Daddy's Girl Read online

  Mrs Nalwa nodded in consent. She had heard of Ila Rajesh and decided that he would only ask questions in her comfort zone. Her younger sister, who was alarmed by the breaking news and had rushed to hospital to check on her, knocked timidly on the door. As Neena hovered near her sister, she was met by Mrs Nalwa’s coldest stare. She froze and then said awkwardly, ‘I saw the news. Why didn’t you call? Is Vakil sahib better?’

  ‘He is fine. Did you see me?’ Mrs Nalwa sneered.

  Her sister nodded silently. Mrs Nalwa looked at her with freezing contempt and said, ‘Anyway, since you are here, you might as well drive me home and then to the METV office. I have to do an interview, and all these reporters have our car number and keep following us.’

  Her sister nodded mute assent, too scared to say that she had left home in a rush and had taken a taxi.

  Fixit was growing increasingly impressed by Mrs Nalwa. What a couple! he thought. He decided to whisper to Ila Rajesh that he had swung it for him. He would have to ask only those questions approved of, which had been decided in advance.

  Ila Rajesh was more than happy to agree. He thought the first interview with Mrs Nalwa would be a great visual. Who cared if it was staged as long as they both cried? He told her lawyer, ‘I will do a dry run with her and prep her. You know, have soft lights, filters and diffusers. A mother’s agony and a wife’s pain—that’s the story I want to tell my viewers.’

  Fixit practically purred—Ila Rajesh was so willing and pliant, and such a fame junkie. Nodding emphatically, he whispered into the phone, ‘Yeah, absolutely. That’s what we want. You are so sensitive. We need to set the record straight. Now, I am mailing you ten questions and that’s it. You have to stick to these questions, otherwise no interview.’

  Ila Rajesh laughed, ‘Arey, sir, why do you worry. I will follow the script. But if you really want the viewers to share in her pain, she must break down and weep. That’s critical. You know TV . . . it’s such an emotional medium and that’s the best way to make an impact.’

  ‘There will be tears,’ Fixit promised dramatically.

  He went to Mrs Nalwa and sat down with her to decide the questions. Her glare made him shut up after his umpteenth repetition of, ‘Ila Rajesh understands us.’

  Meera was trying to call Singh, who was not responding. Since her car was damaged, she took a cab back to the office of the National Express.

  Her phone rang. Finally, it was Singh. He sounded disgusted and said, ‘I think I may be suspended and the Nalwa case taken away from me. That was quite a performance by the lady. I admit she surprised me. I did not think she had it in her. I have just checked with the hospital. At first, the shits gave us the run-around for hours but now they have admitted that Mr Nalwa did not have a heart attack. In fact, he was not even taken to the ICU. He is currently under sedation in a private room and will be discharged tomorrow, after paying a bill of Rs 1.5 lakh for the dramatic privilege of summoning a heart command unit. In fact, the doctors have even ruled out gas.’

  Meera said quietly, ‘It’s a good story, but whom do I quote? Those snotty doctors will claim patient confidentiality.’

  Singh, who had had enough, roared, ‘You quote me, Meera. Extensively! I want to go on record to say that we, the police, have confirmed that a murder suspect, who I want to arrest, feigned a heart attack in order to avoid interrogation and investigation.’

  Meera felt a little click of pure happiness, and before he could change his mind, she started scrawling down the quotes in her truly awful writing.

  As a wrung-out Singh finished giving her the information, Meera, her eyes gleaming, thought, This story was pure gold! How should I sell it to Dev?

  As she entered office, she met Meetu, who was leaving. Shooting her a disdainful and suspicious look, Meetu said, ‘Another mystery exclusive! You are on a roll, madam. But you missed the real scoop. Ila Rajesh has an exclusive interview with Mrs Nalwa. You will never get it as we all saw how much she hates you. I have a page one anchor tomorrow—a substantive story on Kashmir.’

  Meera smiled. Meetu trotted out her faithful Kashmir chestnut once a month, when her insecurity for a page one byline crossed her rather small endurance limit.

  Sitting down, she tried to make sense of her scrawl and was puzzling over some quotes, trying to decipher her own handwriting. Groaning with the pain of it, she thought, Why do I transcribe like a fuckwit? Anyway, I better go and sell the story. Singh is hardly likely to deny anything at this point. Hope the poor loser is not suspended.

  Dev looked at her, slightly impressed despite his innate disregard for all reporters, and asked, ‘You have the cop-in-charge saying this all on record?’

  Balancing on the balls of her feet, Meera said, ‘Yes.’

  Dev looked dubious and said, ‘It will look like a police plant. Mrs Nalwa is the heroine today with her tear-jerker performance.’

  ‘Come on, Dev. How can it be a plant when it is quoted and attributed?’ Meera argued.

  ‘Go write it. It’s the poor cop’s funeral. And pull out a large picture of him,’ said Dev, dismissing her.

  Meera nodded. Her heart was pounding with excitement and nervousness.

  22

  Arjun Nalwa was very pleased with the blockbuster tear-jerker interview that Ila Rajesh had wrung out of Cuckoo. It topped every lachrymose parameter. But he was enraged by Meera’s story in the National Express, which exposed his non-existent heart attack.

  Singh had spent a sleepless night, but after his aggressive counter-attack in the media he seemed to have earned a reprieve. He was still waiting for his removal from the case, but his best friend, who was posted in the Intelligence Bureau, had told him that an early morning meeting between Rama Kaushik and the CP had gotten him off the hook.

  Singh was told that Rama Kaushik had coolly decided to cut the Nalwas loose for the day and had told the CP not to interfere in the case. It had been dressed up as high principle and he had pulled up the CP for shoddy investigation. Singh was incredulous.

  He had laughed and told his friend wryly, ‘Really! Principles! We know how principled politicians are.’

  His friend looked thoughtful and said, ‘It’s also this government’s fear of the courts and I think Mr Nalwa’s patronage is history. You know how that family is. Only blood matters and any public embarrassment leads to excommunication. I was surprised that they extended so much support to the police. It’s quite unprecedented. Nalwa has been the party’s lawyer for ten years now.’

  Noticing Singh’s look of tension wearing off, his friend said warningly, ‘Not so fast though. The Nalwas’ political backers may have abandoned them but there is still our lovely police, which thinks that it’s their birthright to auction these cases and gouge the criminals. Plus, I think the CP has had it with you. Rama Kaushik has only held off the OSA; you should watch out for more minefields.’

  As Singh regained his characteristic look of anxiety, his friend gently added, ‘No interviews ever again, please. Leak like we all do—anonymously.’

  Back in his office, a vastly relieved Singh let out a gusty sigh, closed his eyes and tipped back his uncomfortable chair as far as it would go. He ordered his junior officer to issue summons to Mr Nalwa for the day. He did not want any more providence to interfere in his case.

  After a while, Singh trundled out to his daily constitutional in the Lodi Gardens. This was Singh’s only stab at health and wellness after the disastrous yoga stint, which had led to the tutor doubting his own abilities. Singh was forever destined to fail as the moment he went home in the evening, he tucked into half a dozen hot puris with the smug satisfaction of having attended to his health.

  Cuckoo met the inspector at the door as he served her the summons. She was utterly taken aback and took the paper without protest. She went into the bedroom, where Arjun was lying down, ostensibly recovering from his heart attack, and handed it over. He put on his spectacles and frowned. He could not believe his eyes. ‘Why did you accept this? You should ha
ve told him I was dying and the doctor had ordered me to not move.’

  Then, without waiting for her reply, he called up his cardiologist friend and told him what he wanted.

  Five minutes later, an irate Dr Kudwa was on the phone with Singh, claiming that Mr Nalwa could die if he left his house. And he was mailing him a certificate to that effect.

  Singh asked sceptically, ‘Dying from what? He never had a heart attack.’

  Dr Kudwa brushed that aside as a minor detail and said patronizingly, ‘Look, you won’t understand. You are not a doctor. In any event you cannot question him and we will provide you a court order to that effect.’

  ‘Do that!’ Singh screamed and slammed the phone down. Feeling outfoxed by Mr Nalwa again, he felt a dull hopeless misery invade him. His head was throbbing with a pulsating pain that seemed to emanate from his jaw. Wondering if he was having a heart attack, he swallowed two painkillers and felt his chest heave as the acid cut a track through his gut.

  His PA nervously stuck his head in, his body positioned away from the room, and said tentatively, ‘Sir, CP sahib, yaad kar rahe hain.’

  Singh, still heaving, managed to glare at him and say heavily, ‘Tell his office I am on my way.’

  Sitting across the CP, Singh tried to anxiously decipher in his mood. The CP regarded him sombrely and said, ‘I thought you were a sensible man, Singh. Do you know how much capital I have had to waste to protect you? The IB wants to charge sheet you in an OSA case, the HM is livid and Thakurji has called up thrice suggesting that you be moved to the Andamans to protect me. What has gotten in to you? Is there nothing else left in the crime branch to do except for you carry out a personal crusade against the Nalwas? Fine, you think they are the killers but does it mean you commit career suicide and take me along for the high jump?’

  Unnerved, with his head still pounding, Singh was at a complete loss for words. He stammered, ‘Sir, I just wanted to solve the case.’

  The CP pounced on him. ‘Really? Solve the case? And precisely how are you doing it? By turning into a publicity hound, giving ridiculous interviews to that rag, National Express, by cosying up to a girl young enough to be your daughter, by jumping into bed with Apoorva Sinha!’ Even saying Sinha’s name made the CP see red. He repeated, ‘An alliance with Sinha, that bloody conniving baniya, against me? Waah, Singh! What a real Thakur you have turned out to be!’

  Singh realized too late the enormity of his transgressions in the politically charged and fiercely faction-ridden world of the police headquarters. Sinha would cost him in his caste alliance and unity.

  ‘Sir . . . sorry, sir. He just wanted to be present for the interrogation and I had no choice but to allow him. He is my dotted line superior, sir,’ he said miserably.

  Satisfied at Singh’s abject contrition, the CP pressed his advantage home. ‘And that girl, that reporter, Meera? Are you in love with her that you want to leak from every orifice?’

  Singh blushed and felt his throbbing head would explode. His face suffused a dull crimson, he said, ‘Not all, sir. There is nothing like that, sir. Her parents are in the government, sir.’

  ‘So they requested you to spend all your time with her?’ asked the CP with laboured sarcasm.

  Singh did not even bother to reply.

  ‘Anyway, you have completely destroyed your career. The HM has a long memory and we always thought you were a safe pair of hands. No more. We simply cannot put up with any more terrible publicity and your leaks. You are off the Nalwa case. Hand it over to K.M. And you are out of the crime branch. You are now in charge of the home guards,’ said the CP, with his trademark air of ruthless finality.

  Singh held himself upright as the blow was delivered. He would not plead with this man. He stood up, slightly unsteady despite his best efforts, and said, ‘Thank you, sir. When should I hand over the case?’

  The CP who had been hoping for some impassioned pleading while he gave no quarter, was filled with disappointment. He snapped, ‘You hand over charge effective immediately to K.M. Sharma. The orders are being processed. And go and take over the home guards. It’s vacant anyway.’

  ‘The graveyard is always vacant, sir,’ Singh said with a slight smile.

  ‘Be grateful it’s just a graveyard posting not the Andamans. I am a kind man. I remembered your daughter is in Class Ten,’ said the CP.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Singh, without any expression, saluting as he walked out.

  The CP’s long-standing OSD who was called ‘the CP’s CP’ was waiting outside and handed him the formal orders without a word. Singh, his shoulders erect, walked to his office in the crime branch for the last time. He told his PA to call K.M. Sharma. The PA’s face revealed that the news was already public. Probably had been since he was summoned for his career execution, he thought.

  Two minutes later, K.M. Sharma, the most notorious encounter specialist, nicknamed ‘Dawood of the Delhi police’, was in his room. It was said of him in police circles that he only made money from death. His only memorable features were his sharp eyes and his sharp suits from Armani. He never bothered wearing his uniform, saying that even Armani could not make the dull police uniform sexy.

  Singh felt a sense of bewildered hurt and affront, thinking, ‘The vulture could have waited.’ And then he reflected wryly that his career euthanasia had been well planned.

  K.M. Sharma did not bother to salute him and said, ‘Well, you wanted to see me.’

  Singh, twisting his mouth, said, ‘I am sure you know why. All the diaries are in order. This is the physical handover. My PA has the keys to the sensitive documents safe. No doubt you will want to bring in your own man.’

  K.M. Sharma crossed over and sat down on Singh’s chair, and then let out a yelp of discomfiture. ‘What the fuck! Why are you using the government chair? I will need to do up this office. It needs extensive renovation. I will use the interrogation room till then. I plan to have a press conference at 4 p.m.,’ he said, dismissing Singh.

  Singh wondered if he should he bother with the customary ‘all the best’ when clearly K.M. had been put in charge only to do the worst. He shrugged and compromised with his hand held out. K.M. gave it a weak squeeze, his sharp eyes were elsewhere.

  ‘Okay then. You don’t need to bother with the briefing; I will make up my own mind. You probably want to go and take over the home guards.’

  Silently, Singh looked around at his hideous office. The torn Rexine, faecal brown, malevolent chair which he had battled for two years and he suddenly felt a twinge of fondness for its perennial discomfiture. Picking up his ridiculously outdated briefcase, he walked out. His PA was waiting with his insulated tiffin and he grabbed the case.

  He realized suddenly that everything had happened so fast, he had been unable to call his wife. Reading his mind, his PA said softly, ‘Sir, madam has been calling. The news is all over the channels. She requested you to call her urgently.’

  ‘It’s okay, I am going home now,’ said Singh.

  ‘Sir, the media has been calling non-stop.’’

  Singh’s face darkened as he remembered the CP’s insults and he said sharply, ‘No media. Tell them all I have no comment.’

  K.M. suddenly came out of the room, maybe the chair had been too much for him to bear, and seemed surprised to see Singh.

  ‘Oh, you are still here . . .’

  He then barked to the PA, ‘I am going to see the CP. My man will be coming with private contractors to renovate this room. Set up my office in the interrogation room, with my own chair, which he will bring. Talk to the director of the PRO and schedule a press conference at 4 p.m. today and hand over the safe keys.’

  The PA who was already terrified stammered, ‘Yes, sir,’ and looked at Singh with the doomed eyes of a cow which has sighted the butcher and could smell death in the air.

  Singh shrugged helplessly and left.

  Meera was stunned by the news of Singh’s transfer and the way her colleagues in the Special Bureau were openly glo
ating about it. She had tried calling all the numbers of his she had. There seemed a finality in his lack of response. She felt a terrible sense of responsibility and wondered if her last story had forced him out. Singh’s lack of contact made her conclude that he did hold her responsible and that really hurt. She had forgotten her own dictum that the only thing that mattered was the story.

  Those fucking Nalwas and that cold fucker, Rama Kaushik. They have now murdered Singh, she thought, indulging her gloom with melodrama in her head. She felt small and utterly helpless, her cockiness having dissipated.

  There had not been even a whimper from the media at Singh’s ouster. Most reporters were in thrall to the Dawood of the Delhi Police. They loved his larger-than-life, bombastic pronouncements ridden with expletives and the glamour of the two Walther PPK pistols he carried in elaborate Texan holsters. The Armani suits and the posse of AK-47-wielding security made them feel that, here at last, was a real cop.

  Singh, with his dryness and caution, did not appeal to the media especially after K.M.’s press conference. As laudatory copy was written about how the crime branch had finally got a real man to set things right. One reporter even went as far as to compare K.M. with the other real strong man of India. Another reporter, who was more groupie and less journalist, wrote, ‘Women swoon when they see him. Men want to be him.’

  Meera felt a sense of deep shame at the stories and obsessed about the hurt caused to Singh’s feelings when he read them. Singh had not got in touch with her or returned her calls, and Meera was alternately furious with him and hurt by his lack of communication. She had no idea of how to handle rejection, and brooded compulsively with a monstrous sense of guilt and sheer gut-wrenching misery.