Daddy's Girl Read online

  ‘There was no attempt to cover or shroud his body, unlike Ambika. The staircase at the back of the house had a bloody trail as he was dragged up.

  CASE DIARY OF AMBIKA NALWA MURDER CASE

  The bungalow in East End Greens had not been broken into. Nothing valuable from the home was missing. They seemed to be closed-house murders.

  Mr Nalwa initially refused to identify Babloo’s body when he was found on the terrace, claiming he could not recognize him.

  Mr Nalwa heard a noise in Ambika’s room and wanted to go and investigate with the male relative. He kept calling for Babloo and entered his room. He did not find him there but picked up Ambika’s tennis racket, which was kept in the servant quarters. He went to investigate. He found them together on Ambika’s bed. And, as a result, the rest of the events, which culminated in the murders followed.

  This our unanimous opinion and all other theories are bogus. No outsider entered the bungalow that night. There was no intruder/intruders, and the parents killed their daughter and beat the male relative. The murders were caused by sudden/grave provocation but the later actions point to a cover up and an attempt to frame the second victim and later, the other staff.

  Meera’s head reeled. She could not process the information. After all the effort, the flirting, the lying, all the schmoozing, there it was in black and white. She was actually holding the report. Meera looked down at her hands again, anxious to reassure herself. Her frenzied pursuit had paid off.

  She looked up, staring at Shoe Polish, and asked quietly, ‘I don’t understand . . . When your own investigations are so conclusive and two CBI teams say the same thing, then what are you doing? Why aren’t you filing a charge sheet?’

  Shoe Polish laughed mockingly and said, ‘Meeraji, have you forgotten your country? This is India. Here, investigation follows decisions that are already taken. As long as the Nalwas remain influential, nothing will happen. They will get the best lawyers. In fact, they already have them. You see, they will never face any consequences.’

  ‘That’s what Singh says as well,’ said Meera impetuously.

  ‘Well, then your best friend, the CP’s little pet, and I agree on something,’ said Shoe Polish tonelessly, while pouring himself another drink.

  There it was again—that moral flabbiness, a give, a certain sway in the system without any mettle, thought Meera bitterly. Who could you trust? All these cops talked big, fought ridiculous ego wars and then caved into the first sign of pressure. And those unspeakable murderers, which seemed destined to haunt her for the rest of her life. They have sullied and abused my mind, thought Meera, as a white, hot flash of rage struck her anew.

  7

  Meera had always thought she was an old person trapped in a young body. She only wanted to focus on her work. The wildness of her peers left her unmoved but, as Shoe Polish gave what she thought was becoming an increasingly familiar rictus of a grin, which lacked any mirth, she fleetingly thought, Thank god, I still haven’t become like them.

  Next she was thinking about Ambika. Poor kid! she thought. She never had a chance! The troubled soul . . . and Meera’s face crumpled as a wave of devastation swept through her. Meera always hated the see-saw emotions she was prone to feel and which she tried desperately to keep under control by hiding beneath a tough exterior.

  Shoe Polish, who had refused to give them information previously, now could not stop leaking his knowledge fast enough, ‘Did I tell you about the last thing Ambika wrote?’

  Meera shook her head. Shoe Polish waddled to his briefcase again. He held the file close to his chest and said, ‘It was written on her whiteboard: Every day we have regrets but we spend a lifetime regretting them.’

  Meera felt a jolt of misery. She did not have any time, did she? She was just becoming a real person, before she got caught up in this shit, she thought. Then aloud she said, ‘I met some of her friends. They said she was really unhappy, acting out. She had a crush on a boy called Gagan. God, our parents do fuck us up in such a variety of ways!’

  Shoe Polish bared his teeth, ‘I do not know about this crush but she had a boyfriend who she spoke to on the phone and SMS-ed all the time. They allegedly talked about physical relationships a lot. Like kids their age do. And, while she always seemed to enjoy the chat and the overt flirting, she often cried too.’

  Meera couldn’t control the indignation anymore, ‘What utter garbage; she’s dead and these idiots are making these wild claims!’

  ‘Yes, she is dead. Murdered, if you remember; and these are not claims they are unsubstantiated, madam. Nobody knows this but we have an MMS clip of her.’

  Meera looked down, feeling sick, trying not to retch at the news. The world felt topsy-turvy and infinitely dangerous.

  That’s when Raman, who hadn’t said a word since they had entered only, quietly reading the file, eagerly asked with his eyes gleaming, ‘You have it, na, sir? I know you do. Can we see it? Get a feel for the case.’

  Battling nausea, Meera wondered in a distant way if her nose would start bleeding again. ‘I don’t want to see this wretched evidence; what is the point? How does it help the story, Raman, except to titillate you?’ she said acidly.

  ‘Fine, you leave. I will watch it with sir. And for the record, of course it adds to the story, we will know so much more!’ he said angrily, while his eyes pleaded, ‘Do whatever Shoe Polish wants or he won’t play ball.’

  Incredibly, Shoe Polish actually licked his lips while his eyes had a moist, far-away, needy look in them. This man is deranged! Did he actually just do that? she thought, as Shoe Polish sneaked in another look at her breasts. I do not need to add to this loser’s wet dreams, she decided and stood up abruptly.

  ‘The tenure thing will happen. So please think about it. I will need a copy of this report, otherwise, since you are so aware and clued in, the story will never happen without all the documents. Call me after you read the CP story tomorrow,’ said Meera, trying to keep her tone business-like.

  Hugely preoccupied, Raman and Shoe Polish were already hunched over the latter’s bulky computer, and they did not even bother to look up and say bye to her.

  The same oily servant let her out and Meera, in a daze, thought that except for the clothes and sophistication on the surface, both Shoe Polish and Mr Nalwa seemed the same disgusting person.

  She felt a liquid pain wash over her for Ambika. It was so potent, it felt like inhaling depression. Poor kid! This is what these pigs have reduced a pure, innocent child who came into the world, thought Meera, hunched over her steering wheel, trying to force herself to start the car.

  Once home, she was, as usual, losing her daily battle with sleep—her permanent nemesis and blamed the Nalwas for destroying whatever miserly quantity of sleep was meted out to her. Her brain was frenetic, mulling over the events in Shoe Polish’s home. She could not lose it now. It was mind-boggling. How could the Nalwas ever do such a thing? Meera’s eyes kept jerking open as a fresh detail from the report returned to haunt her. She wished she had taken notes; but how would that have helped? Bhagwan would never buy the story unless she had the document with her.

  Gunny, who was normally a snug, comforting presence, cuddled near her heels, was infected with her chronic insomnia and finally the dog gave up, jumped off the bed and rushed off to sleep with the parents. After Gunny’s defection, Meera sat up in bed and decided to wake up the boyfriend. There was no answer. Now she had something new to fret about—was the boyfriend out partying with some babe?

  Consumed by her profession, she hadn’t managed to make very many friends.

  And, as Vaidehiji never tired of pointing out, politicians and officials over the age of fifty were not really an ideal substitute for friends her own age. Meera occasionally told herself that she was a freak magnet who knew every ‘priapic geriatric’ in the city; but, hell, they did provide great stories for her.

  Tonight, however, this was of no comfort. Meera had been a lonely little girl, lost in her world of boo
ks as other children, sensing her intensity, cruelly dismissed her as ‘weird’. She even grew into her looks only post college; before that she was considered too tall and skinny. Being defiant came naturally to her and she did not even bother to brush her beautiful hair or try dressing up or use make-up.

  Journalism changed her, gave her sense of purpose and a feeling of power. And along with that came the confidence. Meera thought that the only thing you needed to be a great journalist was her oft-quoted great, big balls of steel and the unlimited courage to ask questions and keep asking them. And she was willing to go to hell and back for a story.

  Meera finally gave in to her frantic, obsessive urge and called Singh up. It was 1 a.m., but Singh did not sound sleepy. ‘Singh sahib, did I wake you up?’ asked Meera, in a forlorn voice.

  ‘Well, that’s a dumb question, you obviously did; but what did you wake me up for, Meera?’ asked Singh in his usual reasonable tone.

  ‘It’s just that I needed to talk to you . . .’ she paused, then continued, ‘I saw Ambika Nalwa’s case file and autopsy report.’

  Singh drew in his breath sharply and the complete absence of any other reaction was enough for Meera’s taut nerves. ‘I am sorry I woke you up but the report is so conclusive and Shoe Polish has more evidence against Ambika’s parents,’ said Meera in a rush.

  Again the sharp breath drawn in as Singh refused to react.

  ‘I did not see what they had, Singh sahib, but I may have really upset him. This Nalwa case . . . I can’t seem to let it go. It’s not like a regular story where after you file your report, you move on to the next. I met Mr Nalwa; he disturbed me,’ said Meera, stumbling over her words. ‘Even if they did not kill their daughter, why are they not more outraged that their house was violated? That they lost their only child?’

  ‘Meera, go to sleep now and come see me tomorrow, during office hours, please,’ said Singh tartly, and hung up.

  Though the boyfriend had been on call waiting, Meera did not call him back but switched off her iPhone and resumed her pursuit of sleep. Now, she had a fresh worry to mull over— it was utterly stupid of her to call Singh at 1 a.m. What would he think of her now?

  Just before she fell into shallow, uneasy sleep, her last thought was, We are all diseased by misery, infected by it, and we reek of it from our pores. And yet, I am supposed to wake up tomorrow morning and worry about petty things which are still all-consuming in my brain.

  Early the next morning, Meera, having noticed tiny spots of blood on her pillow from her nosebleed and all the glass windowpanes in the house dirty and cloudy, was irrationally upset.

  Coming out of her room to the lawn, she again complained about the inefficient house help.

  Her father responded with a smile, ‘Don’t let these things upset you so much. I like this story that you did on the CP grabbing the club house. I had gone to the North Block and even they were talking about it.’

  Meera brightened up immediately. She adored praise, especially from her father. Her mother walked into the lawn looking anything but fresh that morning. ‘What are you complaining about now to your father?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing, Ma, our help is probably the laziest in the land.’

  ‘Try getting and keeping them,’ her mother retorted.

  ‘I agree, but we need to keep trying to make them work,’ said Meera, trotting out her well-worn complaint.

  ‘I have to leave for work; I do not have time for this!’’ said her mother angrily.

  Both mother and daughter were aggrieved with each other and felt an obscure sense of hurt, much like the persistent pain from an open wound.

  ‘Bye, see you, Papa,’ said Meera, childishly leaving out her mother.

  ‘What about breakfast? Why are you leaving so early?’ asked her father.

  ‘I have an early appointment,’ Meera replied and prepared to leave.

  Driving towards the police headquarters early, in a bid to beat the horrific traffic snarls, Meera thought about her work. She acknowledged that maybe her work, apart from being her identity, was also just really an escape from home—the mess, the drudgery, the routine and the sheer responsibility of it all. Maybe her mother felt the same way too.

  Entering Singh’s room fifteen minutes before he was scheduled to arrive, Meera looked around. Poor guy! How does he spend all day in this airless room with no design or plan? They should bring criminals in here. The architecture might torture them into confessing; no third degree required, she chuckled as she thought to herself. The worst eyesore was the towel placed on his chair, which, to Meera’s beady eyes condemned to spot dust everywhere, looked even grimier today.

  As Singh walked in, making ample adjustments to his paunch and hitching up his ill-fitting trousers, he looked at Meera, smiled and said, ‘Why am I not surprised? Have you rushed here straight from bed? Does Bhagwan give you some special 24/7 allowance to harass honest police officials?’

  Meera laughed and said, ‘You got me, Singh sahib; it’s a special allowance to target you.’

  Suddenly the mood changed and became oppressive, as if the dust was thickening layer by layer and setting up a permanent reign in the hideous room.

  ‘What was the MMS you were talking about last night, Meera?’ Singh asked, in a blink of an eye every inch of him morphing into a cop.

  ‘Apoorva Sinha has it, he claims. It’s Ambika having sex with her boyfriend. He wanted me to see it,’ said Meera, turning bright red, embarrassed for both Singh and herself. ‘I refused but Raman must have seen it.’

  Singh replied coldly, ‘Neither the official records nor the official narrative has anything about an MMS. What that slime ball Sinha claims, I do not know. It’s the same as the IPL match-fixing where he had seized the telephone records, which he then put up for bidding with the IPL owners the next day.’

  Meera’s ears pricked up. ‘Really? Did Sinha do that? What records?’

  ‘Phone taps, Meera, which the crime branch meticulously investigated for months, deals being struck to spot-fix matches. All the work down the drain, as Sinha did his own little private auction,’ said Singh bitterly. ‘I think the farmhouse in Chhatarpur, which is supposedly from his wife’s ancestral wealth as the maharani of some tiny Bihar republic, came from the rags-to-riches story that is the IPL. And now, he wants to use the Nalwa murder to pole-vault his way into being the CP, so he can loot even more.’

  ‘Wow, he has a farmhouse in Chhatarpur? That’s surreal!’ said Meera with genuine amazement.

  ‘I have a cooperative society, two-bedroom flat in Noida, where I barely have enough room to move between the cupboards and the bed, and which will take me the rest of my life to repay the EMIs on,’ replied Singh bitterly. ‘The Apoorva Kumar Sinhas of the world make you realize what a dumbass you have been all your life. A real freak, an honest cop. An oxymoron, right, Meera?’

  ‘Screw him,’ said Meera, slipping into the Delhi University slang they shared.

  ‘I met Mr Nalwa as well and he made it clear that he thinks nothing will touch him.’

  ‘Oh yes. The good counsellor should be quite sanguine in that belief. Never have I got as many phone calls as I have got for that lawyer. He is a saint who pisses rosewater, according to his pals,’ said Singh, acid dripping with every word.

  Tossing her long hair back, Meera said. ‘Look, since I refused to be part of Sinha’s little porn party, he will not give me the file, I think. Now, Singh sahib, we both know that the lovely couple will get away with murder if the media does not smoke them out. How about you giving me the report? Else, the Delhi Police’s very own purveyor of porn will become the CP and the case will be closed,’ said Meera, desperate to persuade him.

  Smiling, Singh said ‘Oh Meera, as my old riding coach in the police academy told me, “Persistence is key, it will get you everywhere.”’

  Meera’s answering beam could have lit up the dingy room.

  After Meera left, Singh started trying to sort out his voluminous daily register, h
is roznamcha, when his RAX, the restricted access line for senior officials, rang.

  It was a short call and Singh’s mood seemed to plummet as he tipped his hellishly uncomfortable chair back, and held his head in his hands with despair. He had lost, the Nalwas had won. Babloo, his star witness, was dead. And so was the biggest case in his career.

  Singh wanted to punch someone senseless just like his case against the Nalwas had been sucker-punched. He reached for his phone, meaning to tell his junior to change the sections and send Babloo’s body for the post-mortem, but found himself dialling Meera instead.

  Poor kid, she may as well know. At least she will share my misery, he thought sadly.

  Meera, as usual, picked up on the first ring, trying to conceal her surprise at Singh calling just after she had left him.

  Without preamble and in his most level voice, Singh said, ‘Babloo is dead. And so is the case.’

  Meera’s heart sank and she started crying silently. Singh pretended he could not hear her and said, ‘Well that’s all, I guess,’ and hung up.

  Meera was unable to fathom her own reaction. She had become irrational about this case but part of her grief was also for Babloo, the forgotten victim in this tragedy. ‘No one gives a damn about him,’ sobbed Meera. ‘His life and now his death are just footnotes in this hideous tragedy.’

  He can’t even be forgotten for when was he ever remembered? wondered Meera, her tears unrestrained.

  And the Nalwas will now get away, as the powerful always do, thought Meera, as the seed of bitterness took root in her and grew.

  8

  It’s a good thing I never get hangovers, thought Mr Nalwa bemusedly, as he woke up. Gently prodding Anju DD, who was sleeping on her side and noisily snoring, he assessed his symptoms clinically and decided hydration was a sufficient cure.

  Waking up guiltily, wondering aloud if she had been snoring, Anju was smilingly assured by Mr Nalwa that she’d slept like a baby.