The Nidhi Kapoor Story Read online

  Preeti looked at Nishant helplessly. She extended her arm towards Nishant, seeking his support, his embrace. Nishant was however, hesitant. He was put on spot. He suddenly had to choose between his wife of twenty years and a young starlet. Neelima, the faithful wife, saved Nishant from embarrassment yet again. Before he could react, Neelima caught Preeti’s arm and slapped her hard with all her might.

  The blow was too much for a frail Preeti. She fell down in a heap. Just like in films, things came to a standstill. As if on cue, the DJ stopped the music. Glasses were left hanging in mid-air, mouths were left gaping and the laughter around the party died. The rasp sound of a powerful slap floated above the din of the party.

  Neelima was shivering with rage and the adrenaline rush. She was breathing hard and glared at Preeti, who was still motionless on the floor. Everyone was dumbfounded and no one knew what to do.

  Guests looked at Nishant for a suitable reaction. Even the two daughters were looking hopefully at their father for some signs of reconciliation, efforts to bring peace and truce. Preeti’s face had reddened and her upper lip was beginning to swell. She had tears in her eyes and she crawled imperceptibly towards Nishant. Nishant, as if he woke from a deep slumber, yelled in his booming voice, “How dare you, Neelima?”

  And then, without any warning, Nishant slapped Neelima. Hard.

  He slapped his wife of almost twenty years. The mother of his two daughters. His companion through thick and thin. A woman often credited as the hidden force behind Nishant’s success. An upcoming actress who let go of her dreams to look after Nishant’s household.

  Nishant’s punch landed on Neelima’s nose and cheeks with a smack. It ruptured the blood vessels in her nose and a faint red trickle ran down her nose.

  Surprisingly, Neelima did not balk. She just stumbled backwards and immediately found her ground. She remained defiant and there was no trace of fear in her eyes. Nor did she shed any tears. Her face did not give away her emotions, but her cheeks were beginning to puff up and blood was running down faster and thicker than before.

  Payal and Nidhi saw their home tearing apart into shambles with that one blow. They rushed towards their parents. Payal was the first to reach Nishant. Her eyes were moist and she was looking at Nishant tenderly. She held Nishant’s hand and starting massaging it slowly.

  Meanwhile, Nidhi was trying to support Neelima. But Neelima stood her ground firmly. She nodded at Nidhi, waved her away and looked straight into Nishant’s eyes. “Will that be all, Nishant?” she said in an unwavering, confident voice.

  Nishant was enraged at this open display of insubordination. Before anyone could react, he started pelting Neelima with blows. He was oblivious to where his blows landed, what bones he broke, what marks he left on her tender body. When Neelima fell down from the nonstop assault, he began to kick her. He did not see blood or tears. He did not hear screams and gasps of other women present at the party. He did not register the shock on the faces of other men. He did not see his wife dying with each blow that he delivered to her. He did not see his home getting dismantled, the foundations uprooting, with every grunt that escaped his throat when he hit his wife. He did not see anything. He could not. He could merely see himself. And Neelima. A woman who had refused to balk when he asked her to. What if she was his wife?

  Surprisingly, no one had the courage to intervene. With the indifference that Neelima accepted these blows, they realized that this was not the first time that Nishant was hitting Neelima. Payal was crying incessantly all this while. She had hidden her face in Nidhi’s arms. Nidhi, on the other hand, was quiet and resolute. Her eyes were stoned, as if she was hypnotized. She was staring at her father beating her mother. And then something snapped inside her. She flung Payal away from her, wailed and threw herself at Nishant. Nishant didn’t see her coming and both of them fell down from the impact. Nidhi, with surprising agility, climbed up on him and pinned him down to the floor with her knees.

  “Enough, papa. One more move and you are dead,” she growled.

  2. Day 1, Morning. Police Station.

  It began like any other day in the office for Prakash Mohile. As the Assistant Commissioner of Police with the Special Crimes Division of Mumbai Police, his job was a tough one. For a city that more than two crore people call home, Mumbai had a very small police force of just about 49000, divided into 89 stations. With all the VIPs, film stars, politicians and industrialists who demanded constant protection from threats, legit or otherwise, the police force was always understaffed and overworked.

  Amongst all myriad responsibilities that Prakash was entrusted with, he was also in-charge of protection for the film fraternity. And he hated it. Not the job per se, but the tantrums and shenanigans of the very people he was supposed to guard. He did not have time for jests, humor and other such lighthearted human emotions. His only commitment was to the department. His only passion was to do his job well. His only escape was a ride on his Bullet and a few rounds of Jack Daniel.

  Today, like most mornings, he was leafing through case files from the previous evening, hearing out the mercy pleas of kin of miscellaneous men arrested yesterday and barking instructions at his juniors for the day ahead, all at the same time. Not for a minute did he look in the direction of Rujuta Singh, a freelance photojournalist attached to him for a month-long assignment. Rujuta was doing a photo-essay on Mumbai police for an international publication and though Mohile did not appreciate anyone interfering with his work, Rujuta was put in his command by the city Mayor. Even though she was young, good-looking and intelligent, Prakash considered Rujuta more of a nuisance than anything else.

  Most cases today were drab as usual. The same set of extortion calls, thefts, road accidents, celebrity altercations, and other petty crimes. By the time policemen spend five or so years in the service, they become indifferent to these miseries around them. Not Prakash. He had been in service for more than ten years. Every morning while allocating cases to his subordinates, he would ponder on the meaning of life and unnecessary grief caused by these avoidable crimes. He was thus most sympathetic to the issues of poor and helpless, and most indifferent to the miseries of the rich. He would allocate cases of the fanciest film star to the worst in his team and work personally on the cases of anonymous men and women who were barely making it through the tough city of Mumbai.

  When he kept a very high profile case for himself, his staff was surprised. Even Rujuta took note of it, now that she had been shadowing Prakash for almost two weeks and thus was somewhat aware of his style of working.

  “So, Mohile Saab, finally you found a case worthy of your time? You are finally going to chase limelight now with this stupid thing at Nidhi Kapoor’s house?” Rujuta sneered, stuffing her things hastily in her bag. She knew that once Prakash did the case allocations, he wanted every policeman on the field pronto. No one but Rujuta could’ve asked this question since she was the only one at the police station who did not subscribe to either fear or respect for Prakash. And she was anyway known to speak her mind. Often, and with conviction.

  Prakash looked up at Rujuta, gave her his trademark smirk and went back to his files. That smirk had an infamous reputation. Prakash used it when he knew he was right and the other person, wrong. For suspects and criminals, it meant that Prakash had called their bluff and they were now in his bad books. For his subordinates, the smirk meant that they hadn’t done their homework well. For people who did not know Prakash, it just came across as a silly smile of a bald police officer. Since Rujuta was relatively new, she thought that Prakash was bemused at something that she had said.

  She could not tolerate getting dismissed like that. She egged on, “I know you like her. Weren’t you part of Nidhi’s security detail when the premier of her last film was screened for the Chief Minister? There were quite a few pictures of you with her and the CM in the newspapers. You seem to have a soft corner for her!”

  “Stop wasting your time. If you want to come along, you better hurry up,” Pra
kash replied curtly.

  He had finished signing the documents and was on his way out. Rujuta had to run to catch up with him. He had already fired up the engine. He drove his official jeep by himself. The driver was merely a watchdog and usher.

  As they crossed the Juhu Tara Road bordering the Juhu Beach, Rujuta tried her luck once again. “Prakash Sir, we must come here sometime in the evening. I’ve heard the Pav Bhaji is to die for,” she said.

  The two constables in the jeep and the driver giggled softly at the overt public display of affection. Prakash stared at them. All three of them shut their mouths immediately. Rujuta was quite amused with the scene. She smiled and started looking at people milling around on the beach. She wondered why would someone come to a beach at eleven in the morning. Didn’t they have better things to do? Were they jobless? Her thoughts slowly drifted towards Prakash and the last couple of weeks that she had spent with him.

  Prakash was one of the most extraordinary men that she had come across. He was always upright and was an epitome of fairness. Rujuta pictured Prakash as a school kid who would oil his hair with such perfection that not one strand was out of place, trim his nails so deep that not a speck of dust remained stuck in the tiny crevices, polish his shoes so meticulously that he could see his reflection in them, complete his homework well on time, sit on the first bench to please the teachers and keep his eyes shut during the entire morning assembly at school. Rujuta smiled at the picture of a young Prakash that she had just painted. She realized that she had been a polar-opposite as a kid. Maybe that’s why she was so intrigued by him. She had a maddening craving for Prakash. She knew that Prakash was aware of her yearning for him and yet chose to remain elusive.

  The jeep came to a halt with a jerk and Rujuta was almost thrown out of it. Prakash’s reflexes kicked in and he caught her deftly. His masculine touch on her bare arms sent goose bumps down her spine.

  “Next time, you better sit in the back,” Prakash said as he got down from the jeep. To Rujuta, it sounded like an instruction from her school principal. The constables had alighted by then and were already walking towards the massive front entrance of Ronak.

  Nidhi Kapoor was now a film star herself and her success had eclipsed even Nishant’s. She shot to fame a few years ago when Nishant retired and since then, she had ruled the hearts and box offices like no other actress had. Just like Nishant had in his time.

  The guards on duty at Ronak were more alert than usual. Normally they would be sprawled on their chairs, resting under an umbrella and would be sipping their sugary teas. Today, they were standing in a tight formation and had made a ring outside the main entrance. Their guns, which normally remained out of sight, were displayed in full glory today.

  To admit Prakash, Rujuta and Tambe, the heavy gate opened just a wee bit with a lazy moan, as if a tiny crack had appeared in it. Once they had slid inside, the crack in the formidable iron and wood structure closed behind them, faster and tighter than ever. The whining moan was typical of the old, rusted gate that remained closed more often than it was kept open.

  ∗∗∗

  After the commotion on the road outside, the inside of the bungalow felt unusually serene. Prakash noticed the noise reduction barriers installed on top of the periphery of the large house. In the lawn, a middle-aged man was pacing frantically around the chairs and an umbrella. When he saw Prakash and his entourage, he hurried towards them.

  “Hello Inspector… Mohile,” he said, eying Prakash’s name badge. He got Prakash’s designation wrong but Prakash ignored it. He continued, “I am Naveen Verma. Nidhi’s uncle. I spoke to Joshi Saab in the morning. Thank you so much for coming at this short notice. Joshi Saab couldn’t make it? I was expecting him, you know…”

  Shankar Rao Joshi was the commissioner of police and he had instructed his office to give this case to Prakash Mohile. He had then called Prakash himself in the morning. Of all officers at his disposal, Joshi knew that Prakash was least likely to get influenced by the high-profile nature of the case and would do a thorough investigation.

  Prakash interrupted Verma. “Mr. Verma, Joshi Saab may not have time to go on wild goose chases like this. He’s instructed me to visit you personally and here I am. Otherwise even I have other pressing matters to worry about. Can you show us the crime site please?” Prakash was peeved by Verma’s demand to see the commissioner.

  “How dare you talk to me… And who is she? I clearly told Joshi Saab, no photographers!” Verma pointed at Rujuta and her camera. Rujuta had taken her camera out and was trying to take an artistic shot of the white wooden chairs resting against the green backdrop of the neatly kept lawn.

  “She is a part of my team and will be here while I am here. She will not click any more photographs…” Prakash replied curtly and motioned to Rujuta to put her camera away. “But she will stay. If you are fine with it, we can stay and meet Ms. Nidhi. If not, we can go back to the station and you could wait for Mr. Joshi to come and see you.”

  “I don’t believe…” Verma started to argue, but then thought better of it. He walked towards the house.“Nidhi is in her room. Let’s go there.”

  “I’d rather see the crime scene first please,” Prakash replied.

  Verma paused, nodded silently and led them inside.

  The house was an impressive two-storied structure. As Prakash, Rujuta and his team started to follow Naveen Verma inside, Prakash nodded at one of the constables. He got his cue and understood that he was to go to the entrance and chat up with security guards and get some gossip out from them under the pretext of cigarette and tea.

  “Who else lives in this house Mr. Verma?” Prakash enquired.

  “Here? Nidhi, her sister Payal and two servants. That’s about it. I live in a building in the next lane. I come and go as and when Nidhi needs me. Nishant now lives at a clinic in Panchgani but we have decided to get him back to Ronak as a precaution,” Verma replied.

  Nishant Kapoor, the superstar of the yesteryears, was now confined to a rehab facility in the hills of Panchgani, some 250 KMs away from Mumbai. He had had an accident that left him paralyzed and there were rumors about his mental condition. Neelima, his wife, was long dead. Naveen Verma was Neelima’s brother and had been managing the business of Kapoors since Neelima and Nishant got married.

  “What about those guards at the main entrance? What about the gardeners? Maids? Supplies?”

  “The guards do not live here. We’ve hired a security agency and four guards work in 6-hour shifts. So, a total of 24 guards. There is a room for security guards towards the end of the lawn. They use that room for wash and change,” Verma said, pointing a finger at a small room on the far end of the house.

  “There is no gardener. Payal manages the lawns with the help of Malti, the maid. For the supplies, Malti makes a list and gives it to one of the security guards. We’ve kept life simple because Nidhi likes it like that. And of course it helps control the gossip.”

  Rujuta thought Verma was volunteering information by himself. Either it was not the first time that he was talking to police, or his lines were rehearsed. She made a mental note of it.

  Prakash whistled and said to no one in particular, “24 guards? For one woman? And when she’s not even home most of the time! Why are we wasting our time here Tambe?”

  Tambe knew that he was not supposed to react. This was how Prakash worked. He would incite and incite till the other person rolled over the edge and started to talk.

  Verma, as if he did not hear Prakash, kept talking. “Nidhi is a big big star. She has her share of stalkers, obsessed fans and enemies. We have to be very cautious. We invite very few people to Ronak and the ones we do invite are all close friends or business associates. We don’t conduct our meetings here. We no longer throw gaudy parties like Nishant used to. We have cameras, biometric access system and trip alarms installed in the house. Nidhi and Payal’s security is number one agenda for us. Everything else is secondary. It’s inexplicable how this could happen despi
te the precautions we take!”

  Verma had talked for a large part of the walk to the main building of the house. Though he looked fit, he was almost out of breath by the time they reached the main building. He put his thumb on an electronic scan pad, entered a string of numbers and the door opened with a beep. “Please come in,” he said.

  The house had been done up beautifully. Nidhi Kapoor was obviously rich and had a fine taste. The reception hall, or the drawing room, was rather large for Mumbai standards, with a grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Rujuta frowned at it. She thought chandeliers were a thing of the past and nobody owned them anymore.

  Each wall of the house told a different story. The wall on their left was pale blue and lined with photos of the great Nishant Kapoor. It was like a viewing gallery celebrating his life. The right wall was where Nidhi Kapoor showcased art and pictures from famous artists. It also had life-size posters of old movies, from the time when posters were actually sketched and colored by hands.

  Along the wall on a tall shelf were a bundle of trophies that Nishant, or maybe Nidhi, had won. Most prominently placed was a Golden Filmfare trophy. If Rujuta had known that the trophy was made in gold just once since the inception of awards in 1954, she would have spent more time reading the citation.

  There was a sofa underneath the chandelier that could seat a mini procession and yet leave room for more. The tables behind the sofa had curios, apparently gathered from all parts of the world. It was an eclectic mix of handicraft, crystals, coffee table books and other trinkets.

  The whole place had a sense of symmetry to it, like someone had used a ruler to put it all together with great care. While she was wondering about the meticulous brain that had designed the hall, she realized that she was alone. She saw Tambe’s back disappearing behind an open door on the left at the far end of the hall. Not wanting to miss out on anything, she scampered towards it.