Mumbaistan (13 page)

He picked up the call after the sixth ring. The voice on the other side spoke in a hurried manner. Virkar's expression changed to one of excitement. Controlling himself, he said, 'Okay, now do exactly as I tell you.'

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Porus was chewing gum as usual, waiting patiently at the Light of Persia restaurant. He had come in early to get the window seat that would look over the entire front of Johnson College Hostel. It was a vantage point from where he could see Wagh Mama make his way out of the premises for his morning chai, and track his movements thereafter. Porus had planned to follow Wagh Mama on to his bus, till he reached home. 'Let the old man get comfortable, and then I'll strike,' Porus thought.

Wagh Mama emerged from the hostel gates, bleary-eyed after a long night's vigil. A creature of habit, he sat down on the same part of the wooden bench at Shyamlal's stall as always. But today, there were already two men sitting there. Their manner and body language suggested that they were probably night watchmen at one of the super-elite gated towers that had sprung up in the area.

In his usual, good-natured manner, Wagh Mama requested the men to move further up the bench to accommodate him. Seeing his bulk and the silver in his hair, one of them got up and offered him a seat. Wagh Mama sat down, but before he could get comfortable, the other man slipped a pair of handcuffs on him.

Wagh Mama looked at him in shock and confusion, but the man was expressionless. The man lifted his shirt seam a little and showed Wagh Mama a gun tucked in his belt. Before anyone could say anything, a police Gypsy drew up out of nowhere. Wagh Mama was bundled into the Gypsy, which took off, as if on cue. The whole operation lasted for only a couple of minutes.

Porus reeled with shock, but then his eyes fell on Shyamlal, who was watching the Gypsy recede into the traffic. From Shyamlal's expression, Porus realized that here was another man who had recognized the photograph in the newspaper.

Porus stepped outside the restaurant and ran around the corner to where he had parked his 1983 Rajdoot Yamaha RD 350. His father had owned an RD in better days and had taken little Porus for many a joyride on it. Afterwards, he had had to sell it to fuel Porus's education. Porus had bought one exactly like his father's, as soon as he could afford it, as a fond memory of his childhood, and had named his bike 'Rapid Death'.

Porus put on his helmet and gunned his RD to a roar. Those who have experienced the raw power and pure adrenalin rush from the legendary RD's throttle will know that none of the modern-day Indian performance bikes can even touch 150 km/hr. Porus had tinkered long enough with his bike to make it capable of hitting 165 km/hr in sixth gear.

Before the police Gypsy had reached the busy intersection under the Parel flyover, Porus was but three vehicle lengths away. Falling behind a large milk truck to keep himself sufficiently covered, Porus peeked out and saw that Wagh Mama had fainted and was slumping on the left side in the backseat. The two policemen had left him there and were seated on the right, deep in conversation.

The intersection, as usual, was crowded and the wait looked long. Porus rode his bike forward and quickly brought himself parallel to the Gypsy. Wagh Mama's neck was resting against the open sliding window. The policeman sitting in the left front seat of the Gypsy was nodding off. The people in other vehicles around were too busy concentrating on how they would get out of the jammed intersection as soon as the signal turned green. As cool as ever, Porus took out the syringe from his inner jacket pocket. Cupping the syringe in his hand, Porus angled the syringe till only the needle protruded from between his leather-gloved fingers. Pretending to steady his bike, he raised his arm to rest against the Gypsy's open window. As soon as his fingers reached the open window grill, he thrust his fingers to the base of Wagh Mama's skull; the needle found a vein and broke into it. No one could see that the bottom of Porus's palm was pressing down upon the plunger of the syringe, emptying its contents into Wagh Mama's spinal cord.

A few seconds later, Porus had moved away from the Gypsy and merged into the traffic. The signal turned green and the Gypsy continued its journey to the police station. Porus turned west towards Byculla and drove his RD into the small garage-cum-workshop tucked away in the overgrown backyard of Cursetjee Castle.

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'Injectionwala'—Killer or Hero?

The past few weeks have seen two killings carried out by the mysterious Injectionwala, who murders his victims by injecting a poisonous substance into their bodies. But here's the catch— his victims were both involved in the 'Operation Organ' exposed by Mumbai Crime Branch recently.

The last 'injection killing' of the alleged supplier-cum-agent of the organ racket, Bhimrao Wagh, head watchman of Johnson Medical College and Hostel took place in broad daylight. The police are still trying to ascertain when and where did the Injectionwala poison Wagh. It was only after the Injectionwala's phone call announced that Wagh had been his target that the police got to know that Wagh, too, had been injected by a deadly drug. Until then, they had thought that Wagh had had a massive heart attack. The phone call has been traced to a phone booth run by a blind man in Colaba. To their credit, the police have been able to determine that Injectionwala is male, between the ages of twenty-five and forty, and that he seems to be well educated with a good knowledge of medical drugs and procedures.

But, the big question is whether the two people who have been killed by Injectionwala got their just deserts.

Unlike the usual outrage, the silence in the media in this case seems to suggest that they silently support the Injectionwala's brand of justice. What drives our silent acceptance of this dark Robin Hood? Do Injectionwala's actions mirror our deep disgust of and desire to stick it to the corrupt and the depraved? Is the Injectionwala a vigilante who has avenged the murdered and saved countless innocents from Dr Jetha's organ trafficking racket?

The time has come for us to be true with ourselves in the media: we like Injectionwala

If we did not like him, we would put pressure on the police to immediately catch him. Instead we sit back and wait silently wishing that Injectionwala strikes again.

This sentiment is not limited to the media alone. A senior policeman, speaking on condition of anonymity, told this correspondent, 'We may have a messiah out there.'

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Virkar stood in front of Additional Commisioner of Police (Crime) Abhinav Kumar, DCP (Crime) Ramesh Hemdev, South Zone, and ACP Pitle, South Zone, revealing the results of his investigation. As he spoke, Abhinav Kumar listened to him intently, wondering whether he had made the wrong decision to have Virkar transferred to Mumbai from Gadchiroli. Although Virkar had used his investigative skills well in the case at hand, he had also interfered with the Crime Branch investigation and a crucial suspect had been killed due to his intervention, creating a public relations mess of gigantic proportions. Perhaps Virkar was a fish out of water in Mumbai. Kumar was concerned not because he feared the wrath of the politicians or the media but because Virkar had not shared his findings with him before behaving like a bull in a china shop. Kumar would now have to step in and do some political machinations if he wanted to save Virkar.

As Virkar finished his statement, Kumar turned towards DCP Hemdev and ACP Pitle. 'What is your opinion?' he asked his tone stern.

DCP Hemdev exploded, 'Who cares about this Tribut... whatever! The Crime Branch has a solid lead on the Injectionwala. We are close to cracking the case.'

ACP Pitle fell back on the familiar course of action. 'Sir, let us send him back to Gadchiroli. A few more years there will clear all the charbi from his brain.'

Kumar didn't react; he turned towards Virkar and said, 'Virkar, you've really created a big mess. I've no choice but to suspend you till further notice. Do you have anything to say to this?'

Virkar saluted and turned to leave. 'Where are you going?' Kumar called out to him. Virkar turned back, a little surprised. 'I want to have a separate word with you Virkar, please wait.' Saying this, Kumar turned to the two senior officers, 'Gentlemen, let's hope that this matter can be closed. Thank you very much, that's all for now.' The two officers left.

As soon as they were out of the room, Kumar looked directly at Virkar. 'Virkar, what is it that you're trying to achieve?' While serving as the superintendent of police in Gadchiroli, Kumar had identified Virkar as a dogged investigator. In local terminology, Virkar had been nicknamed Ghorpad, or monitor lizard. It is rumoured that a ghorpad's claws can cling fast to any surface. The Maratha leader Shivaji's general, Tanaji, had used them to good effect to win the battle of Sinhagadh. A number of Tanaji's soldiers had scaled a vertical cliff with the help of a rope, one end of which was tied to a thick-skinned ghorpad, clinging to the top of the cliff. Virkar, like the ghorpad, would not let go of anything he latched on to. And today, he had shown that same tenacious quality. But in the process, he had also stepped on too many toes.

Virkar managed a nonplussed expression, 'I don't know what you mean, sir.'

Kumar raised an eyebrow, 'Do you think that you can fool me, Virkar? I watched you operate all those years in Gadchiroli and saw how you handled tricky situations between the tribals, the politicians and the Maoists, without letting any fingers be pointed at the police department's functioning. And now you go and create such a big ruckus here...'

Virkar stood expressionless, staring at Kumar. 'Sir, I respect you too much to get you involved. So I will not say anything but that my quest is for justice. True justice.'

For a couple of minutes, Kumar held his gaze and then a frown broke out on his forehead. 'I don't want to lose a good officer.'

Virkar's face remained inscrutable. 'I won't let all that you've taught me go to waste, sir.' Abhinav Kumar nodded. This time, Virkar clicked his heels and saluted, conveying his deepest respect towards his mentor.

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'There is a man named Athavle, he claims to be a real estate agent. I had seen him having late-night meetings with my father. Every time he would call, my father would get tense. I always wondered about the hold he had over my father, and now I know the reason.'

Saakshi had earlier congratulated him on a job well done in the only way that Porus seemed to like, by making passionate, searing love. Porus was now energized and the pall of remorse that he had carried around his shoulders earlier had disappeared.

Porus, who had been staring outside his window, stopped Saakshi from saying anything further. 'Is this Athavle slightly dark and stocky, with a thick moustache?' he asked.

Saakshi looked at him, surprised. 'You know him?'

Porus whispered through ragged breath, 'No, but I have a feeling I will get to know him. He is standing in the compound below.'

Saakshi walked up to where Porus was standing and followed his gaze. She saw the man, Athavle, standing, as Porus had said, in the dusty compound of Cursetjee Castle. Athavle was trying to peer through Porus's window. The old, dust-caked glass in the windows, as well as the plants in the balcony, had kept Porus and Saakshi hidden from his view. As they watched, he gave up looking and entered the building. Saakshi was about to say something when Porus displayed surprising efficiency. He put a finger on her lips and signalled to her to stay where she was. He rushed into a small storeroom on the far corner, emerging with a large heavy bone-china vase. He hefted the large vase in his hands, to give Saakshi an idea of his plan, then went into his kitchen and exited the house from the servant's entrance.

Entering the corridor, he tiptoed upstairs to the second floor. Standing at the banisters, he then positioned the large flower vase in his hands above the gap of the stairwell, that extended till the ground floor. Athavle emerged on the ground floor, trying to walk without making any sound. Porus let go of the flower vase. The falling vase hit Athavle's head with a mighty thump. Athavle let out a slight gurgling sound and collapsed on the floor, unconscious. Saakshi came rushing out of Porus's apartment. She leaned over the banister and looked down at Athavle's prone body. Both she and Porus rushed down to the ground floor. She checked Athavle's pulse, while Porus examined the gash on the man's head. 'He is still alive,' Saakshi said, breathing heavily.

Porus nodded. 'You'd better go. I'll take care of him.'

Saakshi looked confused, 'No...but...he might say something.'

'I said I'd take care of him. I don't want you to get involved. Leave now.' His voice had a sharp commanding tone.

Saakshi started walking towards the gate.

Before she left, she said, 'Don't let him regain consciousness. Kill him right away.' At the gate, she turned and looked back at Porus. He waved her away into the fast gathering shadows. She exited the gate, closing it behind her with a metallic clang.

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In a small backroom of the stables of the Mahalaxmi Race Course, a bunch of syces were sitting on rickety wooden chairs across an equally rickety wooden table. They were in the middle of a round of mendicot, a popular Mumbai card game. Virkar stood in the doorway, but nobody seemed to notice him, amidst all the shouting and thumping of the table. After a few minutes, he smiled, cleared his throat and called out, Are outsiders allowed to play?'

The players stopped their noisy game and turned towards him, surprised.

No one spoke till a bright-eyed, grizzled old man, who was clutching some cards in his hands, replied, 'Only if they are ready to lose their shirt.'

Virkar, smiled even more broadly, approached the table and pulled out an empty wooden chair. 'I have played it enough to know that I am better than any old man, even though he may have taught me.' He gave the old man a friendly thump. 'How are you, Uncle Moses?'

The old man smiled through his tobacco-stained teeth, 'So, Ramya, I see you after twenty years and the first thing you do is challenge my skill at mendicot?' He puffed up his chest and added loftily, 'Get ready to face the champion of Mahalaxmi Race Course Stable No. 1 backroom'. The other young syces burst into laughter. Virkar couldn't help but join in the infectious mirth around him.