The Nidhi Kapoor Story Read online

  Somehow, she managed to open the door.

  And there he was. Prakash Mohile.

  He looked exactly as Rujuta had imagined he would look like. Dressed in a crumpled white shirt and a faded pair of denims after a long night’s work.

  Rujuta moved to a side to let him in. Prakash saw the well-kept drawing room, the doors to the two bedrooms were ajar and another door that Prakash figured led to the washroom. Prakash finally looked at Rujuta, let his gaze travel from top to bottom and his stare rested on the baseball bat that Rujuta was holding onto.

  Rujuta realized that she was wearing just a thin loose t-shirt. And she was holding onto a slugger. Her cheeks flushed with color. She couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say and muttered, “Oh, this! What if someone else was trying to break in to the house? Safety, you know.”

  Prakash merely nodded.

  “Why don’t you get comfortable while I go get you something to drink?” Rujuta said, running towards the kitchen. She smiled to herself and thought, “When was the last time I blushed like that? Damn you, Mr. Mohile. I just need to play it right.”

  She could feel Prakash’s cold hard stare digging in her back. And that very instant, her doubts about getting involved with a man ten years older dispersed like she had popped a cloud open. She knew that she really wanted to be with him and sleep in his arms. Whatever it took.

  She hurriedly put on a pair of shorts, fixed two stiff Jack Daniels and carried the glasses in hand. She kept them on the low table in the hall and sat cross-legged opposite Prakash. After a couple of uncomfortable minutes of silence, she said, “So what brings Mr. Angry Young Man to my humble abode?”

  Prakash launched into it straightaway. “Nidhi Kapoor almost got killed twice in less than twenty-four hours. I have seen so many cases but I have not seen anyone getting attacked twice in a day. Plus, this is a very persistent guy. There is no clue, there is no intent. In most cases, the victim and the attacker are known to each other. Plus, I have talked to everyone who has anything to do with Nidhi and everyone sounds so clean. I don’t know what is happening. Nidhi’s house, the set, they are guarded heavily. The ease with which the guy could access both the locations, it still amazes me.”

  To someone who did not know Prakash, this would have sounded like a confession of the inability to get a job done. But Rujuta had tailed Prakash for a couple of weeks now. She observed lot more than what she saw. She realized that Prakash was talking to himself. He was incoherent and jumping from one thing to another but that’s how he typically worked. She thus decided to stay silent. She noticed for the first time that Prakash used ‘plus’ every time he jumped from one thing to another. As if the word ‘plus’ could bind in the staccato burst of thoughts.

  Prakash took a long drag at his drink, almost emptying the glass. Rujuta had hardly started to sip onto hers. She noticed Prakash’s empty glass and handed hers to him. He nodded and their fingers touched for an instant. Rujuta thought it was wee bit longer than it merited but she wasn’t complaining.

  Prakash took a slow sip. His eyes moved up to a painting of a tree on the wall behind Rujuta. It had some words scribbled on it in Sanskrit. The painting intrigued him and he strained hard to read it. Rujuta caught Prakash looking at the painting. “My aunt painted that. It talks about the four kleshas∗ or miseries that humans are afflicted with. These four kleshas come from Avidya∗∗,” she explained.

  Prakash nodded and continued looking at the painting. His second drink was almost over by now. Rujuta thought of getting him a refill and tried to get up from the floor. Prakash noticed from the corner of his eyes that she was trying to get up. He moved in her direction with a jerk, scaring Rujuta in the process. She instinctively recoiled, folding her hands above her head. Prakash, clearly embarrassed, said, “No no… so sorry. I did not mean to touch you. I was just trying to help you.”

  Rujuta could smell whiskey and cigarette in Prakash’s breath. She heard the apology and knew whatever she did or said would have great ramifications on her relationship with Prakash. She gently held out a hand and Prakash took it with the solid grip of a policeman. It sent goose bumps down Rujuta’s spine. One more move from Prakash and Rujuta would have submitted to him. But he merely helped her get on her feet. Like a gentleman. Like a man ought not to when the woman opposite him wants to bed him.

  He left Rujuta standing in the hall and walked in towards Rujuta’s kitchen. Rujuta was amazed at the swagger and authority with which Prakash walked into her house. She wanted to protest but a part of her liked it. She sat down once again and observed Prakash invading through her closely guarded life, all of it contained in that 2 BHK.

  ∗∗∗

  “Rujuta, come up on the terrace. It’s better here.”

  Prakash had found the fire escape railing through the kitchen that led to the terrace. When she reached there, she saw Prakash propped up on the ledge and sipping on the whiskey. Rujuta was still in her t-shirt and shorts. She plopped herself on a plastic chair and lit up a cigarette. It was still dark and she could see faint glimpses of stars in the sky overhead. The sunrise was still a good hour away.

  She breathed in slowly on the cigarette. She then walked up to Prakash and handed Stikk to him.

  He took it from Rujuta. “What am I missing here? This looks like a straightforward case and yet I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  Prakash was again talking to himself. He paused and inhaled deeply on the cigarette. He looked at Rujuta. “A cigarette has to be the best invention of mankind. What if it kills? Everything else kills as well. But nothing like a cigarette to calm you down. Here…” he passed it to Rujuta. Rujuta was happy with the new Prakash, the one who was relaxed, one who seemed to enjoy Rujuta’s company.

  Prakash continued, “Rujuta, you were there when the fire started. You were the one who called me. You know, if not for you, Payal or Nidhi would have died today. You must have seen something… someone… Right?”

  “No, Prakash. Nothing seemed amiss. The film sets are anyway full of confusion all the time. There were people running in all directions. I wasn’t looking for Payal or Nidhi specifically, but I did check if anyone else was trapped inside. Surprising that I did not spot Nidhi when I was dragging Payal out.”

  “Second time in two consecutive nights. I don’t like coincidences.”

  Rujuta nodded silently.

  Prakash egged on. “Did you see any evidence of any wrongdoing? Broken glass? Loose cables? Something? Anything?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. If there was any, I did not notice. You?”

  Faint glimpses of sunlight were now visible in the eastern sky. Prakash had finished his third drink by then. He had carried the bottle of Jack Daniels from the kitchen with him. He fixed himself another. He ignored Rujuta’s question and asked, “How did you find Payal?”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t looking for her specifically. When I reached Vie, there was such confusion. I went in through the beach, where the kitchen is. I saw her lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. I don’t know from what though! There wasn’t a lot of smoke and she did not have any evident injuries. Maybe she was scared or something. I don’t really know. But she was unconscious. I shook her a couple of times but… I then dragged her out.” Rujuta looked contemplative.

  “You know, I went through the bar but I could not find anything amiss. The forensic team has ruled out short circuit or kerosene. Vicky Taluja insists that it’s a case of sabotage and has blamed his old partner for it. Apparently Nidhi chose to do Vicky’s film over his. But I am not sure. I have this feeling that the two incidents are related.”

  “That’s a possibility, Prakash, but what if they are separate and we are on a mere wild goose chase. No?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t want to rule out anything yet. Like I said, I don’t like coincidences. Are you sure you have told me everything that I should know? Sure you aren’t forgetting something?” Prakash asked, urging Rujuta to think over it carefully.

&
nbsp; “I think so. If I remember something else, I’d let you know. Did you eat something?” Rujuta wanted Prakash to stay over and since she had sensed that the conversation was almost over, this was a weak attempt to get him to stay back.

  “Yes yes. Thanks. I’d leave now.”

  “What? It’s too late. Why don’t you stay back?” Rujuta was suddenly at a loss of words.

  “No, I need to pick a few reports from the lab on my way back,” he replied, as if he had decided beforehand that he would not stay back.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had one too many? You sure you don’t want to stay back?” Rujuta came closer.

  Prakash got down from the ledge, stared into Rujuta’s eyes and left without answering.

  Rujuta kept looking at the door that Prakash had disappeared through. It was almost twilight by now. The sky had turned purple and a few clouds that were too unshapely and too out of place caught her attention. Few minutes later, she heard the unmistakable sound of a Royal Enfield being fired and revving up. Rujuta felt confused, dazed, humiliated and happy. All at the same time.

  She then heard the sound of the bike being driven away from her. It took away the morning calm. And the man of her dreams.

  ∗ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Belle_Otero

  ∗ Kleshas. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleshas_(Hinduism)

  ∗∗ Avidya. httpj/en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avidya_(Hinduism)

  9. Day 3, Morning. Police Station.

  Prakash wandered aimlessly on the streets of Mumbai. He stopped for cigarettes and some lemonade. After Amar Juice Centre was shut for public at midnight, it remained open to select patrons till it reopened at eight the next morning. Prakash was welcome at all such night joints. And unlike most policemen, if he stopped working for the police, he’d still be welcome.

  The entire idea of biking around the city was to clear his head, to put the loose ends together. He knew that until he solved the Nidhi Kapoor mystery, he wouldn’t be able to rest. Very few cases had perplexed him like this and he would not rest until he cracked it. It was a childhood affliction. Once he decided on something, he would not rest until he accomplished it. And because of this undying grit, he had not failed at a lot of things. He did fail to find his father after his mother killed herself, but one could argue that he was thirteen when he went to Pune and beyond in search of his father.

  Prakash blamed his mother for the hardship and emotional suffering that he and his father had to go through. He still wanted to find his father someday and console him that his decision to stay back in Pune without his wife was correct.

  When he finally reached home, it was almost time to leave for work again. He did not fancy living at home anyway. There was no one to come home to. No one bound him there. He took a generous shower, bowed to a picture of his parents taken in happier times and got ready for work.

  Prakash had never been into a serious relationship. He never had the time. While growing up, he worked three jobs simultaneously and when he finally did have some time, he had lost most of his hair, thanks to genes from his father. He then started climbing the police hierarchy rapidly. It never occurred to him that he was getting old and not before long, he would need company.

  Just when he was about to step out, he got a SMS from Rujuta, asking if he’d want to meet over breakfast. Prakash had hazy recollections of the night gone by and he thought this would be a good opportunity to pick her brains again.

  ∗∗∗

  They decided on Shabri, a small Udipi restaurant close to the police station.

  “How are your injuries?” Prakash asked, settling into a booth. Udipi restaurants, as a matter of policy, had fixed tables that could seat four people and required you to share your table with strangers. The rule did not apply to Prakash, however. He was a regular, and more importantly, a policeman.

  “What injuries? They were just scratches and I am fine. Thank you for asking,” Rujuta beamed. She then asked, “How is Payal? Nidhi? Others?” She was wearing a pair of blue denims, a white polo tee, and her trademark Kolhapuri Chapal.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t checked. I am sure that by now they would have an entire panel of doctors tending to them.” Prakash ordered a Dosa. Rujuta settled on an Idli. These Udipi restaurants, apart from old Irani cafes, were the lifeline of Mumbai and Mumbaikars. Even in these times when everything was expensive like gold, these eateries offered cheap, reasonably hygienic and tasty food. And like Irani Cafes, these Udipi restaurants have been around forever. Shabri was relatively new, for it was just twenty odd years old while most others could claim a 60-year-old legacy. The oldest Irani cafe in Mumbai, Kyani’s, near Dhobi Talao has been in operation since 1904.

  Rujuta laughed heartily at the comment. “Why are you so bitter towards the filmwallahs Prakash!?”

  “I don’t have anything against anyone. I just don’t like anyone interrupting when I am working. These film guys are really nosy and have egos bigger than the cricket maidans,” Prakash was getting restless. He hated to explain himself to anyone. He had stopped eating and was churning Sambhar with a spoon. Apparently, the recipe of Sambhar, a stew made from vegetables and pigeon pea, is a closely guarded secret and is passed down the generations. A true Udipi restaurant owner takes as much pride in keeping this recipe a secret as he takes in his being the major benefactor of his brethren.

  Rujuta noticed Prakash’s reaction. “OK, OK. Sorry I asked.” She looked into his eyes and said, “Change of topic. It’s a personal question. You may choose to not answer it.”

  Prakash looked up. He could not guess what was coming up next. He simply nodded.

  “How the fuck do you manage to stay awake, and look this sharp this early in the morning, after you had half a bottle of JD just a few hours ago?” Rujuta spoke with exaggerated expressions and movements of her eyes and hands.

  Prakash burst out laughing. “That’s it? I thought you would ask me about the dead bodies that I have buried in my backyard.”

  “Very funny. Come on, tell me. I take two smalls and I am wasted for the entire next week. You had so much alcohol and here you are. Fresh as a daisy. It’s not even three hours. Did you even sleep?”

  “Slowly, Rujuta. You might choke on your food. And it’s no big deal. You just need to get used to it. I have been drinking since I was twelve. Or maybe thirteen.” Prakash had polished his Dosa. He ordered for a filter coffee.

  “Yeah, I think that’s the advantage of staying alone. You can do whatever you want to. You are not answerable to anyone. Not to your parents, not to your family, not to anyone.” Rujuta realized her mistake moment she said it. Prakash has always been touchy about his family.

  “I think so. I have been alone since I was thirteen. Guess being alone has its advantages,” Prakash replied without any trace of emotion.

  “Yeah, look at me. I have never known my father and my mother left me with my aunt. Even though my aunt was very strict and she made sure I was imbibed with the best Indian values, look at what I have turned into,” she pointed at herself with an animated expression.

  Rujuta worked as an investigative reporter once upon a time. She knew that shared misery often softens up the subject and creates an emotional bond. The good cop, bad cop that most other interviewers play is a milder version of shared misery. It probably is the oldest trick in the bag of interrogators. Recent advances in behavioral sciences validated what most seasoned investigators knew intuitively.

  Prakash loosened up and laughed. “You look OK to me.”

  Rujuta winked. “Mr. Mohile, give me an opportunity and I would show you everything that is wrong with me.”

  This was the first time when a woman was openly flirting with Prakash. But he was a policeman and he knew how to get out of tough situations. He turned into an interrogator and said, “Your aunt sounds like an interesting person. Tell me more about her.”

  Rujuta fumbled. “Oh, my aunt. She’s all I have in this world. She is my mother, father, best friend, worst enemy and every
thing in between. If not for her, I would be a bar dancer or a whore someplace. Like her.”

  Till late 2005, Mumbai housed these bars where women would dance suggestively for male patrons and earn generous tips in return. Often after the dancing shifts were over, these women would double up as sex workers. Of course, the women received only a fraction of money for their services. Pimps and other people higher in the hierarchy squandered the rest. As per an estimate, just before these dance bars were shut, some 75000 women were working as bar dancers in Mumbai. Tarana, Rujuta’s aunt, was one of these 75000 women back then.

  Rujuta continued, “My aunt is my favorite person. She never had any formal education but made sure I went to school and college. She gave me all the freedom and let me do choose what I wanted to. I don’t think even my real parents would have done so much for me.”

  Prakash looked at Rujuta, nodded and got busy with his coffee.

  Rujuta started talking involuntarily. “I have never known my father or my mother. So it’s just me and her.”

  Prakash tried to be civil. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Why sorry? I am not sorry. It’s totally my parents’ loss that they are missing on claiming rights to such an awesome young woman,” Rujuta laughed. She decided to push her luck, “Your folks, on the other hand, would be so proud of you. No?”

  Prakash had started to smile but at the mention of his parents, the smile disappeared. He took out his wallet, left a hundred rupee note on the table and said abruptly, “Let’s go. I need to meet the commissioner and brief him on the case.”

  Rujuta was surprised at the hasty retreat. “Yep… Even I need to speak to my editor and give her an update on the story. I’d see you in the evening?” Rujuta made a weak attempt at salvaging something out of the conversation.

  Prakash merely nodded.

  Rujuta’s photo-essay was coming along really well and even though she hadn’t worked on in it in the last couple of days, she knew she was on track. She could afford to not work on the story for a few days. Meeting deadlines was never a problem for her. She had an excellent rapport amongst her editors for her professionalism. It was one of the reasons why she had risen so fast in that hyper competitive profession.