9.2 Vir
I stood up to face ACP Bhandarkar. A vein in my temple was throbbing painfully, and I knew that the adrenalin rush I had felt earlier had worn off at last. Like a bad coffee-hangover, it had left me with a residual bitterness under my tongue and a sense of coming down from a high too fast.
It didn't make it any easier to absorb the shocking news the ACP had just given me.
"Three men?" I repeated. "What three men?"
Bhandarkar motioned to the officer standing beside us. The man came forward, nodding curtly to me.
"Joshi, Mr Vatsal wishes to know the details of the murders," Bhandarkar said in Marathi. "Tyaala sanga detail." To me he said curtly in English: "Inspector Joshi is officer in charge of the case. I am supervising officer."
Joshi nodded and referred to a notepad from his pocket. "The suspect went into a country liquor bar on Ambedkar Road, in Khar-Danda. The manager of the bar saw her and was surprised because usually such decent girls do not come inside. He went to tell her nicely that she should leave. She became abusive and demanded thara."
"'Thara'?" I said, incredulous. "She demanded 'thara'?"
Joshi looked up briefly. "That was exact word she used, 'thara'. Mahanje country liquor, gentleman."
I nodded. Bhandarkar was watching me like a kite-hawk circling a Parsi tower of silence.
Joshi went on. "Manager gave her bottle of Government Country Liquor, Orange Flavour. She drank it very fast. Some men sitting next to her began to pass comments. Again, Manager told her she should leave. She said--"
Joshi paused, glanced at Bhandarkar, then at me, then back at Bhandarkar again. The ACP shook his head very slightly, and I understood that he was telling him to leave out the exact language Viveka had used.
"She abused again," Joshi continued. "And still Manager decided to leave matter alone. Suspect then proceeded to consume one full bottle and another half bottle of Government Country Liquor."
I interrupted him this time. "What is that like? Is it the same as one and a half bottle of whisky? Or like beer? Or what?"
Again, Joshi glanced at Bhandarkar. Bhandarkar answered: "It is stronger than beer, Mr Vatsal, but not as strong as Scotch Whisky, which you must be used to. Take one and a half of country as around one half-bottle of Scotch Whisky, neat."
I was silent. I tried to imagine Viveka drinking the equivalent of half a bottle of whisky. It was impossible. She had never enjoyed anything stronger than beer. That too, only on rare occasions. I couldn't imagine her sitting in a country liquor bar at Danda, drinking a full bottle.
Joshi decided to cut straight to the chase then, perhaps sensing my disbelief. "After some time, she began dancing and removing her articles of clothing. When she removed her top and her bosom was fully uncovered, manager objected very strongly--"
"No," I said sharply, my voice louder than I'd intended. A nurse at the nurse's station down the corridor looked up at my voice. I struggled to keep my voice down: "That's not possible. My daughter would never do something like that."
Bhandarkar sighed and removed his uniform cap. His head was balding in the typical pattern of male-pattern baldness. He brushed the thin crown of hair around his scalp with his hand gently, as if massaging his head.
"Mr Vatsal," he said with patience so exaggerated it was worse than outright irritation, "please try to understand, we are only reporting the facts to you. As I was saying earlier, in our line of work we see many strange things people do. Maybe your daughter--."
I held up my hand. "All right," I said. "I get your point. Let's finish the recap then. What happened after that?"
Joshi glanced briefly at Bhandarkar, who put his cap back on and nodded to his junior officer to go on.
Joshi flipped some pages over. "Suspect got involved in a fight with the Manager and two employees. She attacked them with a short knife and injured two very seriously. The Manager died on the spot from a severe neck wound. The two employees were declared dead on arrival at Bhabha Municipal Hospital." He shut his notebook. "Suspect escaped and is currently absconding, lapatta."
In the silence that followed, Bhandarkar said: "There were at least ten or twelve witnesses to the incident, Mr Vatsal. One of them was an odd-job man who washes cars in your building society. He was the one who identified your daughter. Later, when we received the telephone complaint from your neighbour, she gave us a photograph of the suspect."
He gestured to Joshi who took out a squarish snapshot and showed it to me. It was a polaroid picture of Mrs Mudgal's son, the classical-turned-pop singer, with Viveka, taken several months ago when she had designed the cover for his first pop album. How ironic life can be sometimes: you do a favour for a neighbour, a childhood friend, and some time later, the same neighbour reports you to the police!
"If you could provide us with more recent and suitable pictures, it would be helpful," Bhandarkar said.
I was surprised to feel tears in my eyes. I hadn't been aware that they were welling up until my eyes were full.
"I'm sorry," I said in a voice that betrayed my emotion. "I can't help you at all in any way. Whatever your evidence, your witnesses, I don't believe these things were done by my daughter. There must be some mistake. My daughter can't behave like this."
And even though I knew how absurd that sounded in the face of the evidence, I sincerely believed it. Viveka would never do such horrible things. Not my Viveka.
It didn't make it any easier to absorb the shocking news the ACP had just given me.
"Three men?" I repeated. "What three men?"
Bhandarkar motioned to the officer standing beside us. The man came forward, nodding curtly to me.
"Joshi, Mr Vatsal wishes to know the details of the murders," Bhandarkar said in Marathi. "Tyaala sanga detail." To me he said curtly in English: "Inspector Joshi is officer in charge of the case. I am supervising officer."
Joshi nodded and referred to a notepad from his pocket. "The suspect went into a country liquor bar on Ambedkar Road, in Khar-Danda. The manager of the bar saw her and was surprised because usually such decent girls do not come inside. He went to tell her nicely that she should leave. She became abusive and demanded thara."
"'Thara'?" I said, incredulous. "She demanded 'thara'?"
Joshi looked up briefly. "That was exact word she used, 'thara'. Mahanje country liquor, gentleman."
I nodded. Bhandarkar was watching me like a kite-hawk circling a Parsi tower of silence.
Joshi went on. "Manager gave her bottle of Government Country Liquor, Orange Flavour. She drank it very fast. Some men sitting next to her began to pass comments. Again, Manager told her she should leave. She said--"
Joshi paused, glanced at Bhandarkar, then at me, then back at Bhandarkar again. The ACP shook his head very slightly, and I understood that he was telling him to leave out the exact language Viveka had used.
"She abused again," Joshi continued. "And still Manager decided to leave matter alone. Suspect then proceeded to consume one full bottle and another half bottle of Government Country Liquor."
I interrupted him this time. "What is that like? Is it the same as one and a half bottle of whisky? Or like beer? Or what?"
Again, Joshi glanced at Bhandarkar. Bhandarkar answered: "It is stronger than beer, Mr Vatsal, but not as strong as Scotch Whisky, which you must be used to. Take one and a half of country as around one half-bottle of Scotch Whisky, neat."
I was silent. I tried to imagine Viveka drinking the equivalent of half a bottle of whisky. It was impossible. She had never enjoyed anything stronger than beer. That too, only on rare occasions. I couldn't imagine her sitting in a country liquor bar at Danda, drinking a full bottle.
Joshi decided to cut straight to the chase then, perhaps sensing my disbelief. "After some time, she began dancing and removing her articles of clothing. When she removed her top and her bosom was fully uncovered, manager objected very strongly--"
"No," I said sharply, my voice louder than I'd intended. A nurse at the nurse's station down the corridor looked up at my voice. I struggled to keep my voice down: "That's not possible. My daughter would never do something like that."
Bhandarkar sighed and removed his uniform cap. His head was balding in the typical pattern of male-pattern baldness. He brushed the thin crown of hair around his scalp with his hand gently, as if massaging his head.
"Mr Vatsal," he said with patience so exaggerated it was worse than outright irritation, "please try to understand, we are only reporting the facts to you. As I was saying earlier, in our line of work we see many strange things people do. Maybe your daughter--."
I held up my hand. "All right," I said. "I get your point. Let's finish the recap then. What happened after that?"
Joshi glanced briefly at Bhandarkar, who put his cap back on and nodded to his junior officer to go on.
Joshi flipped some pages over. "Suspect got involved in a fight with the Manager and two employees. She attacked them with a short knife and injured two very seriously. The Manager died on the spot from a severe neck wound. The two employees were declared dead on arrival at Bhabha Municipal Hospital." He shut his notebook. "Suspect escaped and is currently absconding, lapatta."
In the silence that followed, Bhandarkar said: "There were at least ten or twelve witnesses to the incident, Mr Vatsal. One of them was an odd-job man who washes cars in your building society. He was the one who identified your daughter. Later, when we received the telephone complaint from your neighbour, she gave us a photograph of the suspect."
He gestured to Joshi who took out a squarish snapshot and showed it to me. It was a polaroid picture of Mrs Mudgal's son, the classical-turned-pop singer, with Viveka, taken several months ago when she had designed the cover for his first pop album. How ironic life can be sometimes: you do a favour for a neighbour, a childhood friend, and some time later, the same neighbour reports you to the police!
"If you could provide us with more recent and suitable pictures, it would be helpful," Bhandarkar said.
I was surprised to feel tears in my eyes. I hadn't been aware that they were welling up until my eyes were full.
"I'm sorry," I said in a voice that betrayed my emotion. "I can't help you at all in any way. Whatever your evidence, your witnesses, I don't believe these things were done by my daughter. There must be some mistake. My daughter can't behave like this."
And even though I knew how absurd that sounded in the face of the evidence, I sincerely believed it. Viveka would never do such horrible things. Not my Viveka.
posted by Ashok K. Banker at 12.10.05
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