Chain of Custody Page 17

  His sister-in-law Meena touched Gowda’s elbow, warning him not to snap back. ‘If I had come in bearing no gifts, he would have sulked. What does he want from me?’ Gowda whispered furiously to Nagendra and Meena.

  Nagendra led him towards the paved frontyard where two coconut trees stood sentinel by the gate. ‘He planted these trees when we were born, one for each of us,’ Nagendra said.

  ‘So?’ Gowda mumbled.

  ‘Most days he talks to the tree that is supposed to be you. He misses you, Borei. So when he sees you, he doesn’t know how to react. Come see him more often. After a certain age, that’s all parents expect from children – their presence.’

  Borei Gowda lit a cigarette. Nagendra had a gentle way of stating facts that made Gowda want to bury his head in the ground in shame. ‘I know I should,’ Gowda said. ‘But work …’

  ‘If you think it’s important, you’ll make the time, Borei,’ his brother said firmly. ‘We are going to get there as well, Borei, and our children will learn from us.’

  His cigarette felt like ashes in his mouth.

  A neighbour waved as he drove past. ‘Isn’t that Shankar?’ Gowda asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Nagendra made a face. ‘He’s just come back from the Sringeri mutt; that man is at some holy place or the other every week!’

  Another neighbour came towards the gate. Someone Gowda hadn’t met before.

  Jayanagar too had changed. The property next door had been sold to a real-estate developer who was going to build a block of flats there. In time Nagendra might want to do the same. There would be nothing left of his childhood home, except the trees, perhaps, and memories. Gowda knew why he didn’t find the time to come here more often. His childhood home made him maudlin; stirred up emotions he didn’t like to feel. The inevitability of time going by and the certainty of the death of loved ones.

  At fifty, what man can beguile himself into thinking life and its possibilities are forever? Only a fool would go on tilting at windmills and fighting shadows. In his home, in his station house, time seemed to stand still, making him feel in control of his hours if not his destiny. He stubbed out the cigarette and went back in.

  Roshan was showing his grandfather how Instagram worked. The stern expression on his grandfather’s face had been replaced with one of wonder. ‘You mean to say that total strangers around the world can see our photograph?’

  Gowda peered at Roshan’s phone. So this was the Instagram thing he had heard Santosh and Ratna refer to.

  ‘Let’s shoot a picture of the three of us,’ Gowda suggested in a voice he had heard fun-loving fathers use on TV commercials. Soon Gowda had the app on his phone and Roshan helped him put up the photograph with appropriate tags: #FatherSonGrandfather, #HappyFamilies, #BirthdaySurprise and #LifeIsForLiving.

  Was there one called #fuckingwastedtime or #joblessidiots or #neveragain or #notevenifiampaidforit? This would be his first and last Instagram, Gowda decided, trying to mask his discomfort at such blatant exhibitionism.

  They were sitting in the living room, making desultory conversation after an enormous birthday lunch.

  Gowda had frowned, watching Roshan shovel the food into his mouth hungrily as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. Was the boy stoned?

  ‘Why are you frowning?’ his father asked. Gowda plastered a smile on his face and mouthed something inane to Meena. ‘Are beans in season now? These are very tasty.’

  Nagendra had stared at him amused but said nothing.

  And now Roshan lay on the sofa with headphones plugged into his ears. Why did the boy need headphones when he already had a pair? Suddenly Roshan sat up. ‘Tell you what,’ Roshan said. ‘Why don’t you give me the money instead?’

  ‘Instead of what?’ Gowda asked. His face ached from all the smiling he had to subject it to.

  ‘Instead of the hard disk that I asked for instead of the watch,’ Roshan explained patiently.

  ‘He was always a little slow,’ the indulgent grandfather pitched in.

  Gowda mumbled a noncommittal huh.

  He had done all that was expected of him. Played son, brother, brother-in-law and father. Now it was time to get back to the station house and his desk. That was one place where he knew who he really was.

  Borei Gowda was ready to leave. But how was he going to get away without ruffling feathers?

  When his phone rang and DCP Mirza’s image popped up, Gowda grabbed it like a drowning man clutching at a straw.

  Gowda and Santosh drove up in the official vehicle. For once Gowda’s shoes shone and his uniform appeared to have come straight from the drycleaner’s. Santosh darted secret looks at Gowda. He had never seen him so spruced up or as relaxed.

  David turned onto a narrow tarred road alongside a eucalyptus grove. ‘But isn’t this the way to MLA Papanna’s house?’ Gowda asked.

  ‘Yes. And the home is in the next compound,’ Santosh said.

  DCP Mirza had called, asking Gowda to attend the inauguration of the home. ‘Our official presence is required there. I hear the home minister for the state may come in. And the women and children’s welfare minister will certainly be there.’

  Gowda chewed on his lips thoughtfully. The MLA had his fingers in too many pies and connections that seemed to spread like the roots of a ficus tree. He was yet to make the appointment with the PA. He would try and fix it first thing tomorrow morning, he decided. And would let Santosh handle it. The PA would have his guard up if Gowda spoke to him. He would see him for who he was; a policeman on the prowl. Santosh was very good at weeding out details and his clear-cut boyish looks made him seem more earnest than shrewd.

  ‘All of this area is his,’ David said. ‘He buys up all the access routes around and the small landowners are trapped within, with no entry or exit points. He then buys them out at half the market rate.’

  ‘You seem very bitter,’ Gowda said.

  ‘My cousin lost all his earnings,’ David said.

  The road to the girls’ home was lined with cars. The building was outlined with serial light bulbs and the gate was festooned with marigold garlands. Two plantain trees were tied to the gateposts.

  ‘I wish he had used the money on the girls’ home,’ Santosh snorted.

  Gajendra patted down his moustache. ‘How will the locals know about the home he has funded if he doesn’t make a song and dance about it?’

  Gowda smiled and then worried if his cynicism was contagious.

  ‘I don’t know if you heard, sir, but when he had his housewarming ceremony, he had a helicopter shower rose petals on his house. That’s the sort of man he is!’ Gajendra added.

  ‘All he needed to do was have someone shine a torch on his teeth. It would have lit up the place,’ Byrappa said, looking at Santosh.

  Santosh grinned. He was beginning to like Byrappa more and more.

  When Gowda’s phone rang, he saw it was an unknown number. He wondered if he should pick it up.

  Santosh called Ratna. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Home. Why? Is there any news of Nandita?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but something else has come up,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes, if not earlier,’ he added.

  She opened the door as soon as he rang the bell. Her flatmate watched them leave. Ratna and she had planned to watch a movie. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ Ratna said.

  Santosh watched her put on her helmet. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  She swung her leg over the pillion seat. ‘What’s going on?’

  Santosh met her eyes in the rearview mirror. ‘Gowda sir received a piece of information. There is somebody at the place where Nandita was taken to. The room above the tyre shop.’

  Santosh didn’t want to reveal more than that to her. He knew it had taken all of Gowda’s goodwill, built over the years, and considerable machination to set up the operation in forty-five minutes. Gowda had made sure that the rulebook had been followed to
the exact clause and word.

  ‘The station head of that outpost, Basavappa, used to work with Gowda as a young SI and worships him. Which is probably why he is stuck in that outpost,’ Gajendra had said ruefully. ‘We need to keep this very quiet. One careless word could change everything.’

  Ratna was trustworthy, Santosh’s heart told him. But they had known each other less than a week, his head warned him. ‘We’ll know more when we get there,’ he said.

  Santosh rode his bike to the end of the road where the building was. Ratna and he walked towards a car parked at a little distance from the building so as to not draw attention to themselves.

  They waited quietly in Gowda’s car. Twenty minutes later, Basavappa and two constables arrived in a jeep and parked a hundred feet away from Gowda’s car.

  There was a low wattage light in the top floor; otherwise, the building was wreathed in darkness. Gowda and Basavappa, followed by Ratna, climbed the stairs as quietly as they could. Byrappa and Gajendra covered the back of the building. Santosh stood at the foot of the staircase with the constables, who looked bored and grumpy. The T20 series between India and Australia was on and Virat Kohli had just come in to bat.

  ‘What do you think B-report Gowda is chasing now?’ one of them grumbled.

  Santosh glared at them. ‘Hush,’ he whispered furiously.

  They crept along the narrow verandah towards the doorway that Gowda remembered from his exploration. In the light of a naked bulb, Gowda saw through the door a young girl dressed in clothes too grown-up for her, a little boy and a middle-aged man. The man stood up and walked towards them. ‘Did the thekedar send you?’ he asked Gowda in Hindi.

  Then he saw the man in uniform. Gowda saw the panic on his face replaced by a sullen expression as he demanded, ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Who are these children?’ Gowda asked softly.

  ‘Children?’ The man laughed. ‘That’s my woman. My new wife. And he is my son from my first wife who died last year.’

  ‘She can’t be more than fourteen,’ Ratna said, bristling. ‘It’s a crime to marry a minor girl.’

  ‘Who said she is a minor? She is nineteen.’ The man stood his ground.

  ‘Do you have proof?’ Basavappa growled.

  ‘What proof do you want? We are here in Bangalore to visit relatives. We are from Bombay,’ the man said.

  ‘If you are here to visit relatives, why are you in this unfinished building?’ Gowda asked, his gaze lingering on the children. The boy’s face was a mess. The girl had a healing bruise on one cheek. The children looked like they would never smile again.

  As the man began a convoluted explanation, the girl stood up and came towards him. ‘I is Tina,’ she said in English. ‘I is twelve years old. I is not his missus. Abdul not his son.’

  There was a moment of silence. Then the man tried to race past them towards the balcony.

  Gowda stuck his leg out and tripped him. Then he sank his fist into the man’s face. As the man crumpled to the ground, Gowda saw joy flare in the children’s eyes even if their faces stayed resolutely grim.

  ‘How did you know?’ Gajendra asked as they drove back after dropping PC Byrappa home.

  The man had been taken to the station lock-up by SI Basavappa, and the children to a shelter by Ratna. Santosh had gone with her.

  ‘The boy … Muthu … I had asked him to call me if there was any activity in the first floor of the building.’

  ‘And he actually did? What did you give him?’ Gajendra couldn’t hold back the surprise in his voice.

  ‘A can of Pepsi,’ Gowda said.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I have never been more serious. He is eleven years old. The usual story – stepfather beat him every day till he fled. He should be in school; instead, he is working for a pittance in the tyre shop.’ Gowda spoke as if he were speaking to himself. ‘He’s a smart boy … and it’s sad that he’ll get nowhere. Unless …’

  ‘What are you thinking, sir?’ Gajendra was worried. What new scheme did Gowda have germinating in his head now?

  ‘Nothing as of now …’ Gowda drew up outside Gajendra’s home.

  ‘Good night,’ Gowda said. ‘Actually, good morning. It’s 1.00 a.m.’

  13 MARCH, FRIDAY

  I glanced at my phone. It was 3.00 a.m. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know what to do.

  The previous evening, the thekedar had wanted me to pick up three items from K.R. Puram station. I had thought nothing of it and did as he asked.

  Then the thekedar said I should come to the godown. He was already there when I reached.

  ‘There is something that has come up,’ he told the men. ‘A party,’ he elaborated.

  ‘At the farmhouse?’ I asked.

  ‘Where else?’ the thekedar said. ‘I need it to go right from start to finish.’

  I nodded. I had helped out at a few parties before. Kebabs and booze, music, the lights on trees, cocaine for those who wanted it and viagra for those who couldn’t get it up, porn on pen drives, all leading to the bedroom with the waterbed, mirrors and screaming girls. That seemed to excite the men until the girls turned into pliable orifices.

  ‘What about the girls?’ I asked, my mouth going dry. I knew what was coming.

  ‘There’s the one you picked up this evening. And we have one girl here. Together they’ll make my client very happy.’ The thekedar’s face and voice betrayed no emotion.

  I gazed at the floor. ‘Thekedar.’ I tried to choose words that wouldn’t form. ‘Isn’t there anyone else?’

  He sighed. ‘No … I can’t wait. The client said he didn’t want Nepali or Bangladeshi girls. He wanted a Kannadiga girl, he said. He insisted.’

  I felt the lump in my chest grow. He patted me on my back. ‘Krishna, these things happen.’

  He looked at Daulat Ali. I saw the beefy guard give him an imperceptible nod.

  We drove back in silence. Just when it was time for me to get off, I asked, ‘Won’t you reconsider?’

  ‘I cannot,’ he said softly, almost apologetically. ‘There is much at stake. Besides, once I make an exception for you, the rest of them will expect the same.’ His fingers tapped the steering wheel impatiently.

  ‘But I am not everyone. I am Krishna.’

  He stared at me. ‘I made you Krishna.’ The chill in the car made me shiver. ‘Without me, there would be no Krishna.’

  I stood watching the car turn the corner.

  Then I waved down an auto. ‘Sampigehalli,’ I told the driver.

  Daulat Ali wouldn’t let me in. ‘The thekedar said no one is to be allowed to see her,’ he said.

  ‘The thekedar didn’t mean me,’ I said, grinning.

  ‘He said especially you.’

  Daulat Ali, I noticed, wasn’t calling me chhote nawab as he usually did.

  ‘Oh, keep that little lollipop for yourself. What about Moina? I can fuck her, right?’ I said, sighing. ‘I am going to explode if I don’t.’ I made a gesture of shoving my thumb into the fist of my other hand.

  But he didn’t grin. Instead, he said, ‘She is busy.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said, trying to go past him. But he wouldn’t let me.

  ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Don’t make this worse for yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I asked you to teach that girl a lesson, and instead you bought her chocolates. Do you think my name is Stupid?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I know your name is Daulat Ali,’ I tried to joke.

  ‘Go,’ he said.

  I tried to shove him. He shoved me back. I slapped him then. He slapped me back. Two others I had never seen before came to his aid.

  ‘Get out,’ Daulat Ali said. I left.

  I lay on the bed, hearing the thekadar’s words in my head: I made you Krishna. These things happen.

  I had thought I was special. The chosen one. I had thought that the thekedar would make allowances for me. But I realized I was nothing more to him than
one more element in the grand scheme of things.

  When I fled the kiln as a young boy, I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do. I didn’t want to go home. My father would only send me back. So I hid in a truck. I didn’t know where it was headed. I didn’t particularly care. When the truck stopped, I saw it was a rest point. There were shacks on the roadside and loud music, and I knew that way lay the prospect of work and food.

  I worked in a dhaba. I cleaned. I fetched water. I cleaned the toilet that wouldn’t be clean no matter what one did to clean it. I washed dishes. I chopped vegetables. I kneaded dough. I plucked the chickens someone else killed. In a few weeks, I killed my first chicken. I didn’t feel anything. It was just a job to be done.

  I wasn’t paid anything but once in a while the truck drivers would leave a few coins for me. Once, one of them left a lighter behind, which I pocketed. It was a metal lighter.

  I don’t remember how long I was there. But the day I had a hundred rupees, I took my lighter and cadged a ride with another truck driver. That was how I arrived in Bangalore. For a while I lived with a bunch of boys and girls on the streets. We begged, stole, foraged through garbage and we survived. Then, one day, I was hit by a car while darting across the road with a wallet I had picked from somebody’s pocket.

  A woman took me to a hospital. When she discovered I was a street child, she took me home. I was given a bath, new clothes, food to eat and a name – Rakesh. She was apparently a great admirer of some man called Rakesh Sharma who had gone to space. She told everyone that the sky was my limit.

  When the photographs had been taken and the news item had appeared in all the newspapers about the child who had set her on the path to child welfare, I was sent to a home. I went to school by day and sucked the warden’s cock at night. I didn’t feel anything. Anger, disgust or sorrow. It was something that needed to be done to get the biggest piece of meat, the extra sweet and two hardboiled eggs every day. Fair is fair, I thought.