Daddy's Girl Read online

  The worst was that the smirking perverts, the Nalwas, had effectively gotten away with murder and nobody gave a damn. Maybe I am doomed to forever brood about it and turn into a freak, she thought only half seriously but was barely able to crack a smile.

  Meera had never felt so disconsolate—the bad grades, the break-ups, the toxic world of the National Express—this was finally the real thing. She realized that if her work stopped so would she. The only thing that made anything worthwhile for her was journalism and her life was intrinsically linked with it. She had no friends, only sources and her sense of self was entirely tied-up to her work. It was her only brand. She had gladly given herself to it and lived for it. ‘I am such a blank screen, such an ass. I have turned myself into such a waste of space,’ she brooded, sitting in the filthy, tiny office of the Special Bureau as Meetu seemed to be soaking up her misery and revelling in it.

  It would be a while before she could move forward again.

  23

  Singh, who had not slept a single night since his transfer, thought that he could practically see his power and influence leach away. He was tormented every night and after his fitful sleep, awakened unrefreshed, getting up with a start that quickly gave way to sweaty panic. The first signifier was that his ever buzzing phone was utterly silent as if he had died. Well, I have died, in a sense, he thought, completely heartsick. He had no structure to his day. The company of guards were merely a symbolic nod to officialdom. They existed on paper in distant, godforsaken barracks. Singh was damned if he was going there. They had two rooms, complete with beds, for the doomed officials with no work but to sleep their days away.

  Singh had all the time in the world to read newspapers and the stories tugged at his heart. The media is such a faithless whore, he thought as he read Dawood plants regarding his utter incompetence. ‘The shambolic media libel laws and the tardy legal system destroys people like me,’ he reflected bitterly every day. Defeat was a tangible flavour in his mouth and it tasted curiously like iron fillings. He still hadn’t quite figured what changed overnight and how he was culled and thrown into the rubbish bin. That bewildered him and Singh did not like that feeling—it signalled a ceding away of control, which he could not bear. They have questioned my own agency over myself and left me broken, a victim in their games.

  He missed Meera but it was tinged with a sense of guilt, and in an obscure way he blamed her for his downfall. He now thought it was wisest that they did not have contact again.

  Singh’s wife was rapidly losing patience with him. He moped at home all day, getting in the way, and Dawood, in a petty act of malice, had withdrawn all the orderlies provided to them by the crime branch. This upset the household routine, which was sacred to her, and Singh bore the brunt of her taunts. He considered this petty, weary grinding the thing that finally destroys all affection and a proud man’s soul. Sitting his dismally decorated living room, having been driven out from the bedroom, he stared at the plastic flowers he loathed. The vases, a sugary, lurid pink, had been bought from the Lake District on the insistence of his wife on their obligatory trip to England. Sitting in the living room, staring at the flowers, which he thought looked like pink turds, he thought, I was equally miserable there in the fucking Lake District.

  Real happiness for a man is only his career, thought Dawood, on the day, after a hectic month-long renovation, he finally sat in Singh’s erstwhile office in the police headquarters. It was unrecognizable. Service providers had turned it into what they imagined was a corporate tycoon’s corner office. A fiercely modern, brushed steel desk, which seemed as if it had descended from a spaceship, fought with the unlovely contours of the room. There was a new ergonomic chair and Singh’s old, uncomfortable chair had been banished to the godown in the bowels of the headquarters.

  Dawood had a mini fridge stocked with choice single malt and liked to drink all day. He had set a target and kept taking shots, which led to much excitement in the media who saw it as a worthy example of how hard the cop worked.

  The first thing Dawood did was to summon his pet squeeze and favourite leakee, Seema Roy, for an interview. Seema worked for a newsmagazine, with pretensions of being India’s Time magazine, which was steadily heading towards extinction.

  She entered the office and started gushing about how sexy the room looked and how sexy Dawood was. He stopped her when she tried to inaugurate the office with a blow job. Dawood wanted to leak another way. Pulling her up from where she had gone down on her knees, he absently squeezed her saggy boobs and said, ‘Later, baby. I am on call 24/7. This is the nerve centre of the PHQ and the CP might walk in. Now you know that I am not the terminally incompetent Singh. I was brought here to do a job and it’s done.’

  Seema, slightly disconsolate at being denied an opportunity to do what she truly excelled at, obligingly widened her eyes and said, ‘Really, baby? You are so amazing!’

  ‘Yes, I have solved the Nalwa case.’

  ‘What!’ Seema exclaimed. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Clearly some outsiders with the help of Babloo,’ answered Dawood, with a frown.

  ‘But Babloo was also murdered . . .’ Seema now sounded somewhat dubious.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to re-do the entire investigation because that fucker Singh was pursuing some vendetta against the Nalwas, but what I have got for you is an exclusive with me and Babloo’s mother. I have got her from Jamui in Bihar,’ said Dawood, with a dramatic flourish. He flung open his door to let in a terrified, wizened old lady dressed in a sari that may have originally been white but was now the grimy, indeterminate grey of poverty and many washings.

  She looked at Dawood and Seema with helpless eyes, while nervously twisting a bundle in her unkempt, old hands. Dawood, without deigning to look at her, said ‘Seema, this is Hemwati Chatwal, Babloo’s mother.’

  In an aside to Seema who was looking at Hemwati askance, Dawood said, ‘They are Punjabis like the Nalwas, but this branch of the family migrated to Bihar after Partition. She is Nalwa’s cousin and he seems to be utterly embarrassed about this part of his family.’

  The lady suddenly collapsed on the floor and started sobbing, ‘Sahib, meri madad kariye.’

  Dawood said impatiently, ‘Haan haan, karenge. Now stop crying and talk to this madam,’ he said pointing to Seema.

  The woman dared to look at Dawood and said tentatively, ‘Everyone told me that I should give the statement and then I would get money. Sahib, after Babloo died, we are starving.’ She started sobbing helplessly.

  Unmoved, Dawood looked at Seema and grimaced. He hoped Babloo’s mother wouldn’t dirty his office. Seema gave him a look of sympathy and mouthed, ‘What should I ask her?’ Dawood buzzed for his PA and told him roughly to take Hemwati to the conference room.

  Draping herself over the armrest, in what she thought was a sexy pose but which made her breasts droop even more, Seema asked Dawood, ‘Why did you get her? And what should I ask her?’

  Averting his eyes from the acres of ample, saggy flesh on display, Dawood said, ‘Ask her anything, but what you have to report is that the Nalwas were very good to them. Babloo thought of Ambika as his real sister and Mr Nalwa supported the entire family in the village. And that she is very grateful for all that the Nalwas and I have done for her. Why do you want to let facts get in the way of a good story?’

  Seema was nodding her head but still asked, ‘What have you guys done to help her?’

  Impatiently, Dawood said, ‘Nothing, yaar. But at least I brought her to Delhi for free and after I get her statement, I will donate Rs 5000 to her. I will also make Mr Nalwa do that. You cover that as well, it will be a good story.’

  Seema bridled a bit and said with a pout, ‘All right, but what will I get? Or I hope it’s an exclusive and that you are not calling your desperate girl reporters?’

  Dawood gave her his patented grin and said, ‘No, my love. It’s your exclusive. Now call the photographer and get some shots, so I don’t have to see the stink bomb again.
And Sharmaji is taking you to Louis Vuitton for a bag. But don’t make it too expensive; he is still hurting from the last trip.’

  Finally, he had Seema interested. Her eyes gleaming she said, ‘Thanks, sweetheart! Won’t break the bank, I promise. I will spend five minutes with her and then get the photos. Call that Nalwa. I will mention his donation and speak to him. Taroon is very big on research and homework.’

  ‘Done, I will just call him. You go and hang out with Smelly. But her quotes have to be along my lines,’ said Dawood, grinning.

  ‘Call Sharmaji and change your jacket. I want you to look hot in the pictures,’ said Seema.

  Dawood, who always kept a change of clothes in his room, said, ‘Not a problem, babe.’

  Making a face, Seema marched imperiously to the conference room and looked at the cowering woman with disdain. ‘Really, the things I have to do for my job,’ she grimaced. Sitting down on a chair and motioning the woman to the floor, she asked, ‘Tell me, when did you get married?’

  The old woman made herself even smaller and gently rocked back and forth as she said, ‘When I was a kid. My husband left for work and . . .’ She started sobbing.

  ‘And how many kids do you have?’

  ‘Six,’ she said with some pride. ‘Four daughters and two sons.’

  Seema had enough; she thought she might gag inhaling the smell. She got up abruptly. Sensing that she was leaving the room, Hemwati looked alarmed and said, ‘Memsahib, mein kahan jaun? I was told that the murderer would be caught soon. I have been sleeping downstairs since last night.’

  Seema was desperate to extricate herself from the woman, when Dawood strutted in, wearing a freshly ironed suit. ‘Your photographer has not turned up, so I called our guy. Now tell him what to do and then let’s go. This place reeks.’

  ‘Send her back to Bihar. She was trying to pile on to me. She says she spent the night in the reception,’ said Seema angrily.

  ‘So what? It’s better than her crappy village,’ said Dawood sounding genuinely surprised.

  He motioned the woman to a chair and sat opposite her, posing, trying to look serious.

  Seema instructed, ‘Look like you are asking her questions or it will look too posed.’

  Dawood hastily rearranged himself and asked the startled old lady, ‘Was Babloo a dim-wit? Did he drink?’

  She lowered her eyes and said, ‘Sahib, not that I know of. I know that my brother, his uncle, killed him. He couldn’t stand my son. You have to get us justice. And some monetary help . . .’

  Dawood said sharply, ‘Vakil sahib has done nothing. What nonsense are you talking?’

  The old woman was alarmed and started sobbing again.

  ‘Shut up!’ Dawood thundered. ‘Your brother is going to help you. Then you can go back today itself.’

  Noticing that the photographer was still taking pictures, Dawood raged at him to stop and left the room.

  Back in his room, he poured himself a drink and called Mr Nalwa up. ‘Bring a cheque for Rs 10,000 and come to the PHQ, then give it to Babloo’s mother, counsellor. Don’t ever complain that I don’t take care of you.’

  Mr Nalwa was profuse in his gratitude and said, ‘Let me give her Rs 1 lakh. It’s less than what I pay those leeches for a hearing. It will look better. Solidarity among the victims. I will come right away, but then, Singh sahib, send her back. You never know what trouble the media will stir up.’

  ‘Not to worry. I have the press under me,’ chuckled Dawood proudly.

  ‘You are wonderful really; a fine man who can get the job done,’ said Mr Nalwa gratefully.

  Pouring himself another drink while imagining the stir the pictures would create and the sensation and jealousy they would cause among his colleagues, Dawood said solemnly, ‘That I am—a man who gets any job done. But every job has its price. I will tell you what it will cost you when you come here.’

  24

  Meera was asked to attend Dawood’s press conference and was curtly told, when she protested, that ‘no’ was not an option by Dev, who seemed even more irate than normal.

  Mutinously she made her way to the police headquarters and followed the smelly trail of piss up the stairs. She dragged herself into the conference room and took the last seat. Meera’s sulks were epic and she only had utter contempt for Dawood. She felt that she was being humiliated by being forced to attend the press conference.

  Wearing his trademark smirk, Dawood walked in. The assembled reporters, which included his groupies, started buzzing. The excitement became electric when Mr Nalwa, wearing an impeccably starched white linen kurta-pyjama set, joined him. The assembled reporters resembled a starving mob scenting food after aeons.

  Grinning widely, Dawood said grandiloquently, ‘Friends, today we go beyond mere policing. We, the police, are establishing empathy among the victims, brothers and sisters in suffering.’

  As he said this, a quivering Hemwati, who was still unbathed and was still living in the headquarters’ reception, was pushed out by two women constables. As she cast her eyes down, trying desperately to shrink in the meagre space she occupied, a clamour broke out in the assembled media.

  Dawood raised both his hands in a gesture eerily reminiscent of a heavy weight boxer after a win and said with mock humility, ‘This, friends, is Hemwati Chatwal and I have arranged to bring her from Jamui in Bihar to help her. She and Mr Nalwa are relatives and are now also bound by grief. They have both lost the people they loved most in the world and today Mr Nalwa will help his fellow victim with a small donation. I am but a poorly paid official, but I will also help from my meagre resources. I am appealing to the commissioner to help her, using the police funds.’

  As Mr Nalwa handed over the cheque to Hemwati, she took it blankly, refusing to look her cousin in the eye. Dawood, wincing at the smell, gamely put his arm around her and gave her another envelope. He held on to the small woman with blank eyes for nearly five minutes as the cameras clicked to their heart’s content.

  Blinded by the flash bulbs, Hemwati wept, but no one could hear her over the noise and Dawood thought it would add drama to the pictures.

  Motioning the media to calm down, he said, ‘She has also been personally questioned by me to take forward the stalled investigation.’

  As the journalists started screaming questions at the bewildered, wet-eyed woman, Dawood got up and said, ‘Stop it, you are not here to harass her. She is a witness and has nothing to say to you. You accuse police of being insensitive, just see how you are behaving.’ He waved at the constables to take Hemwati out of the conference room.

  As the media mob, deprived of fresh meat, caused an uproar, Dawood felt content—he was on high moral ground and he would be in all the headlines. He was thrilled.

  Further emboldened, he said, ‘This press conference is over. You cannot interfere with a police investigation and I will not allow you to question the other victim.’

  Meera suddenly said in a clear voice ‘Fine, the media cannot question your witness but since you called a press conference, are we allowed to question you?’

  Irritated at this pesky interruption, Dawood looked at her with deep contempt. Taking her in and dismissing her looks, the newspaper she worked for and her temerity to ask questions, he said, ‘Sure, madam, what do you need to know? After all, the media always needs to know.’ He said this with a barely disguised snigger.

  Flushing with anger, Meera asked, ‘You just called Mr Nalwa a victim and you just arranged for him to give a donation to Babloo’s mother. Does it mean that he is no longer a suspect in the double murder you are investigating?’

  Dawood reeled—this was unacceptable. These reporters existed to make him look good and this bitch had nailed him. He frowned and tried to say grandly, ‘That’s a ridiculous question; I will clearly not discuss details of my investigation with you. Wait for the charge sheet.’

  Meera persisted, ‘Mr K.M. Sharma, you just did discuss the details of the investigation. All I am asking is that have
you given your prime accused a clean chit and concluded that he is a victim along with Babloo’s mother?’

  The feral mob of reporters sensed that the tide had turned and remorselessly switched to an adversarial and accusatory mode. In unison, they started shouting variations of Meera’s questions at Dawood, while jostling each other to thrust mics into his face. The press conference quickly dissolved into chaos, which the news-watching public in India loved, deluding themselves into believing that the powerful were being held accountable.

  Craving a drink and wilting under a fusillade of hissed questions, Dawood beat an ignominious, hasty retreat, snapping that the press conference was over.

  Seema, who had witnessed his takedown, felt embarrassed and whispered to the News Now anchor that she had an exclusive with Hemwati.

  This proved to be a terrible blow to Dawood as the hungry journalists now turned into a sullen bunch, calling him out for his favouritism.

  Years later, when Seema had vanished from his life, Dawood wondered if she had said it deliberately. It was just the breed, he would conclude. All journalists were untrustworthy and would stab you in the back the moment they had a chance.

  Mr Nalwa, who had witnessed the press conference turn into a disaster because of Meera, was furious. This girl was insufferable! She just never gave up. Watching Dawood’s furtive retreat, Mr Nalwa thought this was hardly the ideal time to have a conversation with him about the charge sheet. He had so much hope when Dawood started the whole ‘victim-empathy’ spiel and again that girl had turned the whole thing on its head.

  He walked briskly out of the conference room and caught up with Meera near the stairs. ‘You do have some kind of vendetta against us, don’t you?’ he asked calmly, while looking at her as if she was the carrier of a contagious disease.

  Meera, who did not want to speak to him, felt fresh apprehension that seemed to come from deep within her core and replied with dismay written all over her face, ‘That’s not true.’