The Nidhi Kapoor Story Page 9

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  “Prakash Sir is a remarkable man. The way he handled the case last night, I am now officially a fan,” Rujuta said.

  Prakash was still at the police headquarters and Rujuta was trying to trap Tambe into spilling the beans on Prakash. No one else was closer to Prakash than Tambe.

  She and Tambe were idling outside the police station at the tea stall. Rujuta sat casually on a makeshift wooden bench hanging precariously on a nook in the wall on one side and on a tin canister on the other. Tambe was leaning against a police jeep parked in the shade outside the tea stall. Tinku, the boy at the tea stall, handed them glasses of piping hot tea.

  “That was nothing madam. I have seen him handle much more difficult situations with far more ease. A year or so back, the only daughter of a politician was kidnapped. The way Saab handled that case; no one else would have been able to solve it. He went into the hiding place of the kidnappers and brought out the girl alive. He was shot twice; it took him three months to recuperate from the wound but the girl was unharmed.”

  Tambe took a break to sip on his tea. He continued, “When terrorists attacked Mumbai three-four years back, Prakash Sir was at the Taj Hotel himself for those three days. He was injured and suffered burns and yet did not move from there till the rescue operation wasn’t complete.”

  “Really? Wow! I mean, how long has he been in the police force?”

  “Oh, he has been in the police force for more than ten years now. He is an IPS officer. I don’t know his batch or cadre though. He has been to multiple stations within Maharashtra. His last posting was at Sangli. You know why he was transferred from there? He slapped a local politician in a rally. Afterwards, he singlehandedly dispersed the gathering of more than five hundred unruly men. He is mad.” Tambe spoke and started to laugh, his trademark hearty laugh where his entire upper body jiggled like a pendulum.

  “OK OK, I get it. Your Prakash sir is a superhero. But… what is he like a man?” Rujuta wanted to get back to her original query.

  “He is the greatest man I have seen. He just needs someone to take care of him, though. Last time we went to Pune, he was in a very good mood. We talked about our families, friends and everything else. You know he is the only officer who came to my son’s birthday party? He even loaned me money for Sonu’s cricket kit. When I offered to return it, he refused to take it back. He said it’s a gift for Sonu.” Tambe was obviously proud of his more than mere professional acquaintance with Prakash.

  “Pune? I thought his jurisdiction was limited to Mumbai?” Rujuta asked.

  “Yes yes. Mumbai only madam. We went to meet Pune’s commissioner about Prakash Saab’s father.”

  “His father? Didn’t his father pass away when he was young?” Rujuta was genuinely surprised.

  Tambe recoiled. “No madam. No way. Don’t even bring this up with him. He believes that his father is alive and he still spends a considerable time searching for him. He has been to so many schools in Pune, Satara and even beyond. He even tried to get a posting in Pune.”

  “Really? I did not know this. And why schools?” Rujuta asked. She thought Prakash wanted to make a career in the police force. Moving to Pune would be a demotion of sorts. Most officers avoided going to smaller places even if they are offered higher ranks.

  “Because Prakash Sir believes that his father is still a teacher somewhere. He hasn’t found any clue as yet though. He even put out an advertisement in the newspapers once but nothing came out of it.”

  “OK…” Rujuta was now deep in thought about Prakash’s obsession with his missing father.

  “But you know madam, Saab has had a very tough life. Do you know he used to wash auto rickshaws and taxis when he was a kid?”

  “What? Wash rickshaws? Are you sure?” Rujuta asked incredulously.

  “Yes! Every morning. He would wash rickshaws in the morning. And after that, he worked at a tea stall, delivering to offices like this Tinku does,” Tambe pointed at the young boy who had handed them tea.

  “He would then study at night. Not just that. He took admission into an evening school and to support the expenses of his education, he started hawking newspapers. Then he got promoted from the teashop and became a waiter in the library canteen. After that he gradually became a cook in the same canteen where he was a waiter. You know ma’am, he is a very good cook. You must have his Mutton Biryani. It’s something that you can die for. He makes it every year on Bakr Id.” Pravin Tambe took pride in narrating Prakash’s story.

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yes. Of course. Khan Saab helped him while he was preparing for IPS.” Tambe was taking loud sips of his tea. The first cup was long over and he was on the second one.

  “Who is Khan Saab?” Rujuta asked.

  Tambe beamed. “Amjad Khan Sir. He was the deputy-commissioner of police long time back. He passed away last year I think. He used to frequent the Asiatic library and that’s where Prakash Saab met him. He loved Prakash Sir’s omelets and Prakash Sir wanted his help in finding his father. One thing led to another and they got close. In fact, Khan Saab asked Prakash Sir to apply for the police force. Prakash Sir took his advice, worked tirelessly and once he got selected, Khan Saab personally trained him on the nuances. I wished he had trained me as well. You know, every officer he trained is doing so well today.”

  “And what a man your Prakash Saab has turned into! I could write a book on him! His would make a really inspiring story,” Rujata said excitedly.

  She had had a tough life herself and could relate to all those odd jobs that Prakash had done to make ends meet. She knew of a lot of people who worked three or four jobs at the same time for years. Some of them were now rich enough to afford houses and cars. But no one had been able to find their way through the labyrinth of life and come out a winner the way Prakash had.

  She made a mental note to talk about Prakash to her aunt, Tarana. Tarana loved such people. The ones who did well despite all odds. Also, Tarana had to approve of any man that Rujuta decides to settle down with. Not that Tarana insisted, but Rujuta still wanted to seek her approval.

  While Rujuta was engrossed in her thoughts, Tambe hadn’t stopped talking. “Everyone in the department loves him. You know, he is also the cleanest officer that I know of. Everyone exploits their position in the force and takes favors, big or small. But not Prakash Sir. In the last four years I have been working with him, I have never seen him misusing his power even once. Even when the money for informers is left unspent, he lets all of us take care of it. He is OK with it as long as he does not see it.” Tambe laughed slyly. “But please don’t publish this in your newspaper, OK?” Tambe had taken out tobacco and was rubbing it in his palm.

  The money Tambe was talking about was allocated to each police station every month to dole out to their respective network of informers and agents. The amount differed from station-to-station, time-to-time and informer-to-informer. Since there was no record of these transactions, the station¬in-charge controlled this typically large sum. Nothing like free flow of money to keep the well oiled judicial machinery running smoothly.

  Rujuta knew that she had extracted all that she could. She already knew that Prakash was not married and was definitely not seeing anyone. He was too dry for a woman to be interested in him. If not dry, he still wasn’t cool enough.

  Rujuta had to change the topic and move on from serious personal matters to things that Tambe would remember when he’d think about this conversation later.

  “So what does he do when he is not saving beautiful film actresses from stalkers and fires?” Rujuta winked and Tambe laughed at that.

  “I don’t really know. He spends most of his time either at office or in the field. He never comes to parties except when we have religious functions. He does not believe in God but is always respectful.” Tambe was trying to think. “Oh, yes, he has some capacity to drink alcohol. Always neat. With ice. He can finish one entire bottle and still walk straight.” Tambe’s belly was shaki
ng with laughter as if mini-tremors were bombarding its inside.

  “What else,” he continued, “he likes to ride his bike. Oh yes, he likes to listen to old Hindi music. Especially from Guru Dutt movies. He has this vinyl record player at home. He says that a vinyl gives out the purest sound. Every time we pass chor bazaar, we try to buy some.”

  One could find a Chor Bazaar, the market of thieves, in every modern city of India. They are India’s version of flea markets and one could find anything under the sun up for grabs at these markets. In Mumbai however, more than stolen goods, Chor Bazaar is a market for used things. You could also buy vintage paraphernalia and antiques like old manual cameras, Bollywood posters, vinyl players, records and other knick-knacks here. Of-course like all flea markets all over the world, you are expected to bargain hard for things you want to buy. Bargaining is actually a minor sport for Indians.

  At the mention of vinyl records and Chor Bazaar, Rujuta smiled. She knew what her next move would be. Her taste wasn’t half bad either when it came to music.

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  When Prakash reached home later that night, he found a gift-wrapped packet at his doorstep. Since he never got any gifts and wasn’t expecting any, he was cautious around it. He checked the staircase and surroundings for anything suspicious. Then he looked closely at the packet. It had a note attached. “Thank you for the breakfast.” It was signed by Rujuta. Under the signature, she had drawn a smiley.

  Prakash frowned and opened the packet. Inside were three vinyl records of Guru Dutt movies, Pyasa, Kaagaz Ke Phool and Chaudhavi Ka Chand. He smiled at the thoughtful gifts. He rushed to his simply furnished room, switched on the gramophone, changed the gramophone pin and put Pyasa on.

  It was long since Prakash was so excited about something. As a child he never had an opportunity to play with things and he had grown up before he realized. Music to him was a window into another world, where he could forget about the constant barrage of inane cases thrown at him. A world where he lived on one of the lower mountains of Sehyadris, maybe at Panchgani, and took care of his aging father,where he had a wife and few kids for company when he came back from a hard day at work.

  Prakash was that simple.

  He poured himself a large serving of JD over ice. With Hemant Kumar singing Jaane Wo Kaise Log The, Prakash was soon lost in thoughts. He wondered if the search for his father would bear result in the end. He knew that he was not the kind to give up easily. He started to make mental notes about the next set of things that he would have to do to find his father. Thanks to the music, for a change, he had forgotten about the Nidhi Kapoor story.

  10. Day 5, Noon. Taj Land’s End.

  Two days after the fire, a famous tabloid ran a front¬page story on it and featured pictures of the charred set. Thankfully, the papers did not know about Nidhi’s pets, yet. Meanwhile, the investigation was proceeding at a snail’s pace. While Prakash and his team were running their leads, Rujuta had started an investigation of her own.

  Nidhi Kapoor had requested Commissioner Joshi to assign Prakash Mohile as part of her personal detail. After the two incidents, Nidhi apparently trusted Prakash more than any other police officer. Prakash, irate with the suggestion, was trying to delay his deputation at Ronak.

  The fingerprints report from Nidhi’s house had come out clean. Apart from the usual prints of Nidhi and her family, there was nothing out of place. The CCTV facing the entrance to the house was conveniently reported broken a couple of days before the incident. The maintenance company took its own sweet time to respond. Since there was no estate manager, a secretary at Verma’s office had been given the task to ensure follow up on repairs. Obviously she was not doing her job well.

  The sleuths that Prakash had deputed around Ronak and Vie did not report anything out of the ordinary. They spoke to the guards, hawkers, neighbours, reporters and other regulars at two places. No one suspicious was noticed loitering there. No strange vehicles were seen around the area. It was as if the assailant had come out of thin air and then killed the animals.

  The CCTV tapes from Vie were with the police but amidst the frantic activity around erecting a film set and melee of faces from the unit, it was next to impossible to spot someone out of place.

  Prakash had also asked his contact at Maha Sakaal to dig out everything that was reported about Nidhi Kapoor. He also asked for a similar file on Vicky Taluja. Prakash did not want to take any chances, and he believed that assumptions were the mother of all fuckups.

  The files on Nidhi and Taluja had come from Maha Sakaal but each of them was more than four inches thick. There was no way Prakash could go through the files before two-three weeks. He marveled at the patience that it would have taken the newspaper to pull out these clippings.

  Prakash decided to ask Rujuta to help him with the investigation and asked her to interview Nidhi, Payal, Naveen, Vicky and other people from the film industry. He did not want to waste his time with their long narrations and now that he had Rujuta to help, she could be ideal for their depositions.

  Rujuta was more than happy to chip in. She had a couple of reasons. One, it gave her a legit reason to hang around Prakash. Second, the initial brush with the two incidents had excited her. She loved being at the crime scene. She craved to get back to her days as an investigative reporter. She thought that a break from photo-essays would help recharge her batteries.

  Rujuta had thought that interviewing Nidhi, Payal and Naveen would be easy, as they had promised cooperation. But it was proving tougher than expected. Both sisters remained elusive for some reason. Verma was out of Mumbai on some urgent business that couldn’t wait.

  Vicky Taluja was, however, easy to catch. Rujuta got his phone number from Sonal, who had recently joined the gossip sections of a leading daily, The Breaking News. Sonal told her that Vicky Taluja had a known disdain for reporters and cops but Rujuta remembered that Taluja actually helped Prakash when the fire broke out. Rujuta was thus not surprised when Vicky readily agreed to meet her and talk about the incident.

  They decided to meet at Taj Land’s End, overlooking the Arabian Sea, the view interrupted only by Hotel Sea Rock. Once a landmark in itself, the Sea Rock was razed during the 1993 Mumbai terrorist attack and has been shut since.

  When Rujuta mentioned at the reception that she was expecting to meet Vicky, she was ushered into a plush lounge on the 21st floor. Vicky hadn’t arrived yet. Rujuta had time to seep in the surroundings. The lounge came with typical snobbery of an expensive hotel and typical splendor of a room hanging in the air with an expansive view of the ocean. She could see a vessel moored at a distance in the sea and she wondered what it was up to.

  “You looked different that day,” Vicky Taluja announced as he walked in. He was wearing a blue linen shirt and a comfortable pair of denims. Orange suede boat shoes.

  “Hey! Thanks for coming! And in what? Good way or bad way?”

  Taluja laughed at her reply. “Tough one. But you know, you sounded so earnest on the phone; journalists are never straightforward. This is the first time I am meeting a media person without my agenda,” Taluja answered with a smirk.

  He seemed pompous and arrogant, the way a successful filmwallah often is. He had a chiseled body for a second-generation film producer. Rujuta made a mental note of it as she flashed her magical smile at him.

  “I just need 15 - 20 minutes of your time. I promise I will not quote you anywhere on this. And I have anyhow heard that you are not afraid of voicing your opinions,” Rujuta was preparing the bait.

  Taluja laughed at that. “Yes, I may not be the most popular guy around but I have had my share of wins and losses. If you hadn’t helped Payal back then, I would’ve never agreed to meet you. In you, for once, I saw a real life hero. I wouldn’t have the balls to jump in that fire.” Taluja called a waiter and made a quick motion with his fingers. He apparently was a regular there.

  “What may I order for you, Rujuta?”

  Rujuta smiled at the impeccably dress
ed waiter and said, “A Diet Coke please, thank you.”

  Turning back to Vicky, she said, “Thank you for your compliments. I just did what felt right to me. Let’s not waste time in making a mutual admiration society and get to the questions directly, shall we? I gather that your family has known the Kapoors for a long time?”

  “Yes. My father and Nishant uncle, Nidhi’s father, were very good friends. In fact, when everyone had written Nishant Kapoor off, my father gave him his comeback film. I had just started to assist my father at that time. I thus got to know Nishant uncle, Neelima aunty and their entire family well. Though like all filmy friendships, ours ended when a couple of other projects did not work out that well.”

  Rujuta found Vicky Taluja’s reputation spot on. For a serious contender in Bollywood, he was very candid. She knew she could hook Vicky Taluja and reel him in.

  “I did not know this. Did you know Nidhi and Payal from back then?” Rujuta threw the juicy bait at Taluja.

  “Yeah. I knew about them but I really noticed them first at a party thrown by Nishant uncle. It was actually the golden jubilee celebration for his comeback film with my father, Lahu Ka Rang. Those were the days when films could run for weeks in the box office. Now if a film lasts a weekend, we throw parties. So I remember that party well because one, my father was the producer and two, the party ended in an ugly spat between Nishant uncle and Neelima aunty. That’s one match that no one has ever been able to make sense of. Neelima aunty wasn’t the greatest actress. Neither was she the most pleasing. And Nishant uncle could get any woman he wanted and yet he chose Neelima aunty. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the lure of easy money.”

  “Spat? I did not know they fought. I have read newspapers dating back to late 1980s, when Nishant Kapoor was just starting his career.” Rujuta was genuinely surprised. She slacked the bait line a bit.