The Case of the Love Commandos (28 page)

Baba Dhobi looked out of place amidst these trappings. His cutlery went untouched and he slouched over the table eating halwa poori with one hand. Every now and again, he would raise his head from his food like an ancient hunchback, motion to his guests to eat more, and then continue demolishing his food, his lips smacking together with the sound of the sea lapping against a dock.

Ram, Hari and Viswanathan Narayanaswamy ate in an awkward silence, watching the chief minister out of the corner of their eyes. It was only after Baba Dhobi had cleared his plate, wiped his hands, signed a few documents brought by a hovering peon and dismissed all his staff from the room (the Vaastu practitioner included) that he addressed Ram again.

“You’re aware your mother and I used to work together at Lucknow General Hospital,” he said as he emptied a small packet of gutka into the palm of his left hand and began to run his finger over it to smooth out the lumps.

“Yes, sir, she told me many times.”

“In those days things were different. I was a humble administrator. The job had come to me because of the reservation system. There were few of us in positions of power. The doctors were all from the upper castes. They ran the hospital like their own private Raj. We were powerless. Thus when your mother was badly treated … naturally, I conducted an investigation. But ultimately it was her word against his and she lost her job. I did everything in my power to help her. I did not strike her name from the employment roll, thus ensuring that she continued to receive her salary.”

“Sir, she was your greatest admirer,” said Ram. “She often
told me about your kindness. Even after all these years her salary came to her every month. You were like a father to her.”

Baba Dhobi made a gesture with his hands, the kind that was intended to communicate humility but somehow betrayed self-satisfaction. He emptied the gutka onto his tongue and moved the tobacco mixture around his mouth.

“Now, there is an important matter that has been brought to my attention,” he said, his mouth filling with saliva. “I understand that a medical research entity—this ICMB—has been operating illegally. Without a proper license, it has taken blood samples from yourself and your brothers and sisters in Govind village.”

“That’s right, sir. They told us that it was part of a medical study and paid everyone a hundred rupees each for their participation.”

Baba Dhobi leaned over the side of his chair, spat saliva tinged red from the gutka into a spittoon on the floor, and then said, “Tell me what happened next.”

“Sir, when they came to the village, I met Dr. Anju Basu of ICMB. I told her I was studying in Agra and she took my contact info. Some days later, she called me up. She said they wanted to conduct some drug trials and needed someone with my specific DNA. So I cooperated and went to their laboratories, where they took more blood.”

“In return they gave you money?”

“Yes, sir—fifty thousand. But Dr. Basu also provided me with a lakh from her own pocket.”

“So much?” Baba Dhobi spat again.

“Sir, she was very kind. She said I deserved the money—that it would help with my future. She knew about the difficulties I was facing with Tulsi’s family.” Ram hesitated. “Sir, I believe she felt guilty about what ICMB was doing and wanted to make amends.”

The chief minister nodded thoughtfully. “Go on,” he said.

“Sir, two weeks ago Dr. Basu asked to meet with me. She explained that she was leaving her job. She was facing personal problems with one of her coworkers who was harassing her. She had become scared. Also, ma’am said the organization was dishonest. She told me that they had analyzed my DNA and found a genetic trait that could potentially be used in the fight against cancer. She said it was worth a fortune to ICMB, but neither I nor anyone else in the village would get a share of the profits, that we were being exploited.” Ram paused. “Sir, there was something else, also. She said that my DNA was different from that of my father’s.”

“Different?”

“Sir, she told me that my father was not my real father.”

Baba Dhobi chewed thoughtfully on his gutka. “Your mother hid the truth from you all these years?”

“Yes, sir. I knew only that she had lost her job at the hospital a few months before I was born. But she had never told me why—never told me what really happened.”

“Did Dr. Basu identify your real father?”

“Yes, sir. She said that the database had found an exact match. ICMB had taken samples from dozens of Brahmins as part of their research. She said that by coincidence they had my real father’s records on file. He had participated in the program in order to prove that his blood was ‘superior.’ ”

“And she provided you with this research?”

“Yes, sir. She gave me a computer data key with copies of ICMB’s research as well as my father’s DNA profile.”

“Did you speak with your mother about this?”

“Yes, sir, I returned to the village. She confirmed everything. How he raped her and she fell pregnant”—there was a pause—“with me.”

“And you told her you had proof.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Finally she could prove her case.”

Ram gave a nod.

“So you gave her the data key.”

“I told her to keep it hidden, sir.”

“That was the only copy?”

“No, sir, I made another.”

“You have it?”

Ram hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Good. Now, it is my responsibility as chief minister to ensure that the interests of our Dalit brothers and sisters are protected. An organization like this cannot simply be allowed to exploit our people without sharing the profit.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. And, sir—Dr. Basu was actually assisting me in this regard. We went to Delhi to consult with a lawyer. He advised me that a group-action suit can be filed against ICMB.”

“No need, no need,” said Baba Dhobi with a wave of his hand. “I have already given orders for the government of Uttar Pradesh to bring a case against this corrupt organization. But for this to proceed we will require a copy of their research. Do you have it with you?”

Ram shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Something is wrong?” asked the chief minister.

“Sir, Dr. Basu told me never to show it to anyone, not even the lawyer, until the case was ready to go to trial,” said Ram.

“You are not talking to just anyone, my brother.”

“No, sir.”

Ram looked across the table at Hari, who’d been listening to their conversation in silence. He received a nod of encouragement in return. Then he reached down into his sock and took out a small data key.

He stretched across the table and placed it in Baba Dhobi’s open palm.

The chief minister’s stubby fingers curled around it slowly like the legs of a spider.

“There are other copies?”

“No, sir. That’s the last.”

Baba Dhobi dropped the data key into his shirt pocket. “Dr. Basu gave you good advice—you should have listened to her,” he said.

In an instant, the mask of parental empathy fell away, revealing a hard expression beneath. Baba Dhobi’s eyes now betrayed only cold triumph.

It took Ram a moment to understand.

“My mother came to you,” he said in little more than a whisper.

“Your mother was weak and naïve.”

“She came to you for help and you betrayed her.”

“Sacrifices have to be made or they will trample us. I have fought all my life against them, fought for our rights. Your mother threatened to ruin all that.”

“How?”

As if by answer the door opened behind them and two men entered the room. The first was a goon. He stood just over six feet tall and had the hooked nose and watery green eyes of an Afridi.

The second man, bald and bespectacled, was the Brahmin political leader Dr. Bal Pandey.

“He knows,” said Baba Dhobi.

Dr. Pandey nodded solemnly and said, “I was listening.”

“I’m getting tired of cleaning up your mess,” added the chief minister.

“I told you I would take care of it,” said the Brahmin.

Ram shot up from his chair, his eyes ablaze with hatred.
“How can you conspire with
him
?” he bawled at Baba Dhobi. “You claim to fight for our rights!” Spotting a knife on the table, he lunged for it. But the goon grabbed Ram by the collar and shoved him back into his chair.

“You should really show your father more respect,” said Baba Dhobi as the Afridi drew a revolver.

At the sight of the weapon, Hari balked. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

“It’s called politics, Hari,” said Baba Dhobi.

“Politics? You and him?”

“We’re going to form an alliance at the next election.”

“Dalit and Brahmin?”

“Why not? Our communities share many of the same threats these days.”

“You mean you’ll lose power to the Yadavs if you don’t.”

“Like I said, Hari, it’s politics.”

“And when you were administrator of the hospital—that was politics as well?” demanded Ram.

“Let’s just say Dr. Pandey and I have had a long-standing understanding,” said Baba Dhobi.

“He paid you off, in other words—and now you’re worried it will all come out, that the voters will learn about your betrayal,” said Ram. “A coalition you can sell them on, but not if it came out that you’d helped cover up the rape of a Dalit woman by a Brahmin.”

He tried to struggle free, but the goon dealt him a blow on the back of his head with the butt of the revolver and he slumped forward.

“Get him out of here,” said Baba Dhobi. “And make sure I never see him again.”

“Now, hold on,” said Hari with alarm as Ram was dragged from the room. “What are you planning to do with him?
There are witnesses who saw me take him. How am I going to explain it if he turns up dead?”

“You’ll tell them he escaped—he’s done it before,” said Baba Dhobi.

“You expect Vish Puri to believe that?”

“He won’t be a problem.”

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to eliminate him, too?”

“He’s on his way here now.”

“Now?” exclaimed Hari. He stood suddenly from his chair.

“Puri called on Inspector Gujar not one hour ago, saying that he had proof that Dr. Pandey and I conspired to get the woman killed and that he believes we now have her son.”

“I’ll take my money and be on my way,” said Hari.

But Baba Dhobi told him to sit down. “You work for me now,” he said, and then invited Dr. Pandey to join them for a cup of chai.

Although Puri woke Inspector Gujar well before his usual hour, he agreed to hear the detective’s accusations against the chief minister, who, Puri claimed, had conspired to cover up the rape and pregnancy of Kamlesh Sunder by Dr. Bal Pandey while the two men had worked at Lucknow General Hospital.

He listened also to Tulsi Mishra describe how Ram Sunder had been abducted by Hari Kumar outside the Moonlight Garden in Agra.

When Puri provided him with photographic evidence taken by one of his undercover operatives of Hari’s car entering the chief minister’s private residence and threatened to go to the news channels if nothing was done, the police wallah picked up the phone and called his senior.

A decision was quickly taken to act and six jawans were assembled in front of the station.

Gujar even invited Puri along and they immediately set off together in the police wallah’s jeep.

When they arrived at Baba Dhobi’s private residence, the gates swung open and they were escorted inside by one of the chief minister’s peons.

It all proved a little too easy, in fact. And when they entered the dining room and Baba Dhobi greeted them with the words “Aaah, there you are,” Puri knew that he’d been betrayed.

“Inspector Gujar here is a fast learner, no?” he said as he felt the nozzle of the inspector’s revolver press into the small of his back.

“He understands the value of loyalty,” said Baba Dhobi.

“You ordered him to arrest Vishnu Mishra and frame him with the murder of Kamlesh Sunder,” said Puri.

“It was too good an opportunity.”

“And Hari? He’s willing to take orders?”

“He’s no Gandhi.”

“On that point we are agreed.”

The two private detectives eyed each other with disdain. “Tell me: how much you are paying him, exactly?” asked Puri.

“What’s it to you?” said Hari with a snarl.

The detective shrugged. “For the longest time I’ve suspected there was a price tag somewhere on that fancy Italian suit of yours. Previously I would not have believed that murder would feature on your résumé.”

“I told you before I had nothing to do with her killing.”

“But now you are very much aiding and abetting. Kamlesh’s killer is here very much in our presence, no?” he said, gesturing to Dr. Pandey, who was seated at the table listening to the conversation with smug placidity.

Puri added: “Unless I am very much mistaken the plan is to do away with Ram and my good self, also. If caught, you will hang with them, Hari.”

“That’s enough!”

“I wonder how your silk tie will look with a noose around it?”

Hari suddenly exploded: “
Shut up!
”

Puri didn’t flinch. “Seems you have a hidden temper after all,” he said.

“Give me a gun and I’ll take care of him myself,” Hari told Baba Dhobi.

“Not here,” said the chief minister with a look that conveyed deep satisfaction. “You can accompany Dr. Pandey’s man.”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Inspector Gujar took Puri by the arm and, with his pistol still pressed into his back, led him out of the dining room, through the kitchen and out a side entrance to a waiting car.

Puri was cuffed and shoved onto the backseat, where he found Ram now conscious and sitting up.

The goon tossed Hari the keys. “You drive,” he said before climbing into the front passenger seat, revolver in hand.

Hari got behind the wheel, started the engine and reversed down the driveway. He narrowly missed another car pulling in through the gates. Puri caught a glimpse of Justus Bergstrom seated in the back.

“Where are we going to do this thing?” Hari asked the goon once they’d pulled into the road.

“Same place I did the mother. It’s a twenty-minute drive from here. Very secluded. Go straight.”