The Nidhi Kapoor Story (11 page)

Just when he was about to step out, he got a SMS from Rujuta, asking if he’d want to meet over breakfast. Prakash had hazy recollections of the night gone by and he thought this would be a good opportunity to pick her brains again.

∗∗∗

They decided on Shabri, a small Udipi restaurant close to the police station.

“How are your injuries?” Prakash asked, settling into a booth. Udipi restaurants, as a matter of policy, had fixed tables that could seat four people and required you to share your table with strangers. The rule did not apply to Prakash, however. He was a regular, and more importantly, a policeman.

“What injuries? They were just scratches and I am fine. Thank you for asking,” Rujuta beamed. She then asked, “How is Payal? Nidhi? Others?” She was wearing a pair of blue denims, a white polo tee, and her trademark Kolhapuri Chapal.

“I don’t know. I haven’t checked. I am sure that by now they would have an entire panel of doctors tending to them.” Prakash ordered a Dosa. Rujuta settled on an Idli. These Udipi restaurants, apart from old Irani cafes, were the lifeline of Mumbai and Mumbaikars. Even in these times when everything was expensive like gold, these eateries offered cheap, reasonably hygienic and tasty food. And like Irani Cafes, these Udipi restaurants have been around forever. Shabri was relatively new, for it was just twenty odd years old while most others could claim a 60-year-old legacy. The oldest Irani cafe in Mumbai, Kyani’s, near Dhobi Talao has been in operation since 1904.

Rujuta laughed heartily at the comment. “Why are you so bitter towards the
filmwallahs
Prakash!?”

“I don’t have anything against anyone. I just don’t like anyone interrupting when I am working. These film guys are really nosy and have egos bigger than the cricket
maidans
,” Prakash was getting restless. He hated to explain himself to anyone. He had stopped eating and was churning
Sambhar
with a spoon. Apparently, the recipe of
Sambhar
, a stew made from vegetables and pigeon pea, is a closely guarded secret and is passed down the generations. A true Udipi restaurant owner takes as much pride in keeping this recipe a secret as he takes in his being the major benefactor of his brethren.

Rujuta noticed Prakash’s reaction. “OK, OK. Sorry I asked.” She looked into his eyes and said, “Change of topic. It’s a personal question. You may choose to not answer it.”

Prakash looked up. He could not guess what was coming up next. He simply nodded.

“How the fuck do you manage to stay awake, and look this sharp this early in the morning, after you had half a bottle of JD just a few hours ago?” Rujuta spoke with exaggerated expressions and movements of her eyes and hands.

Prakash burst out laughing. “That’s it? I thought you would ask me about the dead bodies that I have buried in my backyard.”

“Very funny. Come on, tell me. I take two smalls and I am wasted for the entire next week. You had so much alcohol and here you are. Fresh as a daisy. It’s not even three hours. Did you even sleep?”

“Slowly, Rujuta. You might choke on your food. And it’s no big deal. You just need to get used to it. I have been drinking since I was twelve. Or maybe thirteen.” Prakash had polished his Dosa. He ordered for a filter coffee.

“Yeah, I think that’s the advantage of staying alone. You can do whatever you want to. You are not answerable to anyone. Not to your parents, not to your family, not to anyone.” Rujuta realized her mistake moment she said it. Prakash has always been touchy about his family.

“I think so. I have been alone since I was thirteen. Guess being alone has its advantages,” Prakash replied without any trace of emotion.

“Yeah, look at me. I have never known my father and my mother left me with my aunt. Even though my aunt was very strict and she made sure I was imbibed with the best Indian values, look at what I have turned into,” she pointed at herself with an animated expression.

Rujuta worked as an investigative reporter once
upon a time. She knew that shared misery often softens up the subject and creates an emotional bond. The good cop, bad cop that most other interviewers play is a milder version of shared misery. It probably is the oldest trick in the bag of interrogators. Recent advances in behavioral sciences validated what most seasoned investigators knew intuitively.

Prakash loosened up and laughed. “You look OK to me.”

Rujuta winked. “Mr. Mohile, give me an opportunity and I would show you everything that is wrong with me.”

This was the first time when a woman was openly flirting with Prakash. But he was a policeman and he knew how to get out of tough situations. He turned into an interrogator and said, “Your aunt sounds like an interesting person. Tell me more about her.”

Rujuta fumbled. “Oh, my aunt. She’s all I have in this world. She is my mother, father, best friend, worst enemy and everything in between. If not for her, I would be a bar dancer or a whore someplace. Like her.”

Till late 2005, Mumbai housed these bars where women would dance suggestively for male patrons and earn generous tips in return. Often after the dancing shifts were over, these women would double up as sex workers. Of course, the women received only a fraction of money for their services. Pimps and other people higher in the hierarchy squandered the rest. As per an estimate, just before these dance bars were shut, some 75000 women were working as bar dancers in Mumbai. Tarana, Rujuta’s aunt, was one of these 75000 women back then.

Rujuta continued, “My aunt is my favorite person. She never had any formal education but made sure I went to school and college. She gave me all the freedom and let me do choose what I wanted to. I don’t think even my real parents would have done so much for me.”

Prakash looked at Rujuta, nodded and got busy with his coffee.

Rujuta started talking involuntarily. “I have never known my father or my mother. So it’s just me and her.”

Prakash tried to be civil. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Why sorry? I am not sorry. It’s totally my parents’ loss that they are missing on claiming rights to such an awesome young woman,” Rujuta laughed. She decided to push her luck, “Your folks, on the other hand, would be so proud of you. No?”

Prakash had started to smile but at the mention of his parents, the smile disappeared. He took out his wallet, left a hundred rupee note on the table and said abruptly, “Let’s go. I need to meet the commissioner and brief him on the case.”

Rujuta was surprised at the hasty retreat. “Yep… Even I need to speak to my editor and give her an update on the story. I’d see you in the evening?” Rujuta made a weak attempt at salvaging something out of the conversation.

Prakash merely nodded.

Rujuta’s photo-essay was coming along really well and even though she hadn’t worked on in it in the last couple of days, she knew she was on track. She could afford to not work on the story for a few days. Meeting deadlines was never a problem for her. She had an excellent rapport amongst her editors for her professionalism. It was one
of the reasons why she had risen so fast in that hyper competitive profession.

∗∗∗

“Prakash Sir is a remarkable man. The way he handled the case last night, I am now officially a fan,” Rujuta said.

Prakash was still at the police headquarters and Rujuta was trying to trap Tambe into spilling the beans on Prakash. No one else was closer to Prakash than Tambe.

She and Tambe were idling outside the police station at the tea stall. Rujuta sat casually on a makeshift wooden bench hanging precariously on a nook in the wall on one side and on a tin canister on the other. Tambe was leaning against a police jeep parked in the shade outside the tea stall. Tinku, the boy at the tea stall, handed them glasses of piping hot tea.

“That was nothing madam. I have seen him handle much more difficult situations with far more ease. A year or so back, the only daughter of a politician was kidnapped. The way Saab handled that case; no one else would have been able to solve it. He went into the hiding place of the kidnappers and brought out the girl alive. He was shot twice; it took him three months to recuperate from the wound but the girl was unharmed.”

Tambe took a break to sip on his tea. He continued, “When terrorists attacked Mumbai three-four years back, Prakash Sir was at the Taj Hotel himself for those three days. He was injured and suffered burns and yet did not move from there till the rescue operation wasn’t complete.”

“Really? Wow! I mean, how long has he been in the police force?”

“Oh, he has been in the police force for more than ten years now. He is an IPS officer. I don’t know his batch or cadre though. He has been to multiple stations within Maharashtra. His last posting was at Sangli. You know why he was transferred from there? He slapped a local politician in a rally. Afterwards, he singlehandedly dispersed the gathering of more than five hundred unruly men. He is mad.” Tambe spoke and started to laugh, his trademark hearty laugh where his entire upper body jiggled like a pendulum.

“OK OK, I get it. Your Prakash sir is a superhero. But… what is he like a man?” Rujuta wanted to get back to her original query.

“He is the greatest man I have seen. He just needs someone to take care of him, though. Last time we went to Pune, he was in a very good mood. We talked about our families, friends and everything else. You know he is the only officer who came to my son’s birthday party? He even loaned me money for Sonu’s cricket kit. When I offered to return it, he refused to take it back. He said it’s a gift for Sonu.” Tambe was obviously proud of his more than mere professional acquaintance with Prakash.

“Pune? I thought his jurisdiction was limited to Mumbai?” Rujuta asked.

“Yes yes. Mumbai only madam. We went to meet Pune’s commissioner about Prakash Saab’s father.”

“His father? Didn’t his father pass away when he was young?” Rujuta was genuinely surprised.

Tambe recoiled. “No madam. No way. Don’t even bring
this up with him. He believes that his father is alive and he still spends a considerable time searching for him. He has been to so many schools in Pune, Satara and even beyond. He even tried to get a posting in Pune.”

“Really? I did not know this. And why schools?” Rujuta asked. She thought Prakash wanted to make a career in the police force. Moving to Pune would be a demotion of sorts. Most officers avoided going to smaller places even if they are offered higher ranks.

“Because Prakash Sir believes that his father is still a teacher somewhere. He hasn’t found any clue as yet though. He even put out an advertisement in the newspapers once but nothing came out of it.”

“OK…” Rujuta was now deep in thought about Prakash’s obsession with his missing father.

“But you know madam, Saab has had a very tough life. Do you know he used to wash auto rickshaws and taxis when he was a kid?”

“What? Wash rickshaws? Are you sure?” Rujuta asked incredulously.

“Yes! Every morning. He would wash rickshaws in the morning. And after that, he worked at a tea stall, delivering to offices like this Tinku does,” Tambe pointed at the young boy who had handed them tea.

“He would then study at night. Not just that. He took admission into an evening school and to support the expenses of his education, he started hawking newspapers. Then he got promoted from the teashop and became a waiter in the library canteen. After that he gradually became a cook in the same canteen where he was a waiter.
You know ma’am, he is a very good cook. You must have his Mutton Biryani. It’s something that you can die for. He makes it every year on Bakr Id.” Pravin Tambe took pride in narrating Prakash’s story.

“Unbelievable.”

“Yes. Of course. Khan Saab helped him while he was preparing for IPS.” Tambe was taking loud sips of his tea. The first cup was long over and he was on the second one.

“Who is Khan Saab?” Rujuta asked.

Tambe beamed. “Amjad Khan Sir. He was the deputy-commissioner of police long time back. He passed away last year I think. He used to frequent the Asiatic library and that’s where Prakash Saab met him. He loved Prakash Sir’s omelets and Prakash Sir wanted his help in finding his father. One thing led to another and they got close. In fact, Khan Saab asked Prakash Sir to apply for the police force. Prakash Sir took his advice, worked tirelessly and once he got selected, Khan Saab personally trained him on the nuances. I wished he had trained me as well. You know, every officer he trained is doing so well today.”

“And what a man your Prakash Saab has turned into! I could write a book on him! His would make a really inspiring story,” Rujata said excitedly.

She had had a tough life herself and could relate to all those odd jobs that Prakash had done to make ends meet. She knew of a lot of people who worked three or four jobs at the same time for years. Some of them were now rich enough to afford houses and cars. But no one had been able to find their way through the labyrinth of life and come out a winner the way Prakash had.

She made a mental note to talk about Prakash to her aunt, Tarana. Tarana loved such people. The ones who did well despite all odds. Also, Tarana had to approve of any man that Rujuta decides to settle down with. Not that Tarana insisted, but Rujuta still wanted to seek her approval.

While Rujuta was engrossed in her thoughts, Tambe hadn’t stopped talking. “Everyone in the department loves him. You know, he is also the cleanest officer that I know of. Everyone exploits their position in the force and takes favors, big or small. But not Prakash Sir. In the last four years I have been working with him, I have never seen him misusing his power even once. Even when the money for informers is left unspent, he lets all of us take care of it. He is OK with it as long as he does not see it.” Tambe laughed slyly. “But please don’t publish this in your newspaper, OK?” Tambe had taken out tobacco and was rubbing it in his palm.

The money Tambe was talking about was allocated to each police station every month to dole out to their respective network of informers and agents. The amount differed from station-to-station, time-to-time and informer-to-informer. Since there was no record of these transactions, the station¬in-charge controlled this typically large sum. Nothing like free flow of money to keep the well oiled judicial machinery running smoothly.