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  Singh added that Babloo was a distant cousin of Mr Nalwa’s, and was considered dim and mentally challenged by his family. He had struggled through his law exams, failing three straight years while living with the Nalwas.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Meera, ‘I thought he was their servant.’

  Singh laughed without a trace of mirth and said, ‘The poor bugger was treated worse than a servant by them. Mr Nalwa hated him and jeered at him. Mrs Nalwa forced him to do tedious housework. And every time he rebelled, he was beaten up by both the husband and wife. The Nalwas had four servants and two drivers, but still forced Babloo to do the housework to humiliate him.’

  Fiddling with the paperweight on his desk, Singh continued, ‘But after he witnessed the Nalwa duo’s openness, he completely lost his bearings. To make it worse, he was mocked at for being a country bumpkin. I think this must’ve made him very angry. So, when Ambika in her innocence was kind to him, he probably saw his revenge—much bigger than one can imagine. Seems Ambika was so taken by him that she didn’t realize when she became the target. She was completely with him, her rage adding fuel to the fire.’

  ‘Did the parents not make any effort to stop this?’ asked Meera, leaning forward, now completely intrigued by this story.

  ‘They did, but it seems it didn’t last too long. There were relationship problems between the parents too. To hurt her parents, she entered a relationship with him, as she thought that with their contempt for Babloo it was the best way to hurt them. It happens in many Indian families, especially in small towns. I’ve heard of cousins becoming the first sexual or love experiences for one another, especially if they have no other outlet. Which in this case, Babloo obviously didn’t have. But usually these things die with time. In this case it simply expanded into something sordid—a sort of tug of war. A distraught Nalwa had promised his teenager that his drunken debauchery would stop. But it didn’t. For a few days he tried to be discreet and hired rooms in nondescript hotels. Unfortunately, Ambika caught her father and Anju, his mistress, who was initially a client, fondling in his office inside their house. Angry and let down, Ambika went for a sleepover to her best friend’s house and returned the next day to find her mother screaming and shouting, while her father was still out partying. She’s reported to have used her cell phone to summon Babloo. And he rushed back, straight to Ambika’s waiting arms.’

  Meera’s mind was in a whirl. Was this just the usual salacious police crap on being confronted with a world they were clueless about? She asked DCP Singh, ‘How do you know all these details? It’s too pat, too typically police.’

  Singh smirked, ‘You journalists! The minute it’s a case of “people like you”, your objectivity goes out of the window. So the Nalwas are . . . what is your favourite description? “Professional” . . . nai, that’s what you guys like to call yourself. The barber clan? The Nalwas are lawyers. Vakil hain, woh toh master of the universe hote hai; they consider themselves above the law. So they can’t do anything criminal? Criminals, according to you journalists, are illiterates; not people like you. Meera, do you really think criminals have horns?

  ‘At first the memsahib led us to believe that it was Babloo who had killed Ambika. Seems he was being held responsible for everything. He was slipping through the cracks—neither a relative to be treated with respect and, yet, abused worse than a servant. Even the residents of one of the richest colonies in Delhi did not know what to make of him. The servants did not befriend him, suspecting he was a sahib and the sahibs, with more acuity, realized he was nothing.’

  Singh had a vague memory of swatting for his English literature paper in his first year of college—a compulsory in the St Stephen’s course. Reaching out into the furthest recesses of his brain, Singh said, ‘You know, na, Nabokov? Babloo had an obsession like that.’ And he smiled a satisfied smile. Then looking at the twenty-six–year-old sitting opposite his desk in her tight, branded jeans and a translucent shirt, with her blow dried, waist-length hair, it struck him that he was being inappropriate.

  Meeting Meera’s astonished eyes for the first time, Singh, turning a brick red, added hastily, ‘Anyway, Babloo had told as many people he knew— some friends, even his relatives in Delhi and his girlfriend in Jamui. He had gotten drunk and told a few who cared to befriend him for gossip, that he was in love with Ambika and that they were living like husband and wife, just not married.’

  Singh went a brighter shade of red as he said ‘love’. It was as if someone had let out a loud fart in the tiny, basic and badly furnished sarkari room.

  ‘So Babloo was telling people that he and she were . . . they were in a relationship?’ asked Meera.

  Singh laughed, loudly his authority restored. ‘No relationship, Ms Upadhyaya. From what we’ve gathered the relationship bit is a lie. While drunk on cheap liquor or whatever he could steal from the Nalwas’ leftovers, Babloo used to boast that he was having an affair with Ambika. That there was nothing like it in the world. It made him feel like the maharaja of Benares, Laat sahib, is what he told his friend Gyan and you know that the biggest high is the class and status thing. He was actually screwing his well-off relatives, who tormented and mocked him.’

  ‘If what you are saying is true and the Nalwas are these mad people, why would they care?’ Meera argued.

  ‘Dear girl, if it was a boy from their own class they might not have cared, apart from ensuring that Ambika used some protection, but this was spit on their face. A retarded relative, worse than a servant. And, proud of his conquest, desperate to spread the word in their family. We know how best to hurt the people we love, don’t we?’ Singh responded, with a faraway look in his eyes.

  Feeling a rare twinge of self-awareness, Meera nodded reluctantly. ‘But would that mean the girl was seriously disturbed?’

  ‘Would you have been normal if you had seen your parents behaving like this, ever since you could figure out things? Wouldn’t you have felt let down? Helpless, angry?’ Singh asked instead.

  Then he proffered a file. ‘We have the Medical Sciences Hospital’s behavioural psychiatrist to analyse all this and they call premature deviation ‘sexualization’. This happens when a child is exposed to sex before they are mature enough to properly understand it. So they perceive it differently.’

  Biting back a retort, Meera held on to the file greedily. As all reporters know, keeping the source happy is of prime importance and you have to suck up to it; seem ever-grateful, ever-friendly while hanging on to every word uttered by it as if they were pearls of wisdom.

  ‘Anyway, I have to go and see the CP,’ Singh said, in a tone that spelled the end of the conversation. ‘The loser can’t stop holding press conferences and, apparently, Mr Nalwa has handled high-profile international cases for a certain politician, which makes him immune to any sort of questioning, except the usual. I have to find a way of wheedling out more information.’

  Meera smiled demurely as her eyes lit up. Now that was a piece of information worth its weight in gold! Singh had let slip the exclusive news peg that would be the flier on page one of the National Express. The political link to the Nalwa case—what a story, morning glory! With follow-ups galore, she was sure!

  This was what she lived for. The thrill that her loaded boyfriend refused to understand.

  After Singh left the room, Meera called the news editor, Dev Krishna—an IIT graduate with a stammer, long hair and pretensions of being the next Salman Rushdie. He picked up the call after a long time. ‘Yeah?’

  Meera was so excited she stumbled over her words and said incoherently, ‘Dev, I have a story . . . a big one. There is a high-profile political connect to the Nalwa case!’

  ‘What? Calm down, stop talking rubbish!’ said Dev dissuasively.

  ‘Arey, Mr Nalwa handled the legal tax cases of this politician’s mother and now they are using their connections to intimidate the cops.’

  ‘Really? And, madam, where is the proof? Is any cop willing to go on record? Do you have a quote?
Where did he fight the so called “high-profile” cases? Have you got the said politician’s reaction? Kya yaar! Come back with a proper story. One we can fucking use!’

  ‘But, Dev!’ Meera wailed, ‘This is a great story! It’s an exclusive and I can work on it!’

  ‘No quotes, no story,’ Dev replied curtly and disconnected the call.

  Filling up with a potent and familiar mixture of rage, frustration and helplessness—emotions commonly felt by every reporter—Meera cursed Dev, ‘Asshole! Too scared of the mighty politicians! Does he think I can’t see through his excuses? Just wants to kill my story, the jerk.’

  She already felt a sense of proprietary love for her story, which would last till it appeared in the newspaper.

  Meera looked down at the medical report, though she had mentally dismissed it as a tame report, and started reading. She had been asked not to take it out of the office. The first words that jumped out at her were, ‘A child exposed to extreme behaviour and/or parents’ indiscretion will resort to precocious adult sexual acts as a way to get attention and hit out at the unbearable trauma caused by their collective behaviours. This will be done as publicly as possible, in order to shame the parents, the traditional guardians, who have, instead of protecting values, destroyed them and, in the child’s eyes, assumed the role of predators.’

  ‘Okay, if Dev wants a confirmed story, then here it is along with a prize news peg and, hey, it is an exclusive!’ Meera told herself stubbornly. She pulled out her notebook from her bag and started writing. Her handwriting was so bad that most times even she had trouble deciphering what was written. That, however, had never stopped her from taking notes, which she was now doing assiduously.

  Then she heard the door open. She quickly tucked the notebook into her prized Chanel bag, which had cost her two months’ salary, and turned and smiled innocently at Singh. ‘The CP is mad! When will he retire?’ he said, walking towards her. ‘Did you read it? Please return it. And I know you, so please don’t quote me and no attribution.’

  Meera purred, ‘You can trust me, Singh sahib. I would go to jail to protect a source. Have I ever let you down?’

  ‘Okay. But, make sure you highlight the effort we are making, doing analytical policing, while the media accuses us of shortcuts. You could say that I took this initiative, but refused to comment,’ said Singh, plonking down on his chair.

  Smiling the smile reserved for grade A sources, who have delivered not one but two scoops, Meera got up and said, ‘Of course! And I really think the effort you have made is commendable. I should go, as I am sure you have a lot of work.’

  As she left, she thought, I have to beat the traffic and file my exclusive, and then hang around anxiously, hoping it makes page one of all editions!

  Rushing down the stairs, stained with paan and other things she preferred not to think about, Meera could smell the odour of pee mixed with one part mildew together with the smell of distilled desperation so peculiar to government offices in India. She was already composing the first paragraph of her report.

  She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost missed the buzz of her phone. Missing the call, she looked down and saw the words ‘Dev’ on the screen.

  She called him back.

  ‘Listen, that thing you were saying about Mr Politician, just check it out. I talked to God and he wants it followed-up.’

  ‘But I have another story. It’s an exclusive; I am just coming to file it,’ protested Meera.

  ‘Arey, that can wait. File from home. I told you, God wants the politician involved,’ he said, hanging up the phone.

  God referred to the almighty editor-in-chief of the National Express—the frighteningly fit Bhagwan Bhalla. And, as Bhagwan was God, Dev was his faithful slave and communicator. Bhagwan actually held the fourth estate in real contempt, the only thing he really prized was real estate.

  Meera felt a familiar frenetic tension flood through her, a tribute to the nerve-wracking demands of the newspaper. Her thoughts were chaotic. She could not go back to DCP Singh. How was she going to get the dope on the political connection, which was the ticket to making God happy? And why was God so keen to explore the rather tenuous political link in this story?

  2

  Her shoulders drooping, caught in a knot of tension—usually a premonition of the abyss of pain she fell down when she had a migraine—Meera rang the bell at her tony Chanakyapuri home. Ram Prasad opened the door and immediately informed her, ‘Sahib, memsahib dinner ke liye bahar gaye hain.’ Gunny, her American spitz, danced in excitement and licked Meera excitedly. She pranced around as Meera ran to the bathroom to pee after, as she always dramatically insisted, what felt like a century. Meera always claimed that she clenched up and couldn’t go in office because it wasn’t clean enough. And as for going in the police headquarters . . . just the thought made her shudder.

  Glugging down her cold coffee—half a litre of cold milk with lots of instant coffee and a tiny amount of sugar—Meera reached for a Combiflam. She lived on her nerves, Combiflam and cold coffee—a combination Ma, like a prophet of doom, insisted was deadly. Meera was lying on her parents’ bed, with Gunny’s head on her tummy, when her cell phone rang. It was her colleague Raman, her occasional spy in the National Express. Raman, the only man in the special investigative bureau, was bone lazy and revelled in pitting his female colleagues against one another. ‘Meera, where are you? Meetu is still in the office, filing a big story on the Nalwa case!’ he said.

  Meera’s heart sank. ‘I had a migraine; just reached home. How do you know it’s the Nalwa case? She would hardly be confiding in you.’

  ‘Meera madam, it’s a flier and the entire office knows. Meetu can’t stop gloating; looks like she beat you again,’ sneered Raman.

  While chalking up a record tally of the number of times she said fuck in her head, Meera said, ‘Thanks, Raman, what can we do?’

  This was her way of yanking his chain as she included him in the ranks of the losers who battled against Meetu and her serial scoops, and lost.

  ‘Arey, quit whining; that’s why I called. I want you to meet someone who both Meetu and Anjali are chasing. The guy is a complete bastard and is very sharp, but I think you can charm him and screw both those hard-boiled bitches over!’ Raman’s tone had turned from bitchy to sanctimonious.

  ‘And why wouldn’t you do it yourself?’ she asked on an impulse.

  ‘Yaar, I could have done the story myself but you know I am having trouble at home these days and the boss doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Then sure, when do you want me to meet him?’ she asked, making no allusions to Raman’s pathological laziness.

  ‘We can go to his house; he is a top cop constantly watched by the Intelligence Bureau. Dress sexy, you will have to charm him or Meetu will really harm you.’

  Meera’s mood, while still sombre, lifted a little. It could have been the thought of the coveted flier or maybe the Combiflam that had just kicked in.

  ‘Ram Prasad, please give me dinner!’ she called out as she walked out of her parents’ room, and then she spotted dust. This was a time she was feeling particularly sensitive. ‘Aur kya aaj kal koi safai nahi ho rahi hai!’ she screamed.

  Meera was a cleanliness freak, much to the misery of the mutinous house help. This was in psychological opposition to her pack rat mother, Vaidehiji, who was a compulsive hoarder. Meera’s standard mockery of her cluttered home was, ‘when people come home, we tell them “we really like you so we don’t just offer you a sofa to sit on, we also let you hold one.”’

  Meera maintained loudly, and sans any vestige of politeness, that Vaidehiji believed in turning consumer durables into permanent possessions. Currently, a seventy-year-old chair with three legs, which could not even be charitably passed off as an antique, was the object of her loathing. It was hideously ugly and old, and battled for space with other equally disgusting objects.

  While picking indifferently on her dinner of dal and subzi, Meera’s thoug
hts went back to the case. She wondered who she was meeting. Raman is an asshole, but hope I this works out. Why would people leak stories to Meetu, she is so conniving . . . I will wear my red, shrunken Ralph Lauren T-shirt, it hasn’t failed so far.

  At 11.30 p.m. her parents walked in. Meera immediately threw a tantrum, ‘Why do you guys have to go out every night? I was stuck here with yucky food.’

  Dismissing her airily, Vaidehiji said, ‘You were also invited to the Kashyaps, but you never come home at a proper time or want to meet normal people.’ And she added for good measure, ‘Gudda, be grateful that you at least have somebody to take care of dinner. When I was a probationer in Bombay, I had to come home and cook. You don’t even know how to.’

  A fight with her mother always rejuvenated Meera, who seemed to magically regress into her teenage mode. She began crying and screaming, ‘Ma! Have you seen the state of the house? It’s filthy! I work so hard and you don’t even care. You are always attacking me.’

  Her gentle father, who was watching from the sidelines, now intervened, ‘Arey, why are you fighting, Gudda? You should have come with us. Nandu could help you by giving you stories for your paper.’ He knew this would calm his daughter down. Then he ordered a plate of scrambled eggs for her.

  Sensing sympathy, a tearful Meera gratefully sobbed, ‘Papa, Ma hates me. Why does she keep the house so filthy?’

  ‘Gudda, your mother loves you. Please behave like an adult now and eat your eggs. I have had two single malts and have to reach office at 9.30 a.m., so good night.’

  Meera, who fought epic losing battles with sleep every night, conceded to her father’s words without a fight. As she thrashed around in bed, turning from one side to another, she was haunted by thoughts of Ambika Nalwa. She knew she would be getting no sleep that night. Her mind was in turmoil. She could not stop thinking about the Nalwas and the relationship Ambika had with her parents. Did Ambika’s father and mother know what hell they were putting their daughter through? Why did such selfish people have children? What would drive a young, good-looking girl, bursting with life to enter a relationship with a poor cousin? And, how could she report on this case without transgressing the unwritten boundaries of reporting, while being truthful about the sickening story.