Mumbaistan (14 page)

A prolonged card game ensued, with money changing hands and many syces losing their month's salary. More syces joined in, bringing with them quarter bottles of rum and whisky to aid their losing streak. Moses Koli was, indeed, a champion. He wiped out everybody at the table, grinning away all the time, his tobacco-stained smile adding injury to the insult. Virkar lost all the money he had. In a desperate last attempt to win back all his losses, his rum-addled mind finally added the keys of his Bullet to the lot. Unfortunately, Virkar lost this game, too, and could do nothing but look at Moses helplessly as the latter gleefully hefted the Bullets keys in his hands, all the while flashing Virkar his trademark grin. Then Moses got up and called it a night. The groaning syces complained their way out of the room, promising to win back everything the next month. Moses smiled and waited for everyone to depart, then gestured to the inebriated Virkar to follow him.

Moses led Virkar through the stables into the now-deserted dark parking area. His old eyes scanned and spotted Virkar's Bullet parked at a distance. He walked with the stumbling Virkar up to the Bullet, started the bike and asked the policeman to sit behind him. Virkar obeyed. Moses rode the bike out of the parking area through the gate towards Haji Ali, with the woozy Virkar holding on to him. He stopped the Bullet outside the Haji Ali Juice Centre and ordered the eager waiters to bring two glasses of fresh mosambi juice and two grilled cheese sandwiches. Moses Koli stood on the parapet facing the Arabian Sea. His eyes rested upon the wondrous Haji Ali dargah, perched on a mini islet in the midst of the sea. He sighed, 'Praise the Lord!'

Thanks to the citric shock of the juice and the cheesy bread soaking up the alcohol inside him, Virkar started to come back to his senses. Moses burped, and handed back the Bullet's keys to Virkar. Leaning against the parapet, he picked at the small bits of cheese and bread lodged between his tobacco-stained teeth. 'So, Ramya, how's your police career shaping up?' He asked.

'What career? I got suspended from my job today,' slurred Virkar.

Moses looked at him, surprised. 'But I'd heard you were doing well?'

Virkar continued blubbering, 'That was in Gadchiroli. Here, in Mumbai, I, the son of a fisherman, have become a small fish myself and now, this fish has been eaten up by the system.'

Moses steadied Virkar, who was rocking on his feet. 'Ramya, what happened? Tell me?'

'I had just been appointed acting in-charge of my police station. My lucky break, I thought. Then I sent two plain clothes men from my police station to arrest someone after we received an urgent tip, but the man they arrested was killed on the way. Someone had to be the scapegoat. It turned out that I hadn't done the necessary paperwork before I sent my men. So here I am, suspended, pending an inquiry.'

Moses looked philosophical. 'Sometimes, when the Lord closes one door on us, he opens another one.'

Virkar's addled thoughts went back to the time when Moses was a fisherman, famous in the Colaba Machhimar colony as the man who could bring in a good catch even during the monsoon months. This reputation, along with his devil-may-care attitude, led to his undoing one rainy day, when the boat that Moses had sailed out on capsized. It was Virkar's father's boat, and Moses had been forewarned not to sail. The boat sank off the Mumbai shores. Luckily, Moses was rescued by a passing merchant ship. Virkar's father, however, lost his source of livelihood that day, even as Moses saw his rescue as a miracle and rediscovered Jesus. He decided to give up fishing and start a new life. Through a friend's connections, he joined the stables at the race course and metamorphosed into Moses, the syces. But Virkar's father never forgave Moses for taking out the boat without his permission, and did not say a word to him till his dying day.

Virkar, by now more clear-headed, said, 'Uncle Moses, I want to know if you can tell me anything about an animal drug called Tributame?'

Moses looked at him in surprise, 'Tribhoot, we call it Tribhoot, but how do you know about it?'

Virkar perked up at this. 'It was used to kill a man. I want to find out who did it.'

Moses' face grew serious. 'Who was the man...the one who was killed?'

Virkar replied, 'A famous doctor, the dean of Johnson Medical College'.

'Johnson Medical...dean...isn't he the man involved in the kidney racket?' enquired Moses. Virkar nodded. Moses's face grew dark and thoughtful.

Virkar studied the old man's face. When Moses didn't speak for a long time, Virkar prodded him. 'What happened, Uncle?'

Moses's voice was laden with mixed emotions. 'I think...I know who might be involved.'

'Who?' Virkar exclaimed.

Moses continued in a grave tone. 'There was a man, a syce. Well, actually, he was a trainer who was unfortunate with the races, and became a syce like me.'

'But what is the connection?'

'His son was a student in Johnson Medical College.'

'Where is this syce now?'

Moses shook his head. 'He died five years back'.

Virkar was about to lose interest, till he heard the rest of Moses's sentence

'The syce died of kidney failure.'

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A black stray dog scurried through the small compound of Cursetjee Castle. The dog's nose twitched in the direction of the stairs. The nape of its neck was taut with tension as it bounded into the stairwell. A low whimper escaped its mouth at the sight of broken bone china and its eyes finally spotted what it had been so aroused by—a small congealed puddle of blood. The blood, mixed with shards of bone china, was spread in a lazy circle on the ground, soaking into the old stone tile. The dog nosed his way into this bloody splash, questioning its presence. A loud howl of confusion escaped its throat.

Upstairs, in the living room of Porus's apartment, Athavle sputtered to consciousness hearing the howl. His eyes opened and glazed over, confused at his situation. Porus, taking this opportunity to revive him fully, poured a saucepan full of water on his face.

Satisfied with his work, Porus went back to the settee and sat down. He began to chew on a fresh stick of gum while he waited for Athavle to gain a little more focus. He shot out a stream of questions as he began his interrogation: 'How many kidneys did you trade? How many people did you cheat? How many lives did you and Dr Jetha ruin?'

Athavle grimaced, still in pain.

'It was just a business...' he said after several minutes.

'Bastard! You took people's body parts and sold them. Is that what you call a business?' Porus shouted.

Athavle's face was a mask. 'Yes, it was just a business, a normal, everyday Indian "cheating" business. Like cheating on government contracts for making roads, taking bribes at a police station, overcharging on real estate, overcharging at hospitals, as in your case...just plain, simple cheating. We were just innovative in our approach. Nothing else.'

Porus went into one of the rooms and emerged with a small tape-based Dictaphone. He tested it for clarity, then rolled the tape back to the start mark. All this time, Athavle eyed him with a dark expression.

Porus thrust the Dictaphone near Athavle's face. He pressed the record button and barked, 'Now please repeat what you just told me'. Athavle shook his head and smiled. A smile that dripped pure slime.

Porus flashed him a good-natured smile in return. 'I have been quite naive in my judgment of you. However, I am also equipped with enough intelligence to remedy it'.

Porus kept the Dictaphone on the settee and walked back into his room. He came out with a syringe full of a golden-hued liquid.

Athavle had been watching him with growing fear. When Porus tapped the needle and pressed the plunger to squirt a couple of test drops, Athavle couldn't take it any more. He screamed, 'Don't kill me...don't kill me!'

Porus smiled. 'It's interesting how your manner has changed so quickly...people are always scared of injections' He walked towards Athavle, bearing the syringe in his hand.

Athavle pleaded. 'Please, I don't want to die.'

This time, Porus gave a dry laugh. 'Don't worry, Mr Athavle, this is just Scopolamine, the long-forgotten truth serum. Did you know it was the favourite drug of the KGB? It is, in fact, the original narco-analysis drug.'

Athavle screamed. Porus spoke in his soothing doctor's manner. 'Oh, don't worry, it will just put you into a state known as "twilight sleep", helping you to confess everything, even the naughty pranks you played as a little boy! The best part is that you will remember nothing after you regain consciousness, as this friendly drug has the added quality of blocking out recent events'

In one jerk, Porus tore off Athavle's left shirtsleeve. Athavle tried to shake him away, but Porus held his arm down, looking for a vein. He quickly plunged the syringe into the vein and injected the serum. Then he walked back to the settee and turned the Dictaphone on. He pulled a chair close to Athavle and sat down. Athavle was already going into a trance-like state. Porus slapped his cheeks lightly to gain his attention. 'Now, Mr Athavle, please tell me all you know about the kidney racket,' he said.

All of a sudden, Athavle's eyes rolled back in his head. A spurt of blood escaped his nostrils and spattered onto the Dictaphone. Porus was surprised. He laid the Dictaphone on to the ground and pushed up Athavle's rapidly flickering eyelids. Athavle's body was shaking. Porus quickly checked Athalve's heartbeat; it was racing. He got up and ran back into the inner room, took out a bottle from his drug cabinet, and ran back into the living room. He picked up the syringe and quickly drew up some liquid from the new bottle, but by the time he reached Athavle, the man had lost consciousness. Porus checked for a pulse. Finding none, he let go of Athalve's hand. A mixture of disappointment and regret appeared on his face. He stared at the lifeless Athavle and let out a sigh. 'What I neglected to tell you, Mr Athavle, is that, in one case out of a hundred, Scopolamine induces massive cardiac arrest.'

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A bespectacled man with a heavy moustache was sitting at his table, his manner aggressive, as he spoke to a thin, earnest-sounding young boy. The man said, 'How dare you suggest such a thing?'

The boy pleaded, 'Sir, please, my entire future depends on these two marks, if you could, sir, just please help me, sir.'

The man was incensed. 'You people think that you can bring your sob stories to your professors and they will give you the marks, just like that. You are lucky that I'm not taking your case to the Board authorities, otherwise you will be rusticated and marked zero, forget the two extra marks'

The young boy started crying. 'Sir, please, my father is a poor fisherman, all he wants is that I should go to an engineering college. I studied really hard, sir, but I also have to help him in his work, sir, I am helping support our family, sir, I am just two marks short of the percentage needed for getting into an engineering college. Please help me, sir, it will not make any difference to you, but my family position will change, sir.'

The man shouted, 'You cheater! Get out of my room, or I will report you to the police.'

Virkar woke up with a start. Dryness tickled his throat as his glazed eyes instinctively began to focus on the cheap plastic wall clock. It was 3 a.m. He had slept for three hours straight after coming home from his evening with Moses. By now, the effect of the alcohol had worn off. But he felt drained even while lying on his bed. Moses's words went through his mind again. The heart-wrenching story of Udwadia, the syce, and his ambitions for his son Porus had touched a raw nerve. There could be no other explanation for the sudden, vivid resurgence of his long-forgotten memory. He wanted to get up, wash the sweat off his body and, hopefully, the memory off his mind. But he realized that he would have to go through the entire painful process till the memory washed itself away. There was no escape.

Two days after his meeting with the professor, Virkar's father had returned from a fishing expedition with his usual meagre catch. At home, all his father could do was complain, complain, and complain about how the mechanized trawlers were clearing out the oceans, leaving nothing for his poor dhow. Virkar's mother, as usual, had tried to focus on the bright side of things. She had applied the salve of the young Virkar's impending engineering degree as the way out of troubled waters. His father had perked up and the joy on his face had chilled young Virkar's heart. His father had looked at him and proudly proclaimed, 'Ramesh Ramdeo Virkar, the first engineer from Colaba Machhimaar colony. My biggest catch!'

Standing in front of the engineering college gates, anger was the only emotion that had embraced him. The warmth of that embrace set his heart on fire.

His mind had been burning, too, as he walked through the narrow gullies of Colaba Machhimaar colony later. Vengeance was what young Virkar had demanded. Vengeance was the only way to douse the fire.

Three months later, while standing at a bus stop near the Regal Cinema, the mustachioed professor had been beaten up by three street youth, over a senseless argument about taking up too much space at the crowded bus stop. The professor had sustained a hairline crack in the skull and had spent the better part of six months in a hospital. The three youth were never caught. No one ever got to know that they were a certain Ramesh Ramdeo Virkar's cousins from far-off Versova.

Virkar was restless as the memory filled him with shame. He walked to the tiny washbasin in the corner of the tenement and turned on the tap. The gentle trickle of water was soothing. He splashed some water on his face. Feeling slightly better, he glanced at the cheap plastic wall clock again. 3.15 a.m.

Virkar reached out for his pant and shirt that were hanging from a hook in the wall. He exited his tenement and walked into the narrow streets of Bhoiwada that were, at this time of the morning, devoid of their usual hustle and bustle.

Virkar's mind went over the directions given by Moses. The directions that he hoped would lead him to the man he had been hunting.

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4 a.m. on a Mumbai morning is the darkest, quietest time anyone can imagine in this bustling city. It is said that at this time even burglars rest in the city that pretends never to sleep. Only a rare car passes through local neighbourhood streets. Otherwise, the streets in most neighbourhoods are uninhabited, except for a stray dog or two.