Mumbai Noir (28 page)

Peter did not point out that she had just remarked that murders did not happen in Mahim.

“A woman, no?” she continued with relish. “Cut into pieces, the paper said. But no one ever marked the spot or anything. They just arrested the gurkha. But now maybe they’ve got modern. Maybe they have yellow tape and lumen lights. Like
CSI
.”

Peter shrugged and made for the door.

“So where are you going?”

“I’ll walk around the park then.”

“Keep your eyes on the dogs,” she said, and grinned suddenly. “As if you ever could.”

“Looking is no sin,” he countered.

“And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out: it is better for thee to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye, than having two eyes to be cast into hellfire,” said Milly, but her tone was mild.

“Hell must be crowded then,” he responded, as he picked up his mobile, his hand towel, and the bright blue identity card that certified him as another poor simp who had bought a complete health plan, valid until the end of the year.

There was a bunch of people standing around EverFit
(Where Fitness Lives)
. When Peter was growing up there had been only two gyms in Mahim: Talwalkar’s was the big one; Slimwell was the little one. Neither had had a tagline. Now there was Cloud Zen
(For Mind, Body, and Spirit)
and Zai’s Health
(From A to Zai)
and Barbaria
(Unleash Your Inner Conan)
, all fighting for the Mahimkar’s time and hard-earned. And then there was EverFit for those, like him, who wanted a treadmill and a patch of ground on which to do surya namaskars when the rain came down and turned the park to red soup.

Inspector Jende was standing outside the gym, wearing his habitual expression of carefully cultivated expressionlessness. The day had begun to heat up, sucking sweat from its citizens to turn into the acid rain that would be unleashed in a month or so. The gym was cordoned off. The paanwalla’s shop that stood to the left of it was open for business but the keysmith who had a little stand to the right of the gym had given up the fight and closed for the day.

“Pittr,” Jende said, “what you’re doing here?”

“Jay,” said Peter, “are you finally considering getting rid of that paunch?”

“Don’t be silly. Late last night. Body found. Don’t read papers now?”

“Who is it?”

“You’re not on the crime beat.”

“You came home for a drink the day I took voluntary retirement, remember?”

Jende beckoned to him and they walked into the gym together. Kalsekar, at the reception, looked shaken. It was the first emotion Peter had ever seen on his face which was usually set in surly uncommunicative lines, the face of Indians everywhere who found themselves in dead-end jobs. The only other time Kalsekar had shown any sign of emotion was a month earlier. He had been wearing a rather nice watch. “Great watch,” Peter had said. Kalsekar had smiled and shown it to him. It had three faces on it; one for local time and two for other time zones. What did Kalsekar need three time zones for? It was not a question you could ask. Perhaps Kalsekar had a son who lived in Los Angeles. Peter reached for the kind of question he could ask: “How much did you pay?” The smile dropped off Kalsekar’s face like a maggot off a corpse. “Khari kamaai ki hai,” he had said, sweat-of-the-brow earnings. He had not worn it again.

Now Peter was about to hand over his wallet when he realized he would not be actually working out and did not need a pouch into which to put his pocket contents. He nodded at the old man. Kalsekar tried to nod at him now; Peter saw that he was actually shaking. Death could do that to you; and murder was death rubbing your nose in your mortality.

They walked through the deserted gym, a long rectangular room. At its far end was a door that led to the changing rooms, a massage room, a sauna, and a couple of pots. The body was in the massage room. The back of its head had been smashed in, a fine mess of red and black. No gray matter, Peter noted, just streaks of yellow. That would be body fat. Ubiquitous: body fat. Ubiquitous, too, the war against it. The young man had been a foot soldier in that losing battle.

“Vishal,” Peter said. “Works here. Trainer.”

“The old man identified him.”

“Family?”

“Doesn’t seem to have any. Orphan.”

“Weapon?”

“I don’t know. We have to wait for the medics.”

Peter looked around. It was all very ordinary. The posters of Arnold snarling on the walls. The rows and rows of dumbbells. A sign that said,
Please bring deo to the gym,
and another that informed members that the establishment would be closed every fourth Sunday for maintenance.

“Come,” said Inspector Jende. “Thaane chal.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Don’t talk nonsense. You will know when you’re under arrest. Come and have one cup chai.”

They headed to the police station across the road and settled themselves at Jende’s desk.

“Chai!” shouted Jende. “Maadherchod,” he said comfortably and meaninglessly when it was served. The man who brought it smiled pleasantly and sheepishly and left.

“Line pe rakhne ke liye,” said Jende. Peter wondered at how the city had slowly leached the meaning of these potent abuses. Now Jende could call his tea supplier a motherfucker simply to keep him in line. Peter also wondered whether the tapriwalla was a Bihari. He decided to let it go. The man looked pleased enough to have the police account. Then a thought struck him:
Do the police pay?

Jende interrupted this line of thought: “Bola.”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know much about the victim.”

“Who is asking about victim? I am asking about anything, everything. Full story of gym. Tell everything you know. I will see what-what to use.”

“Okay. It seems to be owned by Muslims but run by Hindus.”

“Jesus!” said Jende, unconsciously adding another dimension to the problem of religion in India. “Please, nothing like that, haan?”

“I hope not. Enough we have had. But there seems to be a Christian somewhere in the mess as well.”

“
Jesus Loves You?
”

“Indeed. Why would they have that sticker above the door?”

“
I am the light of the world?
”

“Yes. I saw that poster behind the reception.”

“Not you, na?”

Peter thought this too bizarre to merit a response. Tea arrived.

“Aage?” Jende prodded.

“There are three instructors. One masseur.”

“Aah.”

“He’s a sixty-year-old man.”

“So?”

“Nothing. He’s in his gaon.”

“You know everything about this gym or what?”

“When you take a one-year membership, you’re supposed to get five complimentary massages. I haven’t had any because I was told the masseur is in his gaon.”

“On the banks of the Ganga, no doubt.”

“You too?” The city had had a parochialism seizure. A young political party had decided that too many outsiders had arrived in the city and were taking jobs from the locals. Out-of-townies had been beaten up. The boys from the banks of the Ganga had it especially bad. Many seemed to feel some sympathy for this stance, even if they disapproved, they said, of the violence.

“Arrey, where police has time to be political?”

Peter looked carefully at his old-school friend but Jende’s face remained the stoic mask of the misunderstood man doing his duty. He continued, “Vishal was a trainer. The other two are Rahul and Sihon.”

“Sea-horn?”

“So he said.”

“Tera?”

“Mera.”

“This is a name or what? Sihon?”

“I looked it up in the Bible. It’s there.”

“What did this Bible-walla banda do?”

“He was defeated by the Israelites.”

“Why give name like that?”

“Why give name like Eklavya?”

“
Arrey, he should be dutiful and obedient, like Eklavya.”

Peter shrugged. He himself was a rock. Jende was Shiva, the blue-throated god. The names passed without comment. Everyone knew what a Peter was. Peter wasn’t sure, but everyone else was; that counted in Mahim which sat across several communal and political fault lines.

“Three boys. One masseur. One old man. Members?”

“Many. Mostly college boys. And middle-aged ladies. And college girls.”

“Means janta.”

“Yes. Janta. Everyone. There is even one white girl.”

“Chikni ya gori?”

“Full gori. She’s from Poland, I think.”

“In Mahim?”

“Shouldn’t you know that? If she lives in Mahim?” Peter asked. An old rule made it mandatory to tell the police if you were having a foreign guest, even for just a night.

“Police should know everything. Then their work will be easy.”

Peter recited gym schedules and holidays, talked about the sauna that did not work most days. Thought some more. “They divide them up. Rahul does the young college boys. Vishal does the middle-aged ladies. Sihon does the girls.”

“
Does
means like …” and Jende waved his fist in a manner that suggested an infinity of lewdness.

“Bad verb.
Does
means
looks after
. Means when a college boy comes in, Rahul will give him a high five, ask him about his bike, his babe. Then he’ll ask why he’s late, what he’s planning to do, maybe spot him. That kind of thing. Sihon will do that for the young women. And Vishal for the middle-aged ladies.”

“Who does the old men?”

“No one.”

“Means?”

“Means they come and say,
Hello, uncle,
once in a while, or,
Saab, first class?
But nothing else.”

“Poor Pittr.”

“Poor Peter, indeed.”

They drank their tea.

“Come to think of it …” Peter said.

“Don’t come to think. Just tell.”

“I haven’t seen Rahul in several days.”

“Aah.”

“Jay, it may be nothing.”

“I said it’s something?”

To which there was nothing else to say.

“More?” Jende offered.

“Marega. Acidity.”

“Zindagi imtihaan leti hai.”

Hindi film songs have various uses, Peter thought. One of them is to provide pop philosophy. And life does indeed require you to sit for several examinations.

Jende sat quietly for a while. “Yeh Vishal …” He framed his thought. “Not much fun, uske liye, na? Only fat-fat women in salwar kameez?”

The notion had occurred to Peter too. He shrugged. “These are only my observations, boss. Maybe there was no hard and fast rule …”

“Did you see exceptions?”

“When I was there? Never.”

“And why do you think … ?”

Peter shrugged again. In his mind, he saw Shiva Jende, age ten, fighting a bunch of boys who were calling him kaalia. Victoria High School was not a kind place.

“Say.”

Peter looked at him.

“Because he looked very blacky?” Jende asked.

Peter sighed. The color of your skin is always a marker in India. Always. Vishal would have been assigned the aunties on the basis of his darkness just as Sihon got the young women because he could speak a little English.

“Don’t worry. I don’t care now. Eklavya and Abhimanyu went on their mother’s color, mere liye bas.”

Peter smiled because Jende had mentioned his sons. One did that. One smiled at the mention of other people’s children. But he hoped that Jende would construe his smile as one of friendly approval of another’s offspring and not of the sentiment expressed. Was it a good thing that Jende rejoiced that his sons had taken on their mother’s skin tone? Or was it a bad thing? Or was it anything at all?

“Yeh Kalsekar?

“I don’t know. He just looks after the reception.”

“Means?”

“He takes calls. And handles the membership renewals. And makes sure people don’t come twice a day.”

“Twice a day?”

“College boys.”

“I can’t go once a day. Where these boys … ?”

“You’ve joined a gym?”

“Police gym hai na? Compulsory.”

They both thought about that for a bit.

The phone rang. The voice on the other side was shrill, hysterical. Jende turned matter-of-fact.

“Chhapar phaad ke,” he said, invoking the metaphor that when God gives, He tears open your roof to pour it in on you. “One more.”

He gulped his tea, burned his mouth, screamed, “Maadherchod!” The tea man came in, assuming that he had been summoned. “Chal hutt,” said Jende, waving him away. And to Peter, still sitting there. “Tu bhi.”

Peter obeyed. You did not sit around a Mumbai police station if you were told to move on.

The park was quiet but Peter saw that a couple of EverFit regulars had also decided to walk.

“Hello,” said Mrs. Vishwanathan, a retired schoolteacher. “What trouble this is.”

He knew what she meant.

“They must refund,” she said. “If they are closed, they must refund.”

“Or extend,” said Peter. “Give one more day for each day missed.”

“Haan, like that they will do,” replied Mrs. Vishwanathan. She was slowing him down but there was no way to shake her off. “Endless. First, that mobile went. Gone. One moment sitting there; next moment, gone. Then Zeenat, you know Zeenat?”

Peter indicated that he knew Zeenat. She was a schoolteacher and was getting married in three months. She needed to lose weight in a hurry and worked out with the kind of urgency that panicked the other women around her.

“Her house was robbed.”

Peter looked puzzled.

“My mother said. In three. Everything in threes. In ours, three. Even in yours, three.”

Peter nodded. He was still puzzled but he took her to mean the trinity, the triune godhead of Christianity.

“In yours, also three,” he said.

“And then came Malini’s house. That also robbed. Safaachutt.” Peter looked at her. “Malini?”

“Short lady? Got white-white skin from leucoderma? One pony she keeps?”

By which Peter understood Malini to be a sufferer from vitiligo who had a ponytail. “Her house was robbed too?”

“Like one panvati, this gym is,” she said. “I told him,
You go somewhere else
.”

“Who? Vishal?”

“I told. This place will eat you.
They
will eat you.”

Peter did not want to know whether she was going to identify who “they” were. He hastened his pace, but only a little.