Daddy's Girl Page 20

  Before she could go further, Mr Nalwa, in a grotesque parody of her voice, mimicked her. ‘“I am just doing my job.” That’s what you plan to say, right? Your standard-issue nonsense.’ His self-control totally gone, he glared at her and continued, ‘You know, you are an interfering, ugly, nosy bitch and at some point in your life, you will pay the price for what you enjoy doing.’

  Meera, white-faced with shock, still managed to say, ‘Mr Nalwa, you think you are protecting yourself? You still haven’t yet realized that you have nothing left to protect. You have nothing. It ended the day Ambika died. There is nothing but zero left. All these clever manoeuvres that you are doing is merely buying you time, while you squander away all that is decent . . .’ She trailed off incoherently.

  Hearing her, and hating himself for losing control, Mr Nalwa went quiet. Meera suddenly sprinted away, running down the last two floors.

  Mr Nalwa waited till he was sure she had left the building and then let out a huge breath, suddenly realizing he had been holding his breath the whole time. What the fuck did the bitch mean? And how did she know? Waves of desolation washed over him. He suddenly tasted bile in his mouth and was sure that the odour of the building was going to make him vomit. He rushed to the bathroom and started gagging and retching. Copious amounts of vomit splattered the stained sink. He rushed out holding his handkerchief and kurta sleeve to his nose, only to be forced to rush back to the sickening bathroom where he had added considerably to the stench. After two more bouts of throwing up, observed by some expressionless policemen who had entered to use the bathroom, Mr Nalwa shakily left the headquarters, walking like an old man.

  He felt waves of weakness roll over him. His fastidious nature was revolted by the sight of his soiled clothes and he decided he would throw them away.

  Meera sat in her car and started sobbing. Nobody had spoken to her like this before. She had never experienced such visceral, palpable hatred. Always thin-skinned and given to introspection, Meera still felt the whiplash of Mr Nalwa’s words, which were seared in her brain. Was she really an interfering ghoul? Her compulsion to chase this story, despite understanding the tragedy that this murder was; what did it say about her? This cold, mechanical reiteration that she was just doing her job, which Mr Nalwa had mocked so mercilessly. Had she become so insensitive while she was busy cataloguing and dissecting the flaws of all those around her with such smug superiority?

  The tears flowed down her cheeks. Meera always cried silently but these were not her normal, easy tears. She craved comfort and reassurance. And had another painful insight into her new role of an adult—that there were no easy assurances, she was all alone and the worst was what she accused Mr Nalwa of. She had to make a choice because nobody else could make it for her.

  Rocking her body as she wrapped her arms around her midriff, Meera slowly tried to stem the flow of tears with her painful new awareness. She also knew with absolute certainty that she would never share what Mr Nalwa had said to her with another human being.

  What a fuckwit I have been. Feeling so superior compared to the rest of the Special Bureau, thinking that I am so cool and clever, is this really what people think of me? She continued brooding as she drove home. Entering the house, she was pale but composed. She had vowed to herself that she would not keep adding to her father’s worries.

  Her father, noticing that Meera looked even more pale and delicate than normal and that her eyes were red-rimmed, asked her anxiously, ‘Is everything okay, Gudda?’

  Her new resolve forced Meera to say, ‘Yup,’ as she evaded his eyes. She said tiredly, ‘I have to file a report. It’s for tomorrow, it won’t take long.’

  She called Dev up.

  ‘Hi, Meera, good work,’ said an unusually effusive Dev, who had seen the live telecast of Dawood’s press conference. ‘Today you proved you are actually a mature and credible journo. It’s better than getting an exclusive. Now just file the story from the angle of your questions and the way he fumbled. Put some mood and colour in the report, and I guarantee you a page one slot. Does that ever happen for a press conference? See! I knew this would happen; that’s why I told you to attend it.’

  Instead of the bubbly, effusive excitement that he expected to hear from Meera, Dev was taken aback to hear her say, ‘Thanks. You will get the story in half an hour.’

  ‘Meera, are you okay? You sound exhausted.’

  ‘No, I am fine,’ said Meera, thinking that this was the second time in five minutes she was asked this. I must quit behaving like a tragedy queen.

  After filing her story, in which she quite clinically tore Dawood apart, Meera sat numbly in front of the TV. Her parents had left for one of their interminable social engagements. Her phone, which had not rung all day, buzzed next to her. Meera looked down disbelievingly at the caller ID. It was Singh.

  She tried her best to sound pleasant and matter-of-fact, and not let the hurt and the accusation surface in her voice, but Singh said sheepishly, ‘I am sorry, Meera, I was in no state to talk to you.’

  His honesty made her tears appear again and brushing them away fiercely, she said, ‘I don’t want to say it’s fine. I don’t know why you were avoiding me. I am really hurt. I thought you blamed me.’

  Singh surprised her again by saying, ‘You are right. I was looking for a scapegoat, but I want to say in my defence that I was in no state to speak to you or anyone. I was really not fit company.’

  ‘What changed?’ asked Meera simply.

  ‘I watched the press conference. And realized I had been a fool to blame you. Your honesty and conviction blew me away. And, also, I know many journalists who forget you the moment you are out of office, before that you are their darling. Even after my transfer you kept calling. I misjudged you, Meera, I really am sorry.’

  ‘I want to see you. Nothing makes sense anymore; I want your help,’ said Meera.

  Singh said quietly, ‘Come home. There’s nothing for them to take away now. But, judging from the press conference, you have destroyed Dawood and the cover-up. Do you still want to pursue the story?’

  Meera took a deep breath. She really did not know anymore. She asked tentatively, ‘Is there something else?’

  Returning to his normal manner, Singh said, ‘Of course there is or why would I call you? It’s big and it could blow the Nalwa case right out of the water.’

  ‘When do you want to see me?’ asked Meera, excitement pulsing in her veins.

  25

  Singh said abruptly, ‘Come now.’

  Meera, sensing the urgency in his voice, said, ‘I will be there in twenty minutes.’ Transfixed, she ran out of her house, all her earlier misery forgotten, feeling that the case was finally cracking.

  Meera was shocked at Singh’s appearance. His paunch seemed to have shrunk, caving inwards, almost as if it had given up the struggle. His face had fresh lines gouged near his eyes and he seemed to have lost his earlier fat, confident vitality. He was diminished, as if he had faced some punishing trial.

  He smiled at her artificially, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, and ushered her inside. Meera was shocked to see his home. She was used to government-issue houses, but this was more like a Tihar Jail-issue house. Clearly his wife had no imagination and comfort was optional in the Singh household. No wonder that terrible PHQ room was such a haven for him, thought Meera.

  His wife was nowhere to be seen and Singh simply told her the servant was out. ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked her. Meera gave up her usual picky insistence and said, ‘I can’t drink whisky; vodka if you have it.’

  ‘There is some lying around. Let me look,’ he said and vanished into the recesses of the house. Meera was left wondering why he was still dressed the way he used to in office. The badly tailored trousers and shirt were the same ones he used to wear to work. He returned triumphantly, holding a bottle aloft by its neck.

  Meera dimpled and said, ‘Why are all the things that are so bad for you the only things that make you feel good?’ />
  Singh smiled his first real smile of the evening and said, ‘That’s a good question. Applies to some people I know as well. Persistent reporters.’

  Finishing her drink in a couple of giant gulps, Meera devoutly hoped the speed would help disguise the taste, which was like no other vodka she had ever drunk before, and prayed fervently that she would never have to taste it again. Hiding her reaction, she looked levelly at Singh and asked, ‘What gives?’

  Singh regarded her sombrely and said, ‘What I am going to tell you now will only be revealed after you promise me that you will not print it till I give you express clearance.’ He kept looking at her steadily until she gave a reluctant nod.

  ‘Dawood plans to put up a charge sheet saying that shoddy investigations have ensured that the case is vitiated, and that my case diary and charge sheet, where I have said that Mrs Nalwa killed Ambika and Babloo and Mr Nalwa helped her, be ignored and set aside. They wanted me to withdraw it myself. I refused, so since they legally cannot ignore it, they will tell the court that there is insufficient evidence and, while I believed that they committed the murders, they cannot be tried.’

  Meera’s eyes widened as her mind reeled. This was the first time that all the leads, nebulous suspicions and her instinct were proved right. They had finally been reduced to this bald statement by Singh. She held her breath and said, ‘But is it even possible? Can they do that? Surely you were the main investigating officer; under the law can they set aside your findings?’

  Singh shrugged helplessly, ‘Who will care? Apart from you and me? Under the law, they can’t and because I wouldn’t withdraw my case, they brought in Dawood, who is now going to record that the preliminary investigation was shoddy and should be set aside.’

  Singh’s shoulders slumped, his eyes misted over. ‘This will be the first time in the history of independent India, and ever since the Indian Penal Code came into force, that the police will file this kind of charge sheet in a trial court. Anything is possible.’

  Meera was dismayed at the bitterness in Singh’s voice. It seemed that he was being consumed rapidly by some inner demon and very soon the husk sitting before her would also vanish. She did not know what to say, understanding that the moment the Dawood charge sheet was filed, Singh’s career was over. He was toast. The Nalwas would get away and Singh would forever be tagged as the incompetent, tainted official who ruined the case with his clumsy investigation.

  Seeing the depths of despair in his eyes, Meera panicked. She felt like a forced spectator at an ugly, grinding train wreck, compelled to watch with fascination, yet utterly helpless to intervene.

  Impulsively, she wanted to hold Singh, but knew that he would recoil with horror. Instead, she went across and held his hand and said, ‘Singh sahib, you have to stop this. You cannot let it affect you so much.’

  Singh broke down and sobbed—ugly, noisy rumbling sobs. Meera felt tears come to her eyes, embarrassed beyond belief to be witnessing this stoic, conventional man’s complete breakdown. She knew with a certainty that he would feel worse later for having cried and hoped that he wouldn’t hate her for being there in front of him.

  But now that she was there, she couldn’t help extending her sympathy to him. She kneeled down in front of his chair and put her arms around him. She had been longing to do this, to comfort him, and Singh’s complete breakdown brought out her characteristic recklessness. Meera felt like she was holding an awkwardly shaped sack of potatoes and soon her pink top’s shoulders were wet. She regretted the fact that she never carried a handkerchief around. Singh also had a sharp carbolic smell, which seemed strangely unreal, like inhaling sawdust. His sobs showed no signs of abetting as if he was struck by a renewed sense of all that he had lost. Meera was counting the seconds till she could let him go but just did not know how to extricate herself from the embrace.

  Squirming, she thought, I have to let go now. If I don’t, I will gag. Why am I such a fuckwit that I find myself in these situations? God, he will never be able to face me again. This is so hard.

  Then, as suddenly as it had happened, they moved away from one another. They looked at each other with embarrassment, Singh more than her. Rubbing his eyes, he said, ‘Look, no apology will be enough. You are a very decent human being, but I have lost everything. Can we please not add to the humiliation by discussing my disgusting display now?’

  Looking at his reddened, glassy eyes, like that of some huge animal in pain, and saddened by his mute pleading and toe-curling embarrassment, Meera said, ‘Of course. Look, we are friends and that’s the end of it.’

  Sitting up, with the remnants of his dignity lying in shreds, Singh gave up all pretence and started massaging what was left of his paunch. Then he suddenly got up and lumbered out, returning with a violently red towel, which he silently handed over to Meera. Pretending that it was not incongruous, she wiped down her moist top in the most matter-of-fact way possible.

  Collapsing back in his chair like a sack of potatoes, Singh resumed his ruminative gentle strokes across his fast caving-in belly. Deliberately not looking at Meera, he said, ‘The only way to stop all this is if the court intervenes. They have to ensure that Dawood’s nonsense is struck down and my charge sheet is used.’

  ‘How will that happen?’ Meera asked softly

  ‘There has to be an outcry in the media, the way it happened with the cinema hall that burned down. Otherwise, the rich and powerful people can get away even with murder,’ said Singh, acid in his voice.

  Still interested only in the logistics of what he was saying, Meera asked, ‘How will you ensure that?’

  ‘Well, there is a big difference in the previous cases and this one. The earlier cases had an outraged family fighting for justice. Here, it’s somewhat different. The family is trying to save its neck,’ said Singh and then he let out a strangely high, bitter chuckle, which upset Meera even more than his tears. ‘You’ve done a lot today, by the way. You took down Dawood and exposed his lies and nonsense. Now I am telling you, I know that the murder was committed by Mrs Nalwa.’

  Strangely enough Meera felt no shock. She had a queer feeling, as if she had known it all along and Singh’s statement felt like a complete anti-climax. Ever since she had met Mrs Nalwa, she had been dimly aware that this was something completely beyond her ken. She remembered the expression peeping out of the overly made-up eyes when Mrs Nalwa had looked at her and felt an involuntary shiver run down her spine. Singh, who had recovered some of his self-possession as he spoke, smiled grimly at Meera’s expression.

  Meera said quietly, almost as if she was talking to herself, ‘I am not surprised. I always felt that I knew this. I also felt that under his bluster, Mr Nalwa is terrified of her. But I wonder what reasons would prompt a mother to kill her own daughter. It goes against nature.’

  Singh sighed and looked at her, ‘We can assume that she is a very frustrated woman. From what I know, she felt left out in the relationship between her husband and daughter. Her daughter being all the things she wasn’t—a better companion to Arjun Nalwa—she would have been angry and resentful. She probably felt that the father and daughter ganged-up against her. She was hugely jealous of her own daughter, some mothers apparently are. It’s not unheard of. Then when Ambika grew up and cottoned on to what was going on, her hero-worship for her father turned into virulent hatred. She was aware of his relationship with his wife and his many affairs. Happens at that age; we all feel very strong emotions. Ambika’s world crashed around her and she could not even turn to her mother, who was an active participant.

  ‘Ambika was let down by both her parents. To spite them and hurt them, she started the Babloo saga. She became close to him and he responded because it probably gave him an ego boost and a chance for revenge too. Mr Nalwa is a very controlled man. He tried to counsel restraint to his wife in the Ambika chapter but I think he is a sex addict,’ said Singh primly. ‘That proved to be his downfall. He was Ambika’s world and she couldn’t take it anymore. Most kids a
re very sensitive and maybe she was drawn to Babloo as a figure whom she could feel close to. We will never have all the answers but my instinct and the evidence I’ve collected points towards Mrs Nalwa having one of her filthy rages before she killed Ambika.’ As his long monologue drew to a close, Singh drew a shaky breath and looked at Meera, exhausted.

  Meera nodded. This could be the truth. But what were they going to do about it?

  Singh gave her a grim smile and said, ‘The powers that be want me to roll over and die, but I do have one thing, a last roll of the dice.’

  Meera, who wanted some proof so she could report on this story, could not contain her impatience and asked bluntly, ‘What is it?’

  Singh was deep in thought. He was wondering if after everything that he shared with her, he could come clean with her. More importantly, he was counting on her to write an explosive story.

  He was dead and history to the rest of the media. Nobody would listen to him and he still wanted his pension, so approaching the courts was not an option. By going rogue and not withdrawing his case diary, he had nearly destroyed himself. His career or whatever was left of it was stinking, steaming ordure.

  He looked at Meera, who had in a way turned in to his last hope, and asked bluntly, ‘Will your paper print the story I just told you, if you have all the documents?’

  Meera realized how important the question was and decided to be straight. She said dubiously, ‘I am not sure. It’s too important and I don’t want to give you the normal reporter bullshit.’

  Singh was touched by her honesty. ‘You are my last hope. Okay wait, let me go and get the final evidence, and let’s hope it works.’

  Meera paced the room impatiently, unable to sit down as Singh disappeared inside the house again.

  26

  Meera held her breath in the grimy room, hoping that Singh wasn’t just playing the endless games that bureaucrats held sacred and played to death. When he returned, she attempted to dimple at him but the smile died at her lips and she just looked at him grim-faced.