Death in Mumbai (4 page)

Later, drawing Nishant aside, she asked, abruptly demanding an answer: ‘Is Neeraj cheating on me?' He stared down at her, his face impassive. ‘That only he can answer. Good night, Maria.'

Whenever the Coffee House Nomads had spare cash they shifted their venue, and changed their beverage of choice. D'Ultimate, a neon and steel discotheque built inside an industrial warehouse, just a lane away from Fun Republic, was perfect for their purposes. If they pooled in there was enough money to get good booze and the disc jockey played just the right mix of English music and Bollywood chartbusters. In the darkness, nearly swallowed up by the black leather sofa, Nishant saw that all their friends had made it to the party. Neeraj and Maria walked in past midnight, hand in hand, and began dancing closely with one another. They kissed passionately, their body language advertising their intimacy. Maria seemed happy and unusually talkative. ‘I've never seen such a close-knit bunch—you guys are great, and Neeraj is lucky to have such friends,' she told Nishant, and then, just as he thought
all her issues with Neeraj were over, she drew closer to him and Deepak Kumar and asked with an urgency in her voice, ‘Can Neeraj be trusted? He won't let me down, will he?'

May 6, 2008, 8 am, Deepak Singh's apartment

Deepak Singh woke up to the sound of something screeching against the floor. Maria was lugging her heavy suitcase across the room.

‘Hi, sorry, just trying to load this in the taxi.'

He effortlessly loaded the suitcases one after the other on to the carrier. Maria had found a one-bedroom flat at Malad in Dheeraj Solitaire, the same building where she had stayed during an earlier stint in Mumbai. As promised, she had not overstayed her welcome—even by a day. ‘Romba, thanks.'

There was a brief moment of awkwardness between them, dispelled by a quick hug and goodbye. ‘You take care, ya, we'll keep in touch.'

Maria got into the taxi, and Deepak watched her go off in the direction of her new home. He didn't know that Maria would be taking a little detour. According to the watchman at Dheeraj Solitaire, Malad, the new tenant in 201-B did not arrive in a taxi, but in a black Scorpio, and neither did she come alone. He remembered because she was accompanied by a movie and television star he had grown up watching on screen. He remembered being impressed.

May 6, 9.30 pm, Neeraj Grover's apartment

Sushant Singh looked happily around the well-laden dinner table. Seated around him were his wife, his children, Haresh, Neeraj's cousin, and an empty chair for Neeraj who was washing up before joining them. It was one of those rare days when all of them got together for a meal. Sushant missed the big family dinners in Chandigarh when the entire family would sit around and share the travails of the day, or laugh and talk until long after the food had dried on their fingers. Mumbai, it gave you many things, par chain ka khaana nahin. He was also happy that the embarrassing Maria chapter was behind them. Neeraj had told them that she had moved into her own flat this morning. He seemed to have forgotten the brief unpleasantness between them all. When Neeraj's phone, which was kept on the table, rang persistently, he peered over to check the number and raised his eyebrows.

‘Maria.'

She wanted Neeraj to come over to her flat. ‘Not tonight, I have an early morning meeting, I'll stay at home,' Neeraj told her and settled down to dinner. At 9.55 pm the phone rang again. ‘Babe, really, let it be, I've just started my dinner…'

After a long pause in which he did most of the listening, Neeraj scraped back his chair, smiling apologetically. ‘She's calling me, I have to go.'

‘At least finish your food,' Sushant remonstrated.

‘Paaji,' he snapped his fingers, his goofy grin betraying his lie, ‘Main bas abhi gaya, aur abhi aaya' (I'll be back in a jiffy).

May 7, 7.30 am, Maria's new apartment

Kundan Jha, the watchman at Dheeraj Solitaire, rubbed his sleepy eyes and pushed the register forward for the handsome young man to make his entry. Jha neither understood nor read English. The visitor could have entered any gibberish, but it was protocol, and if there was one thing Kundan Jha had learnt in Mumbai, it was that here, unlike back home in Nawada, Bihar, rules must be followed.

The new memsahib in 201-B seemed popular. She had arrived the previous morning with an actor, then last night another young man had arrived and not left since, followed by the delivery man from Sai Sagar restaurant a little after 11 pm—and now the day had just started, and here was another visitor carrying a backpack and refusing to write his name.

‘I am a cousin,' he said moving away.

‘Par naam kya hai?' Kundan Jha said, insisting that he reveal his name.

Back home in Bihar the women of his house led strictly circumscribed lives. In Mumbai, Kundan Jha saw a different breed of woman and didn't bat an eyelid, relishing his own insouciance. This is what the big city was all about—being modern.

Emile Jerome never did make that entry; the first of his many moves that confused the prosecution later.

May 7, 1 pm, the home of Kiran Shreyans

Kiran Shreyans, on the other hand, was petrified by this modernity. After a messy break-up with his long-time
girlfriend, the one he had moved from Bangalore to Mumbai for, he was no longer sure of how to deal with women. The rules of the man–woman relationship he had grown up observing had been subverted. As the good-looking dance instructor at Andheri's Renaissance Federation Board Club, he was surrounded by beautiful, willing women. Sex was available on call, but not emotional succour. As if merely thinking of difficult modern women could conjure up a presence, his phone rang. It was Maria Susairaj.

Despite the enjoyable evening at their mutual friend Deepak Singh's house four days ago, Kiran had retained his misgivings about Maria. Her soft voice was unnaturally shrill, and he couldn't quite pinpoint if she sounded anxious or just overeager.

‘Kiran, could I please borrow your car for a bit? My fiancé has come from Kochi to join the naval base in Mumbai, and he has lots of luggage. I just need to drop him to Colaba, after which I'll return your car.'

Kiran paused wordlessly; it was the best way he knew how to say no. ‘Please, Kiran, please, please, please, please, please, please…' she persisted, like a spoilt child who knows she will get her way if she pleads long enough.

‘Okay, but I have to go out for dinner tonight, so make sure that you return it by 9–9.30 pm.'

About three hours later Maria and her naval officer boyfriend were at his door.

‘Kiran, many thanks, ya. This is Emile, my fiance.'

He misheard the name as ML. What kind of a name was that? But the chap seemed fine. Cool, collected. Instead, Kiran found himself distracted by the many love bites on
Maria's neck and chest. He tried hard not to look, but couldn't help staring at the marks across her chest where the buttons met, and all over her neck.

Evidently, distance was good for some relationships.

They walked to where the car was parked and he handed over his car keys to Maria, sneaking a discreet look at the fuel gauge.

‘Be careful with my car and bring it back by the evening.'

It was only after they left that it occurred to him—why plead so hard for his car? Why not take a taxi like the rest of Mumbai?

By ten in the evening there was no sign of Maria, Emile, or the car. When he called her, she sounded distracted, apologetic. ‘I am really sorry about the car, Kiran, but one of my friends, Neeraj, has gone missing and we're all so worried. I am at the police station right now and we're lodging a complaint. If possible I'll drop your car later tonight or tomorrow morning.'

Next morning, through his window, Kiran saw Emile drive the Santro into the compound and park it clumsily. Without waiting for them to come up to the house he went out to park it properly. Maria apologized profusely for the delay and tried to push Rs 200 into his hand. For the petrol used, she offered lamely. Kiran laughed her off and checked the fuel gauge; the needle was exactly where it had been when he had given the car to them yesterday. Clearly that had been taken care of.

Three days after they had returned his car, Maria called again with a baffling query. ‘Have any cops called you?'

‘Why should the police call me?'

‘They may call, it could be in connection with my friend's disappearance, the one I told you about, Neeraj,' she sounded tense.

A few days later she called again. ‘Did the police call you yet?' This time Kiran noted a distinct trace of hysteria.

‘You know the case has been transferred to the Crime Branch and they're tracking it closely, I think they're tapping my number.'

He couldn't help but laugh out loud. Was she suffering from paranoia? ‘Don't worry, Monica, the Crime Branch doesn't tap ordinary people's phones. Your friend will soon turn up.'

Barely ten minutes later the phone rang again. It was Maria again, the urgency in her voice unmistakable.

‘Kiran, if the police calls you and asks about me, please tell them that I had come to your house to borrow Rs 3,000, which I came and returned the next day. Don't forget, okay? Just say this much and nothing else. Please!'

Kiran disconnected the call and stared at his feet, his heart drumming up a heavy rhythm in his chest, panic swelling like nausea up his throat. He took the car keys off the hook and raced down to the parking lot. He opened the boot of the blue-grey Santro, desperately scanning for telltale signs, not knowing what he was looking for. The stepney, the spanners, everything seemed in place. He looked again carefully, and for long. There was nothing untoward. He shut the boot, and leaned against it to catch his breath. He failed to check the back seat. Had he looked in the crevice between the backrest and the seat, he would
have found two discolorations caused by patches of blood drying on the tapestry.

May 7, 10 am, Neeraj Grover's home in Kanpur

Neeraj was not answering his phone. Maybe he'd had a late night and was sleeping it off. Neelam Grover decided she would wait for another half an hour before calling her son again. Ever since Ginni (as they called him at home) had left Kanpur, first to study at Amity University in Noida, and then to work in Mumbai, the mother and son spoke to each other twice a day, every day. Once at around ten in the morning, and then again at eleven in the night.

Amarnath Grover would often ask his wife what was it that transpired through the night that necessitated the morning call; but it was never more than a mock complaint. It was good that Ginni was close to his mother. He, who himself had a slightly more formal relationship with his children, felt comforted by the fact that they had grown up with the right values. His second-born may live away from home but as the calls demonstrated, Ginni was anchored to them.

One day, he hoped, Neeraj would have his fill of the world of glamour and return to Kanpur, like Amarnath Grover himself had done, taking voluntary retirement from his job, to set up a stationery shop on Mall Road. It may not offer the glamour of Neeraj's television world, but that little shop, which had expanded over the years, and his nifty investments, had served the family well.

Half an hour later Neelam Grover dialled her son again. The phone rang, each ring echoing the other. ‘I'll wait for exactly ten rings,' she promised herself, and then reluctantly disconnected after the eleventh. She'd spoken to him last night at 11.15 pm after watching
Kayamath
. Though Neeraj had left Balaji, his name still appeared in the credits of their lead show. Every day, she looked for it, and then called him. ‘Ginni, they are still running your name as the creative producer.'

He had laughed, sounding happy and in good spirits. Maybe he was in the shower, maybe he was talking to someone in the other room. She called again. Then five minutes later, again. She pressed redial, then superstitiously dialled his entire number. Redial once more. The half-peeled vegetables lay forgotten in the kitchen as she fervently punched the keys on her phone. Again. Again. Again.