been enough though. They had been recognized and attacked, sometimes by their very own neighbors. So just to hide that small fear from others, from the mobs that were hungry for blood, I did one more thing. I walked out with a lit cigarette in hand, explicitly breaking the Sikh taboo against tobacco. To hide my identity, to identify myself as only a man and nothing more.

“But they were burning Sikhs that day, and the smell of burning hair is deep, cutting. The weak stink of tobacco cannot compare. The smell of charred flesh is enormous, and swamps your senses. And the screams, they are of a different register than the fizz and spark of a match lit for a cigarette.

“The first five minutes revealed nothing. And the cigarette died. Emboldened, I lit another, walking farther out of the inner alleyways of this place. And then another, as I walked farther still.

“It was at my fourth cigarette that I faltered. The wind was strong and snuffed out the match. I moved a little way to try and find shelter, but none was to be had. I could hear screaming now, and was beginning to get scared again. I needed a cigarette. It was my only shield.

“So when I saw an alleyway in Nizamuddin, just before Humayun’s Tomb, I turned into it, cigarette on my lips, matches in hand.

“They were gathered there. All five of them. Four killers, and one sacrifice. Quiet and isolated from the world. The man kneeling on the ground had been beaten and kicked. His clothes were torn and blood oozed from the wounds on his face. There was blood on the steel rods that the other men held, and over it all was the smell of kerosene. It had been poured on the pleading, weeping man huddled in the corner, into the used car tire draped around his neck so that it sloshed around as he tried to move. But in the endless animal stupidity of the mob, the murderers had forgotten to bring the matches.

Or maybe one of them had remembered and lost them, and they had been caught with their bloodlust high, like rapists rendered suddenly impotent.