Daddy's Girl Page 3

  Fuelled by the late-night cold coffee and her misery about Meetu Parin’s flier—a story detailing the Nalwas’ political connections and how they were trying various means to influence the investigation—Meera lay awake. She was in a foul mood. She dismissed Meetu’s story, which did not name names, as ‘typical Meetu kite flying’.

  When I do my story, I will for sure identify the politician!

  After a few fitful hours of shallow, unrestful sleep, Meera was up, yawning tiredly and reading the ten morning papers with her father. All had variations of Nalwa scoops, which had gripped the country’s collective imagination and which the media was stoking with daily leaks and salacious titbits.

  Meera loved this quiet time, when it was just her and father, reading the papers, occasionally chatting. Since both got up at the unfashionable hour of 6.30 a.m., they only had each other for company. Vaidehiji was a late sleeper and a grumpy late riser.

  Meera was cringing at the thought of discussing the Nalwa murder case with her father but, as was her wont, she couldn’t control herself and raised it, ‘Why do such freaks have kids? Do you know the real story? My sources are saying that the Nalwas were in a dysfunctional relationship and Ambika knew all about it’. She blushed a lurid fire-engine red as she said that.

  Her father did not answer and he did not look up from the newspaper he was holding up against himself, almost brandishing it as if it were a shield against what could potentially wreck his peaceful morning. As Meera’s eyes bored holes in the newsprint, he sighed loudly and five minutes later, he said, ‘Gudda, what you said is nonsense; it can’t be true. Nobody will believe it; no court will accept that the Nalwas murdered their own child. It’s inconceivable.’

  And, there it was—the full extent of her turmoil confronting her. If Meera’s doting father did not believe her, who would believe the story Singh had told her and which, as Meera reporter’s news sense told her, was the truth? And, worse, how would she convince her forever sceptical and tough boss about this story?

  ‘It’s worse . . . what I am telling you is true. They killed her and tried to frame the mentally deficient cousin first and then the others who worked in his legal office,’ Meera burst out.

  ‘Gudda, it’s all very well to fight with your mother, but parents do not go around killing their daughters. Not people like us,’ her father said, his tone final.

  ‘Papa, that’s it! That is what my cop source said! That the Nalwas are getting away with murder because you and others in positions of power refuse to believe that people of the same class could do this! It’s this classist tone that is derailing the entire case and justice for the poor murdered kid!’ said Meera angrily, with tears flowing down her face.

  Tactfully, her father refused to engage in this battle with his tempestuous daughter. He felt she only cared about the sensibilities of her all-important and sacred sources. Tired, he said, ‘Stop losing your temper, Gudda! Don’t exhaust me. I have a long day ahead in the North Block.’

  Meera, who covered her supersensitive nature with a tough-girl exterior, felt fresh tears prick her eyes and her forehead tighten. She had upset her father, her compass in the world, but she couldn’t give up her story. Not even when her father believed that no parents could kill their own daughter.

  She called Singh. He did not answer his phone. Her mood plummeting further, she composed a cheerful text, ‘Hi! Would it be possible to drop by and touch base with you today?’ She hoped that the breezy tone would cover her desperation to meet him and take the story forward.

  Then Meera drove to the shabby, dirty office filled with windowless, dingy cubicles that was the National Express. The eager beaver that she was, Meera was always typically early for any meeting and she had to wait two hours before the rest of the Special Investigative Bureau trooped in. She had only checked her phone a hundred times for Singh’s reply and there was nothing. There was only Meetu, looking superior and smug.

  Meetu Parin, Meera’s fierce rival whose scoops were as large as her huge, Punjabi ass. She was losing hair at an alarming rate and this fuelled her hatred of Meera, whose long, thick hair almost seemed like a personal affront. It was whispered in the corridors of the National Express that Meetu recycled old stories and obligingly put out stories planted by the Intelligence Bureau.

  But those were very hushed whispers as Meetu was God’s favourite reporter. ‘Dev really liked the way I wrote my story. Meera, you should also work on your writing skills. Sometimes I think you are too much in a hurry,’ said Meetu patronizingly.

  Yeah right, you have writing skills! Like every dictator thinks he is Lee Kuan Yew and every hack thinks he is T.S. Eliot. I know all about your writing talent, oozing with clichés and officialise Indish, thought Meera mutinously.

  Her thoughts made her giggle and Meetu looked at her like she was crazy. Meera began playing with her phone. The iPhone was obstinately silent and gave her no joy. Even the cantankerous boyfriend had deserted her today. Meera felt that this was going to be an utterly joyless day.

  Then suddenly Raman came in and whispered, ‘It was very difficult; he would not agree but I persuaded him to meet us at 8 p.m. tonight.’

  The rest of the day was in shambles and at 7.30 p.m., when the office of the National Express was buzzing with the early city edition being put to bed, Raman sent her a text, ‘I will pretend to leave and then wait for you outside. Come in ten minutes and we will take your car.’

  Clearly, Raman was being very cowardly and, in order to please Meetu, he did not even want to be seen with Meera. Irritated, but left with no choice, Meera waited outside the building for him.

  ‘Pinjore Park, the D-II flats,’ he said getting in the car.

  ‘I know where they are,’ said Meera coolly. ‘What’s the agenda? Is he a leaker or will we have to jump through the hoops?’

  Raman dropped the bomb, ‘He is fighting with the commissioner of police, who wants to send him to the Andamans because he wants to take his job. Always fights with all his bosses. Very political. Uses journalists to settle scores.’

  Raman and Meera climbed up to the first floor flat. He put on an air of false, overdone bonhomie and said, ‘Arey, how are you, sir? Thank you so much for making time. You have never let me down, not like the other darpoks in the PHQ. They are too scared of their superiors—not you. Today, I have brought a friend, my colleague Meera. My byline can be linked to you, but nobody will ever know that you ever even met Meera.’

  Taking his cue, Meera dimpled sweetly and said, ‘What a pleasure, Raman has told me such good things about you. I was so keen to meet you.’ She hoped she was not laying it on too thickly.

  The portly senior official, who rejoiced in his name of Apoorva Kumar Sinha, which meant ‘unprecedented’, unfortunately represented that quality only to his doting parents To the rest of the world he had clearly failed to live up to his starry billing, which he thought was his due, spoiled as he was by being an only son and an IPS (Indian Police Service) official.

  Sinha got up and Meera saw his face, which was nearly identical to that of a melancholic French bulldog, with protruding, watery eyes and his two double chins, which simultaneously jiggled with his swaying paunch. Apoorva’s other striking feature was his long dyed black hair—so black it looked like it had been dipped in shoe polish. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was checking her out from head to toe and after lingering for far too long on her breasts, he grinned and said, ‘It’s my birthday today.’

  For a moment Meera wondered why all bureaucrats opted for that strangely unattractive colour of hair dye. Then, turning on her charm for Shoe Polish, she cooed, ‘What serendipity! We were fated to meet today! How are you celebrating and where’s your family?’

  Raman glared at her and Meera went red. She had dropped a brick. ‘My family is travelling,’ said Shoe Polish unconvincingly. ‘But you guys have a drink and help me enjoy!’

  Mentally wincing at the ‘enjoy’, Meera smiled brightly.

  Ope
ning a bottle of expensive Cristal, clearly sourced from a service provider, Shoe Polish said, ‘Most expensive champagne in the world in your honour.’ He said it with such overdone gallantry, that it made Meera cringe. She blushed and Raman said ‘Sir, hamare liye to kabhi nahi kholi champagne.’

  Squirming with embarrassment at that exchange, Meera asked, ‘So the CP is trying to subvert the Nalwa case?’

  It was clearly the right thing to say as Shoe Polish’s eyes lit up and he said, ‘Subvert? The asshole wants to head the CBI, so he is trying to wreck the case. The information I have is explosive but there are no takers. These people have such high-level defenders.’

  Both Raman and Meera stared at him, willing him to go on. The silence was getting uncomfortable, when Meera said, ‘Can I have another glass of champagne?’

  Shoe Polish beamed approvingly, ‘Yes, of course. I like beautiful girls who drink!’

  Meera wanted to throw up and slap the middle-aged man ogling away at her but, somehow, she managed to restrain herself. Shoe Polish finally looked up from his unrestrained contemplation of her breasts and locked his protruding eyes with hers. ‘I don’t know you . . . how can I trust you?’

  Meera, fast running out of patience with her temper rising, did not enjoy being toyed with and, looking at him straight in his eyes, said softly ‘That’s surprising. You have read my stories, heard about me from other cops and then asked Raman to arrange this meeting.’

  Raman turned an unattractive shade brick red and looked down at his phone as if it was silently signalling him. So it was true. Her reporter’s instinct had paid off.

  ‘If you give me the information, I will always protect you as a source; I would go to jail for contempt rather than reveal where my facts comes from. If the story is sexy enough, your enemies in the PHQ will be the enemies of the National Express,’ said Meera, in her most sincere voice. Her guarantee was genuine—she had offered to go to jail twice before when the home ministry had threatened charging her under the Official Secrets Act. The rest of her spiel was really up to the higher powers of the National Express.

  Her speech seemed to work on Shoe Polish. His protruding eyes widened and he said simply, ‘I have Ambika Nalwa’s post-mortem report. The report shows sexual arousal prior to death.’

  The silence in the room was an indication of the enormity of the information. Exhaling gently, Meera said softly ‘Are you sure? Does the report actually say that?’

  Singh was a matter of fact man, not given to any rumination, but even his certainties were shaken by the Nalwa case. As he passed a temple near Lodhi Road, on his way to a meeting in the Central Government Complex (CGO) complex, he sent up a fleeting prayer for Babloo, hoping he would make it.

  Babloo alive and talking was his best hope of cracking the hardest case he had faced as an investigator. Singh was even willing to renounce his rational beliefs at the altar of Babloo’s well-being. This is probably the most salience the poor loser has ever had in his miserable, marginal life, thought Singh savagely as he entered the vast CGO complex.

  The doctors were not optimistic. They kept saying that if Babloo ever came out of the coma, he would have severe brain damage due to the brutal way he had been beaten up and the gunshot wound that had severed his spine had ensured that he would never walk again. Singh just wanted him to talk, to tell him what had happened that fateful night.

  He was sick of the challenge he saw in the Nalwas’ eyes each time he questioned them. They seemed to question him. Prove what you suspect, can you make anything stick against us in court? they seemed to ask silently. Singh knew that without an eyewitness he was a goner.

  In the class-ridden justice system, the Nalwas occupied an unassailable space. You cannot touch us, seemed to be their tone. And that tone found an echo around the ecosystem. How could Singh, a mere policeman, think of taking on the system’s own? They seemed to have invisible guardian angels all around them, who ensured that they were always a step ahead of Singh.

  3

  ‘The autopsy report is crystal clear. Ambika seemed to have had physical relations. The entire crime scene was dressed up. It almost seemed as if the teenage girl went peacefully back to sleep after she was brutally murdered,’ said Shoe Polish softly.

  ‘Can we see the report?’ Meera and Raman said simultaneously.

  With a taunting smile, Shoe Polish said, ‘Why? Don’t you trust me? What was the spiel this young lady gave about going to jail to protect me?’

  Meera’s hands itched to slap Shoe Polish, but she said in a neutral voice, ‘I absolutely meant what I said, but it cuts both ways. The information has to be good. I have to convince my editors that the story is genuine. Look, Mr Sinha, let me be straight with you. My editor, Bhagwan Bhalla, will only print the story if I have the document; anything else and he will laugh me out of his office. You have to trust me. This Nalwa case is so high profile that I could lose my job; so please, you’ve got to give me the report.’

  Shoe Polish smiled. He had her where he wanted—begging for more. Aha! The pleasure of seeing someone desperate. Pouring the dregs of the champagne into his glass, he said softly, ‘I don’t understand. Raman has always believed me. We go back years and I have given him so many scoops.’

  Dying to say that this story was way out of Raman’s league, Meera smiled and said, ‘Thank you for the lovely Cristal. It was great meeting you. Do think about my request. It would be sensational to reveal to the nation what the CP has been covering up.’

  ‘Arey, why are you standing up? The party has just started. The bubbly is over but let’s move on to other things,’ said Shoe Polish. Perhaps he wanted to see them squirm a bit more.

  ‘That is so sweet of you, but I will come and harass you another day,’ said Meera and walked out.

  Raman hurriedly said, ‘I will just see her off and return. Wait for me, sir, and pull out the whisky. This champagne is like water. It has no effect on me.’

  The moment they stepped out, Meera put on a fake smile for the benefit of the grimy servant ushering them out and hissed at Raman, ‘Do you have hollow legs that you plan to continue drinking? What an asshole he is!’

  Raman replied, ‘Yes, I plan to continue drinking and will even do a strip tease, if that is what he wants. The story is huge and it’s an exclusive.’ He had a curiously feral expression on his face and his overwhelming need for the big story was palpable in the air. All claims of altruism were forgotten. Now it was out in the open that he wanted the story. Meera, in a characteristically impetuous move, had just left the field clear for him.

  At the same time, in the huge colonial bungalow, which had so recently found all-India fame, a handsome man with large expressive eyes stared pensively into his glass of scotch on the rocks. His muscled body was gradually giving in to middle age. He had thickened across his waist, even as he battled it valiantly with daily cardio workouts and strength training at the gym. He was vain about his good looks and regularly went for laser peels to maintain what he mentally called his ‘mojo’.

  The well-kept long hair that nearly came down to his shoulders, of which he was inordinately proud, which he had dyed every two weeks, lent him a sensitive air, much appreciated by grateful clients who poured out their woes about the unthinkable crimes that had got them in to trouble. Arjun felt his wife stare at him unblinkingly but refused to meet her eyes. Letting out an audible sigh, Cuckoo who did not possess her spouse’s sensitive good looks but was extremely fair with hooded eyes and a scar just below her right eye, which she had camouflaged with dramatic eye make-up until now, asked, ‘Do you ever think we will be able to talk to each other again? Why, you can’t even stand to look at me?’

  His wife was prodding him in the manner of a big-game hunter attacking a fallen prey with a stick to check if it was still breathing, he thought with familiar bitterness. Arjun allowed his mind a rare visit back to Chandigarh and his get-rich-quick scheme, which had changed the entire trajectory of his life. I stopped believing in a lot of thing
s such as god after Chandigarh, he reflected.

  He went back to his first meeting with the plain-looking, scarred, billionaire angel investor’s daughter Cuckoo Bindra, whom he had been exaggeratedly gallant with. How even then, despite being preoccupied with her riding lessons, she had always silently seemed to be wherever he was and followed him around the sectors, blushing at staged accidental meetings. These were followed by her awkward attempts at conversation, which he responded to with the only way he knew—by flirting.

  Then there were the weekly summons couched as invites, but more in the nature of orders, to quaint ‘high teas’ and formal dinners at the Bindra home. For these he was teased mercilessly by his friends from his tiny start-up, who nicknamed him ‘Cuckoo’s Cookie’.

  The flash of rage in Cuckoo’s eyes when she saw him dancing with a beautiful former Miss India at the billionaire’s annual party to celebrate his company’s success and birthday, scared him no end. Shortly after this episode, his start-up was given two extra audit notices by the expressionless billionaire father who had, until recently, been so easy-going. The invites too ceased for two weeks. However, despite the audits destroying two investor meets which had potential, thus giving him sleepless nights, Arjun Nalwa was relieved.

  His youth had not entirely blinded him to his limitations and the near escape from Cuckoo but, honestly, had he really known what fear was till he got married?