Daddy's Girl Page 13

  15

  Asthachal Rai fondly called ‘Ass’ by friends was a lady at large and she lived up to her name and billing.

  She lived next to Meera’s house in Chanakyapuri and her father was the senior-most official in the Delhi police. And Meera, compelled by the loss of Singh as a source, went calling ostensibly to see Asthachal, who was universally shunned, but actually to pump her father for information.

  Asthachal, who was a Sanskrit scholar, was suspicious from the word go. She figured that Meera had an agenda. While talking to Asthachal in the living room, Meera smiled sweetly and asked, ‘Has Uncle left for work?’

  Asthachal, who hated Meera, bridled at her question and said, ‘No, he is actually home; but why do you care?’

  Meera tried to pacify her by asking about her boyfriend, the philanderer of the colony, but that provoked Ass more. She thought she was being mocked.

  As the atmosphere became more strained, her father, the senior Rai, came in. On seeing Meera, he took a seat and pleasantries were exchanged. Then there was an uncomfortable silence.

  But Meera had little patience. She abruptly asked the senior Rai, ‘Uncle, what is happening in the Nalwa case?’

  Eyeing her suspiciously, Rai frowned and said importantly, ‘These are confidential matters; we have cracked the case.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Meera innocently. ‘I had heard that the case was about to be transferred to the CBI.’

  Rai swelled up in his usual fashion and said, ‘Really! You journalists know nothing. We are about to file a charge sheet.’

  Bingo! thought Meera. Got you! Then she said aloud, ‘Actually, Uncle, I always thought the Delhi police was very competent, but all the factions create a problem.’

  Rai, whose interest was always piqued by any politicking in the Delhi police, somewhat thawed and asked, ‘What factions, beta? Tell me. You know because I am so upright, they never tell me about the hanky-panky they get up to.’

  Sod you too, thought Meera, but said sweetly ‘I believe Apoorva Sinha and the CP are attacking each other. The CP wants to be governor of Delhi and Sinha wants to succeed him.’

  Rai was now thoroughly riled up and, scenting possible danger to his dream of becoming the CP, he said, ‘There is no harm in the CP becoming the L-G, but Sinha is extremely corrupt. There is no way he should be allowed to become the CP.’

  ‘I am only concerned for the force,’ he added pompously.

  Of course you have no interest in the job, thought Meera, disgusted.

  ‘Well, from what I have heard, Uncle, if the Nalwa case is cracked, Apoorva will not stand a chance. He is currently batting for the Nalwa lobby,’ she said.

  Rai replied, ‘The charge sheet is with me for final clearance and I have been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to see it. You know the HM only trusts me and I do not get a single minute off in a day.’

  Which is why you are relaxing at home at 12 p.m. like a typical Indian bureaucrat, thought Meera, contemptuously.

  Asthachal, tired of being ignored, said plaintively, ‘Meera, let’s go to my room. I want to show you some stuff.’

  Both her father and Meera ignored her, and Rai, looking at Meera intently, said, ‘Singh is very sure he has a case but he is an impetuous official. It’s extremely sensitive. We also have to keep Indian sensibilities in mind, you know. It will shock the society if we say the parents murdered their child in a fit of rage.’

  ‘But they did,’ said Meera, in a deadpan manner. ‘If the charge sheet is filed, it will stop Sinha in his tracks.’

  Senior Rai sat there, thinking.

  Meera considering her work done and not being able to stand Ass, she said ‘It was so fab to see you both, but I have to go work now.’ She stood up to leave.

  Rai, who was now looking at her as a putative ally in the quest for his dream job, looked at Ass resentfully and said, ‘You should also get a job like Meera. Beta, if you hear anything, do let me know.’

  ‘Of course, Uncle. I never wanted to disturb you; I know how busy you are,’ said Meera, with an air of mock humility.

  ‘Arey, take my direct number or, better still, tell Asthachal. She is always free; nothing to do. Just tell her to make me give you a call,’ said Rai insistently.

  Leaving Ass looking dismayed and resentful, and Rai worried, Meera sailed out.

  Meanwhile, Arjun Nalwa, who had applied for anticipatory bail that morning and was in conference with three juniors on a long-running corporate case, wondered savagely if his lawyers were as distracted as he was at the moment. His juniors fidgeted, waiting for him reply. He smiled soothingly at them and thought, I must focus. If my clients dry up, what will happen? Old man Bindra will then squeeze my balls harder. Arjun made a mental note to bill this meeting for seven hours.

  He smiled at the dumbest junior and told her winningly, ‘That was such an excellent point you made. I was drawn to a reference, which set a precedent in the Mumbai High Court long before your time.’

  The lady blushed with pride and thought, What a lovely senior. So involved and attentive. How can they say such terrible things about him?

  ‘I think you can brief me about the points you have made and just cite three more precedents. It will get us an adjournment,’ said Arjun, looking at her with thoughtful concern. ‘And that is the only thing one should have in corporate trials—the adjournments buy them time to carry on breaking the law and we get the lovely money!’

  ‘Oh, you think so, sir?’ the junior said with immediate concern. ‘If we are only trying to buy time for our client, then I have several other common law examples . . .’

  ‘I would advise them,’ said Arjun with grave authority.

  ‘Sure, of course, if you say so, sir. When should I brief you?’ asked the junior eagerly.

  ‘I will get my assistant to schedule the time and let you know,’ he said in his well-known grand counsel manner and ushered the juniors out with magisterial authority.

  Moments later, he buzzed his assistant and said abruptly in Punjabi, ‘Schedule a session of ten briefings for her at Rs 20,000 each and for today, bill the client Rs 1 lakh for a seven-hour conference.’

  Sitting down, feeling some satisfaction, he checked his phone and saw three missed calls from Anju.

  What now? he thought with mounting concern and called her back. Anju was in her usual amorous mood and asked him in a grotesque parody of sexiness, ‘What are you wearing, angel?’

  Arjun frowned and said drily, ‘I am in the chambers; so, clearly, a suit.’

  ‘How sexy! I always wanted to do it in your chambers. Wouldn’t you love it?’

  Looking upwards, Arjun wondered fleetingly when and why he had been so attracted to her, but said smoothly, ‘You called, sweets. All okay?’

  Sounding vague Anju said, ‘Yeah, I was just wondering when we are having a party, darling. It’s been a long time.’

  Fucking whore, he thought, but said aloud, ‘Soon, babe. You plan it.’

  ‘Will you bring the bitch?’ asked Anju querulously.

  ‘You know the rules, sweets,’ said Arjun, trying to evade a quarrel.

  ‘Well, if you must. I just want sex and lots of it,’ said Anju throatily.

  ‘We can arrange that,’ said Arjun smoothly and hung up. He was lost in contemplation when his buzzer sounded sharply and his next client, a man who had undergone a sex change operation to inherit a fortune, was ushered in.

  Arjun, who was the recipient of huge sums of money as the fractious family indulged in endless litigation, always wondered whether he was meeting a man or a woman, but acted charming nonetheless. Soon they were deep in discussion.

  That evening, at home, he refused dinner, poured himself a large single malt, and walked into the now seldom used living room.

  Cuckoo followed him and asked, ‘Has the bail application happened?’

  Looking at her wearily, he said, ‘They have applied for it. Let’s see.’

  As the silence grew oppressive, Arjun, visibly
tensing, said tentatively, ‘Anju called today. Do you want to go to a party? She is planning it.’

  Looking at him with steely eyes, Cuckoo said, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Arjun!’

  ‘Fine, I already said you would come,’ he replied, without meeting her eyes.

  ‘Great, let’s pardy!’ she said, in a grotesque parody of Ambika.

  Arjun burst out, ‘Stop it, will you! That’s what she used to say.’ He could not bring himself to say Ambika’s name.

  ‘Really? You remember? I am amazed,’ said Mrs Nalwa viciously

  ‘Look, if you want me to stay sane, you’ve got to stop this constant torture. What do you want? Is it to destroy me? Will that satisfy you? But, remember, where the funds come from. If I go under, remember, darling, we both go under,’ said Arjun evenly.

  Bitter tears poured down her face as Cuckoo rubbed her eyes to stop them. Finally, using her dupatta to rub at her eyes roughly, she looked at her husband. He looked unfazed.

  With icy contempt, he said, ‘After months, that incompetent bastard Singh remembered and asked me if we had any tennis racquets in the house. I told him we have a huge, well-equipped gym and a court, I can’t possibly remember everything in it.’

  Recovering abruptly, Cuckoo said, ‘That’s not true. He’d asked me this two months ago and I told him that Ambika played tennis for her school, and had a full kit.’

  Shocked, Arjun stared at her with helpless fury and finally stammered, ‘And it occurs to you to tell me this now? What is wrong with you? You want to knot the fucking noose around our necks with your bloody dupatta?’

  ‘Would it really matter? I remember you playing a dupatta game with Anju and some others . . .’

  ‘For god’s sake!’ he snapped. ‘Can you stop your lewd obsession? You should have told me when Singh asked. What did you do? Hand over the kit and tell the SOB obligingly that I am left-handed?’

  Satisfied at the depth of his tension, Cuckoo smiled maddeningly and said, ‘Calm down. He is a smart guy; there would be no point in lying to him. I told him Ambika played occasionally but was losing interest in it, just as she lost interest in ballet, and the kit was knocking around the bungalow. We had no idea what was in it and what was missing.’

  Fear still furrowing deep trenches near his eyes, Arjun said, ‘Did he ask about me? Whether I had ever trained Ambika in tennis. I used to play in my school and was the captain of the team. Does he know anything about tennis?’

  ‘That fat, odious little man? I would hardly think so. He might have played kho kho,’ sneered Cuckoo.

  ‘He has summoned us both to the crime branch tomorrow. Our stories must not vary. What you said was a smart thing. Be vague, no specifics. You have never played tennis in your life, so they will not suspect you. I was too busy practising law, so never got a chance. We have no idea what Babloo did with Ambika’s tennis kit. Like in all other things, we trusted the man implicitly and he had again let us down.’

  ‘Really?’ said Cuckoo, looking amused. ‘How?’

  Without saying a word, Arjun, his face as if set in stone, turned and walked out of the room.

  Left alone, Cuckoo was unable to even cry and was gripped as usual by exasperation, loneliness and the sadness that sat on her heart like a lump. Then anger took over and she thought, It does feel good to torture the bastard. It’s probably the first time he feels what he has made me undergo all these years. But all I feel is this acrid bile and a sense of being stranded. All alone . . . enclosed . . . separate. Abusing Arjun is such thin pleasure. Every single night since Ambika has gone, I vanish into the nothingness provided by the sleeping pills. Yet, even when I am awake, I feel nothing. Is living while not feeling anything my real punishment? How much longer can I bear this torment?

  Without thinking, she walked into Ambika’s room. She stared at the collage on her wall and thought with real astonishment, Even this feels like nothing.

  Fingering her scar she walked into the bedroom where Arjun was now on his sixth single malt.

  He looked at her with drunk, liquid, wounded eyes that had the bewildered panic of a tortured animal. So he had been thinking too!

  Pointing to the glass, she said, ‘You will have a terrible hangover. Go to sleep now.’

  Arjun, emboldened by the whisky, said, ‘You are one sick bitch. I would hit you but I have a feeling that you might enjoy it. Would you? Is that why you keep punching me verbally again and again? You are truly a world champion at nagging, you know. You chipped away at Ambika. She hated you, so did Babloo and now there’s only me. When will you stop? When I kill you?’

  Cuckoo smiled when she saw his rage and finally felt an ugly flash of pleasure cutting through the cotton wool void encasing her, and said, ‘You don’t have the balls, you eunuch!’

  16

  Singh had earlier questioned the Nalwas separately, but found it difficult to extract information from them. Their replies, long and explanatory initially, had petered down to monosyllables after repeated questioning. For some reason, he felt all their responses were designed to bait and mock him.

  Singh hated the way they made him feel—fat, slow-witted and uncouth—when they were around. Mr Nalwa had a way of superciliously raising his eyebrow, which reduced Singh to feeling like a guilty witness in the box who had the runs on being questioned by the almighty lawyer. It left Singh squirming with impotent rage, which was a wholly new and unpleasant experience for him.

  Mrs Nalwa was another story. She made him feel that he was irredeemably dirty and guilty just because he was born a man. As he had wryly told the CP, the couple was outstanding at role reversal and role play. Funnily, they made him feel like he was the criminal questioning them.

  Singh, sitting on his chair with the vaguely beige, faecal-coloured, indescribably dirty towel on the headrest, fidgeted and looked down, and checked with increasing dissatisfaction the crease on his trousers and felt it did not quite measure up to Mr Nalwa’s crease. The trouser crease suddenly became the most important thing in the world and Singh felt it diminished him. As he tried to straighten it out with mounting irritation, the buzzer rang on the intercom and the Nalwas were ushered into his office.

  Mr Nalwa looked impeccable as usual, wearing linen trousers and a baby pink linen shirt. Looking at him, Singh wondered, ‘Does the fucker ever sweat?’ He was tall and lean, and wore his thick, shoulder-length hair with some distinction. Singh had to admit that he was a handsome man and his gold-rimmed glasses added to his rich, ‘prominent lawyer’ look.

  Mrs Nalwa, on the other hand, looked a complete contrast. She was fat, thicker around her waist, of medium height and overdressed. As if for a function at the Rashtrapati Bhavan, thought Singh with mounting irritation.

  Mentally dismissing his thoughts as a product of his overwrought brain, and without the customary offering of the bad canteen tea or coffee, Singh said abruptly, ‘Sit.’

  Mrs Nalwa gave him her patented martyred smile and Singh felt paroxysms of irritation.

  ‘I have called you here because your statements do not add up,’ said Singh and left the comment hanging in the air.

  ‘Really?’ asked Mr Nalwa smoothly. ‘What are you confused about, officer?’

  Going crimson with anger, Singh struggled to keep hold of his temper and said, ‘Mr Nalwa, I am not here to be patronized. I am here to solve a case. And your answers have never added up.’

  ‘We genuinely want to help you, sir,’ said Mr Nalwa soothingly.

  Changing tack, Singh looked at him and asked ‘Do you play tennis, sir?’

  Mrs Nalwa answered for him, ‘He used to when he was a teenager. Just knocked the ball around. Arjun is from a poor family so he never learnt properly,’ said Mrs Nalwa brightly, still maintaining her high-tea-at-the-Rashtrapati-Bhavan manner.

  Ignoring her, Singh leaned forward towards Mr Nalwa and said sharply, ‘Answer me. I have a witness who said that you learnt at your village school in Bihar and played for the state side.’

 
Mrs Nalwa flushed a mottled shade of lurid orange under her make-up and looked disconcerted for the first time. Mr Nalwa intervened, ‘It’s not like cycling, officer, that once you learn you cannot forget it. Tennis requires commitment. I was busy taking care of my career and our daughter.’

  Feeling patronized again, Singh retorted irately, ‘Oh, really? So you will be taking it up again, I guess, or do you require a full-time caretaker, Mr Nalwa?’

  ‘There is a limit, you know, officer. No, I will not be taking it up again,’ said Mr Nalwa in an aggrieved tone.

  ‘Please answer my question. And this time the truth please,’ said Singh in a level tone.

  ‘Oh, very well, I used to play. I was good at it but I lost interest. As teenagers do after a while as you know,’ said Mr Nalwa.

  ‘Then why did you lie? Do you want to make solving your daughter’s murder more difficult?’ Singh asked Mrs Nalwa.

  ‘I wasn’t lying. I had forgotten. I have these episodes where I forget. Ask my husband; he’s having me treated,’ said Mrs Nalwa in an affronted tone, as if a waiter had been clumsy enough to spill some tea on her immaculate chiffon sari and she was displaying her forbearance by not ticking him off.

  Looking levelly at her, Singh said softly, ‘Ah, yes, your husband. I also want to know about your engineering studies, which only lasted for two years.’

  For the first time in the case, Singh felt that he finally had the upper hand as Mrs Nalwa’s face crumpled and she desperately looked at her husband for help and a reply.

  Mr Nalwa said unctuously, ‘I am happy and pleasantly surprised to find that in the slipshod Delhi police, there is a cop who does his homework. Yes, I was studying to be an engineer and then I changed my mind. Changing your mind is not a crime, I understand.’

  Singh laughed and said, ‘But concealment and conspiracy are, which, with your twin expertise in law and engineering, you will understand.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, officer. Are you claiming that I misled you?’ asked Mr Nalwa, raising his eyebrows in a manner familiar to those who had witnessed his famous dressing-downs of junior counsels, which had become a legend within the Delhi High Court.