The Benefit Season (29 page)

Krishnamala dreamt, ate, walked, talked and
thought only police work. The only reason she went home was to
refill the baby’s supplies of food and nourishment and change of
clothes, and to ride her meek husband’s obliging boner, eight
delicious inches of it, eight fold or more till it became black and
blue.

‘
Why did you cancel your
maternity leave’, her boss had asked when she’d applied for
permission to bring the baby to office to take care of it. She was
the ace detective, so actually he was quite glad to have her back
on his team.

‘
Back home in the village
the mom-in-law was taking care of the baby. When she died there was
no one else, so it was better that we came back to the
city.’

‘
Oh, sorry to hear that’,
he said, beaming inside. ‘What happened?’

‘
It was raining- we had a
huge well in the backyard- she had gone out to water the cows and
slipped in the mud and fell into it and died’.

‘
She couldn’t swim, or
shout…?’

‘
She knew swimming- like
all village lasses who have to ride the buffalos into the ponds for
washing. But it’d rained for two days and what with the baby crying
all the time- we didn’t hear her- even if she’d shouted or
screamed. By then it was too late’.

‘
Then how
come…?’

‘
The water of our well was
very sweet. Whenever there was a wedding in the village people
would come and carry water from our well for the guests. She was a
diabetic. It was two days in that sweet water that killed
her.’

‘
Oh. There’s no one
else’?

‘
Naah, pop-in-law died
because of alcohol’.

‘
Oh. Drinking problem
eh?’

‘
Naah. A full bottle of
liquor fell on his head in a wedding. He bled to death. He was a
teetotaler.’

He’d approved her application- barely able
to hide his astonishment at the impossible rusty logic. He was okay
with it as long as she brought in the crooks, and that she did with
the regularity of one’s monthly credit card bills.

The crook that she was to bring in now- she
didn’t know. She didn’t even know if a crook existed, and if it was
just two loopy sex freaks on the loose. That Vishal had a thing
going, she was sure - no one lived in that kind of luxury at that
pay scale. And she’d managed to scan through his tax returns and
bank statements with the help of her batch mates in the tax
department. He and Monal both had a number of cash transactions
that couldn’t be explained. The mortgages on their plush penthouse
came from unknown sources. The flashy cars they drove were not in
their names. On the other hand the boy, Arjun was squeaky clean. He
lived frugally and transferred most of his salary to his mother who
seemed to be on a high on splurging. An eye on the street had
informed her that Vishal had been laid up recently in a shady
surgeon’s clinic for treatment for bad burns and beating. Long ago,
the surgeon had been banned for life by the MCI. Now he worked in a
shady part of town, repairing damage cases who couldn’t be taken to
a hospital, or whom no hospital would accept. And he made good
money, better than most doctors threescore better qualified than
him.

Word was that the betting mafia had done
this to Vishal. So it seemed pretty likely that the missing of his
wife was in a way linked to the beating he’d received. Beating for
what? For the money he owed? For money he’d lost? For tips not
given on pitches or batting orders or game strategy in the changing
rooms? For not playing the players his company managed…for not
throwing matches…or for wrong insider information? Or had she run
away with his money? Or had she run away from his beatings-
increasingly that explanation- especially since it had been already
offered by a creep, was no longer acceptable as the woman was quite
capable of taking care of herself or violent husbands or muggers in
the street.

To run away with a man,
for simple physical attraction, or for love wasn’t a logical thing
these days- maybe it was to the lambs and the babes- but not to
Krishnamala, who’d seen the worst of self-serving, gutter-crawling
vermin out there. Love didn’t exist for the stonyhearted and the
materialistic- it was for the hopelessly romantic, the dreamers,
and for those that had been loved themselves- selfishly,
unapologetically and unconditionally.
There
was more to it,
Krishnamala,
she told herself,
than
met the eye, the currents under the still waters ran strong and
deep. Could Monal love? Could she renounce marriage, status,
society and career for another man?

‘
Yes! She finally went
after him’, Jagdev Kadian, aka Agent 9, her husband and lover,
dashed into her office, a little out of breath, and tossed a few
sheets of paper on her desk. He cooed at the sleeping baby and then
came back to her, his eyes filmed over with pride. He was prone to
excitement and simple first impressions. She ignored him and
flipped through the photos and data that’d come in by
fax.

‘
See- the airport photos!
She travelled the same night to Delhi. She stayed at the Taj- see
the hotel pictures. I guessed she would stay at somewhere exotic
and luxurious. And a couple of nights later- she’s at the toll
bridge- you can make out the license plates. I’ve already flashed
them don’t you worry’, he said hastily as she was about to say
something. ‘And then the toll at Shahjahanpur- and this time guess
who’s driving the same car? Our missing boy Arjun! See- we cracked
it! Battered wife in love leaves home to elope with her man-
convinces him to jettison his engagement, and they run away to a
nice honeymoon’. He paused for her praise, but none
came.

‘
But what happens next?
Where are they now?’ she said, always the doubting one, not yet
ready to acknowledge the other’s feat or conjecturing.

‘
You didn’t expect me to
know that one did you…?’ he asked, dancing around her till it made
her feel light in the head.

‘
Stay still and tell
me’.

‘
They are at the Neemrana-
where else would a honeymooning couple be? I have the records from
the hotel. And some snaps clicked by an obliging staff’.

‘
Hmm, they’re living it up
aren’t they- thinking they are invisible. Well, let’s pay them a
visit. They have to answer why they are leading the cops on a
merry-go-round when we have better things to do’.

‘
Done already’, he said,
dramatically waving the tickets in her face.

‘
Who else knows that we
are going there’, she asked, concern showing up on her
face.

‘
Nobody, except your PA,
Afzal. He did the bookings’.

‘
Well, it can’t be helped
now- I wish you’d made online bookings. I don’t trust anyone until
the job is done. Especially Afzal- he’s got shifty eyes and he’s
always on the phone. I want to change him. At least keep the plan
to yourself from now on’.

‘
Alright’, he said, a
little unhappily, the spring in his step gone.

‘
But you’ve done well, I’m
proud of you’, she said, grabbing his collar and pulling him in an
embrace, on seeing his hurt.

‘
Really’, the man asked,
lighting up instantly.

‘
Couldn’t have asked for
more’, she said, patting him the way she’d seen him burp the
baby.

He burped; ‘sorry’; he giggled; ‘let me go
get the baby’s things’. He said, making to rush out of the
office.

‘
Err…just wait one’, she
said, stopping him.

‘
What happened? Anything
I’m forgetting?’

‘
I…I was just
thinking…’

‘
What’, he asked, showing
his hands in query.

‘
Maybe you could stay here
with the baby’, she said slowly.

‘
Why?’

‘
It would be better…and
safer- for the baby’.

‘
And you? What about you?
Who’s going to take care of you, pray, tell me?’

‘
I can take care- don’t
worry. I’ll feel better knowing that you and the baby are
safe’.

‘
I’m not letting you go
out there alone baby, risking your life with the baddies. Papa is
here- he’ll take care of you, as well as the baby. Just leave it to
me’, he said, putting a finger on her parted lips, ‘hush…’ he said,
’hush’.

She smiled up at him, giving in, her eyes
misty. ‘Thank you’, she said. ‘Let’s move it then partner, and
baby!’

ϖ

Man, woman and child flew to Delhi and then
drove to Neemrana. At the Circuit House they debated the best way
to get into the hotel without alerting or alarming the lovebirds-
they were afraid they might send them running again. With murders,
abductions, rapes, corporate crimes, defense kickbacks, pyramid
schemes, cricket match fixings, dirty politicians’ dirtier in-laws
acquiring public land at dirt-cheap rates, coal scams, telecom
scams and what-not, the list of crimes to be investigated and
people to be booked was way too long for Krishnamala to waste any
more time on two high-society, happy pair of feet running away from
no one in particular. It was high time they wrapped up the case,
now that they were so close to their quarry, and returned home to
deal with serious crime and catch the big fish that were emptying
the coffers of the taxpayer’s moneys.

‘
They are staying on the
top level with sun decks. We could free-fall from a helicopter’,
Agent 9, who’d taught Para jumping at Mussourie during the Academy
days helpfully suggested, while nursing the baby with a Chinese
pacifier.

The thought of her crotch fruit strapped to
the midget falling through the skies at 120 miles per hour sent a
shudder through her body- it would surely spill the milk!

‘
Why not just walk up to
their door? It’s not the movies- we are not James Bond. We don’t
have to do it his way. ‘

The little person examined his nails and
scratched where his beard may have been. Then he clasped the softly
snoring baby to his breast and broodingly looked for lice in its
hair.

‘
People in the hotel will
get frightened by the sudden appearance of two very intimidating
cops’, he said, including all of them in a wide sweep of the arm. ’
Let’s first make sure it’s Monal and Arjun really, and then we jump
them in their rooms in the dark.’

‘
What’s the plan’, she
asked, giving in to her husband’s fancy for drama.

‘
There’s a folk dance
every evening out at the terrace’, he said shyly, curling the
baby’s light hair around his little finger.

‘
So’, she asked, turning
to him, horrified, ‘what are you suggesting?’

‘
We could dress up like
the dancers and mix with the troupe. We could identify them among
the hotel guests… I’ve already arranged it’.

‘
Arranged what’, she
asked, folding her legs under her on the threadbare government
sofa.

‘
I could play the
Ek Tara
[stringed musical
instrument]. You could dance’.

‘
Like hell I could’, she
said, ‘sheer nonsense’!

The room became still as an anechoic
chamber. All you could hear was the sound of the baby breathing.
The small man, his male pride hurt, took the baby’s tiny hands in
his own and began to rub them softly, marveling at their pinkness
and kissing them at intervals. He rocked the baby gently in his
lap; soothing it soothed him as well. Krishnamala waited for an
angry retort but the trouble with her man was that there was
nothing on such occasions but silence. She could deal with
aggression but his strange quietness unnerved her. She began to
regret her harsh words.

‘
I’m sorry’, she said. ‘Do
I get to dress up’, she asked, trying to sound enthusiastic, just
to cheer him up.

He stopped rocking. Then he unfurled the
baby’s lock of hair from his little finger. Then he took a deep
breath and pretended he hadn’t heard her and moodily stared out the
window at the dusty Shivalik hills in the far distance.

‘
Please tell me the plan
darling, please’, she pleaded, with made-up school-girlish
excitement. At least this was better than his crazed idea of
jumping from aircraft- knowing him she knew it would have been
futile trying to convince him to stay behind in the aircraft, or if
was coming along, to leave the baby behind. She’d been a dancer at
school and college and could easily handle balancing a couple of
brass pots on her head if it meant keeping her husband from sky
diving with her tiny tot.

He couldn’t resist holding back any more-
he’d fallen for her fake cheer. ‘Alright, here’s the plan’. He
carefully replaced the baby in the bed, placed two large pillows on
both its sides, went down on his knees beside her, clasped her
hands and conspiratorially whispered the plan, though there was
nobody listening.

ϖ

The evening was chilly,
lusty and colorful around the stone cold fort: female beetles
resting on bushes flashed light signals to their mates, true bugs
fed on blood meals to form eggs to give life, and moths after
mating rushed into
mashals
blazing on the walls of the open-air
amphitheater. The dollar-paying budget Spaniards, in anticipation
of a grand spectacle, sat ready with baited breaths, loaded cameras
and glasses filled with cheap, complimentary Sula wine. The mostly
middle aged Indians drank imported, pricey single malt whiskies and
ran lascivious hands down the well toned legs of their glamorous
mistresses, and looked bored.