Mumbaistan (18 page)

Finally, under Dr Bhonsale's reluctant orders, the man was quietly moved to a small room at the back of the hospital, and assigned a special nurse and doctor to care for him. This, though, was not before Dr Bhonsale made Madhukar swear in front of all the deities in their pooja room that should the man come out of his coma, Madhukar would confess all to the police.

Fifteen years had passed since. Dr Bhonsale had died, but Coma Man had just been lying there, breathing, but otherwise as good as dead. Many a times, Madhukar had wanted to pull the plug on the man, but was bound by the word he had given to his dead father, in front of God. Madhukar prayed that the man would die on his own, putting an end to the story, but Coma Man continued to cling defiantly to his vegetative existence.

Over the years, the doctors had predicted that he would never recover. Then, one day, eight weeks ago, Coma Man had twitched a finger just a fraction, almost giving a heart attack to the doctor on duty. Over a three-day 'awakening period', he had started coming out of his coma. Over the next few weeks, Coma Man had slowly also regained his motor functions. The doctors were clueless as to how this had happened. Using brain imaging, they built a hypothesis that Coma Man's brain had reconnected the neurons which had remained intact, and formed new connections to circumvent the damaged areas. The new connections seemed to have grown around the back of the brain, forming structures that do not normally exist in human brains. Soon, Coma Man had gained the ability to control some parts of his body. The doctors had believed that Coma Man might regain consciousness, but his speech and memory functions would remain incapacitated. Obviously, they were wrong. Coma Man had not only spoken to his nurse, he had remembered his name, and his wife's birthday, too.

And now, he had vanished, turning Madhukar's world upside down. Madhukar shuddered, wondering what the man would remember about that fateful January night of 1993.

With utmost reluctance, he decided fulfill his promise to his late father.

◉

'Samir Khanna...his name is Samir Khanna,' the still-slightly-inebriated Madhukar said into the phone.

'Yes...yes, I understood his name, but what crime has he committed?' asked Sub-Inspector Tirke at the CBD Belapur police station.

'I told you...he has left the hospital!'

'Was he a patient there or an employee?'

'Well...he was a patient.'

'So, if a patient leaves, what is the problem?' Tirke snapped.

'He...he was not an ordinary patient...he was involved in an accident.'

'Oh, it's an accident case... Accha...where was the accident?' Tirke cleaned his ear with his little finger.

'On the highway near Panvel... I...'

'Panvel...then you have to call Panvel police station, na. This is not in our jurisdiction.'

'Look. Let me explain again...the accident took place nineteen years ago—'

'So what? See, baba, if the accident was in Panvel...you call Panvel.' Tirke dragged his words, as if speaking to a child.

'But he was getting treated here, in Navi Mumbai.' Madhukar's voice rose a decibel.

'So? Did any accident take place here? Any crime?'

'Well, I didn't tell anyone about the accident. And now he's gone...' Madhukar sank into his sofa and sighed.

'Has he recovered?' Tirke asked.

'Hmmm...yes...and no.'

'If he has left the hospital on his own, that means he has recovered. Boss, you are lucky.'

'I guess I am... But I still want to register the accident...'

'Look, if you want to register an accident that took place nineteen years ago, go ahead and waste the time of the Panvel police station. I have bigger cases pending.'

Hearing the phone click at the other end, Madhukar flinched. 'Idiot,' he muttered.

At the police station, Tirke was about to go back to his chai when he heard the familiar booming voice from the inner office: 'Tirke!'

He cursed under his breath, took a quick sip of his chai and hurried inside.

Senior Inspector Pandian was having his customary morning bun-maska and chai. 'How many times have I told you, Tirke, this is not Dharavi. This is a posh area. Here, you have to be polite to the callers. All these people are well connected.'

Tirke bit his tongue, making a 'please-excuse-me' face. 'Sorry, saheb. This man was drunk and wasting my time. He was making a complaint about an accident that took place nineteen years ago.' Tirke started guffawing as he pulled up a chair and sat down with his boss.

Senior Inspector Pandian joined in his junior's mirth.

'Who was the victim?' asked Pandian.

'Someone called Samir Khanna.'

'Samir...Khanna...did you say?' Pandian grew pensive.

'Why? Does the name sound familiar?' asked Tirke.

'But why was this man calling now?' Pandian asked in turn.

'Because this victim—this Samir Khanna—has suddenly left Bhonsale Hospital.'

Pandian nodded, still thoughtful. His fingers drummed the table.

Tirke continued, 'Arre, I kept asking him, if the victim has left on his own, if the victim is not making a complaint, what is your problem? You are lucky!' He laughed again.

Pandian merely smiled.

'Okay, Pandian saheb, I'm going back to duty. Hope I don't get any more such cases' He let loose a last rumble of laughter as he left.

A serious expression settled on Pandian's face.

He dialled a number.

◉

Raghu Nadar, the young and dynamic municipal councillor from Vashi, Navi Mumbai, was sitting in his office, shell-shocked.

He had just got a call from Senior Inspector Pandian of the Kharghar police station. Pandian was a man from his Tamil Nadar community and a family friend.

As always, Raghu had started his day early. He was in his office to meet the constituents of his ward, who trooped in everyday to discuss their civic problems. 'The door of Raghu Nadar's office is always open was what was said about him. Today, too, there was a long line of people outside his office. In fact, the throng was bigger today and everybody seemed to be in a celebratory mood.

Raghu got up and walked up to his office door.

Much to the surprise of his staff, supporters and constituents, he closed the door on them for the first time. He wanted privacy.

Alone, Raghu sat down at his table and took a deep breath. Today was the defining day of his life—a day that he had been awaiting since the death of his father, when he was a child. A day that would lift him out of the lower-middle-class morass that he had been clawing at throughout his short life, and catapult him into the big league.

After arriving in the newly-formed suburb of Navi Mumbai one fine day as a fatherless eight-year-old with only an illiterate mother as a caregiver, Raghu had motivated himself and risen to the challenges of adjusting to a new life and a new community. Right from his schooldays, he had charmed his way into peoples hearts through his tireless acts of social service. Ever-ready to do a favour for a person in need, Raghu had gained the respect and adulation, first of the people of his neighbourhood and then of those in his municipal ward, who had urged him to contest the municipal elections as an independent candidate. Raghu had won by a thumping majority, reflecting the people's faith in his abilities to get the job done. Indeed, he was not a man who did things in half-measures. And he was not afraid to show his ambitions to the world. Even his worst critic admired his doggedness. And it was this perseverance that had caught the attention of the ruling party. Although he had been an independent councillor for the past three years, during the last six months, he had been wooed by the ruling party to join forces with them. The canny Raghu had hammered out a dream deal.

Today, Raghu would be welcomed personally into the ruling party by the party president, who was flying in from Delhi to address the public and party volunteers at a large gathering in Mumbai's Azad Maidan. With this formal induction, the party president would declare Raghu Nadar the official ruling party candidate for the Vashi assembly seat.

The Vashi seat was a stronghold of the ruling party, but had fallen empty recently, due to the death of the three-time sitting MLA. The party now wanted to field only candidates with clean records, especially in urban areas. It was unfortunate, however, that every other potential candidate had a tainted past, automatically disqualifying them in the eyes of the party high command. None of the party's junior workers matched the dynamism and clean image of the independent people's choice—Corporator Raghu Nadar. So, he became the right choice for the party, which was also seeking to expand its base at the grassroots. In fact, Raghu had also wangled a nod for a junior minister's berth after his sure-shot victory.

Raghu looked at a framed photograph hanging on the wall with a fresh garland hanging across it. The stern-faced, dark-complexioned man in the photograph bore a striking resemblance to him.

He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a large file and started leafing through it urgently, till he spotted a newspaper cutting. It was a report about the Fortune Leather Factory fire incident that had transpired during the bloody 1993 Mumbai riots. Raghu scrutinized the photos of the victims printed on the page. The first photograph was that of Samir Khanna, taken in his younger days.

The news report stated that eight Muslim workers had been killed at the Fortune Leather Factory in Dharavi by a mob of Hindus. Their bodies had been found charred beyond recognition. Samir Khanna, the owner of Fortune Leather Factory, had tried to save them, but had got trapped under a fallen beam and had himself been charred to death. The mastermind behind the attack was said to be one N. Selvaraj, the factory in-charge. According to the report, Selvaraj had incited a mob of Hindus against his Muslim co-workers and fled the place, fearing police action against him. He was never traced, despite the police's best efforts. At the bottom of the report was a photograph of Selvaraj. The same one that hung on Raghu Nadar's wall.

Raghu was thoughtful. He dialled a number on his mobile. At the other end, his mother picked up.

'How are you, Amma?' asked Raghu softly.

'Raghu.. .what is wrong?'

Raghu realized that his mother had caught his mood. He tried to cover up. 'Nothing really, Amma, I was just remembering Appa,'

His mother's eyes grew moist. 'I think of him everyday and pray that he will come back to me. If only I knew what had happened to him that night...' Then she steadied her voice. 'But what am I saying? Let it go, Raghu. Every time you think of your father, you have an emotional breakdown. I can't see you go through that pain again.'

'Amma, that was when I was a boy,' Raghu replied in a placating manner. 'I have grown up now. I can control my emotions'

His mother smiled to herself. 'You will always remain a little boy when it comes to this.'

Raghu inhaled and pulled himself up on his seat. Amma, please give me your blessings'

'You always have my blessings. But is something the matter? I can hear a restlessness in your voice...'

'Nothing, Amma. Okay, I have to go now. I will call later.'

'Please be careful,' were his mother's parting words as Raghu put down the phone. He shook his head and thought, Mothers! How do they always know?

Raghu's mother, although illiterate, possessed a native intelligence so sharp, she had figured out Raghu's restlessness during his early college days. Unfortunately, her actions, that rose out of an instinct to protect him, had backfired. She had sent him to his native village in Sirumalai, Tamil Nadu, to visit his ailing grandfather, hoping that the old man would have a calming effect on him. Instead, to her horror, Raghu had disappeared from his grandfather's home. She had looked for him high and low, but there was no sign of him, only rumours that he had teamed up with a group of youngsters who wanted to join the war for Tamil Eelam in Sri Lanka. A year later, Raghu had returned to Navi Mumbai out of the blue and resumed his college studies as if nothing had happened. The restlessness was gone and he seemed totally calm and in control. He had never spoken about his whereabouts during the previous year. His mother, who had just been thankful that he had returned, chose never to question him, and referred to that period in his life only obliquely. But Raghu always felt that she knew each and every dark deed of his.

Raghu took another deep breath. He took out a key from his pocket and went into an inner room. He opened a small Godrej safe and took out an iron box. He ran his fingers over a cloth-wrapped package. Then he unwrapped it and took out an Austrian-made 9mm Mini Glock pistol.

Raghu loaded the pistol.

◉

Samir Khanna's legs supported him well as he made his way round the back of the Bhonsale Medical Trust Hospital. He could feel a dull throb of pain in his limbs sometimes, but a swirling energy flow resonating from his brain to the rest of his body, kept him surging forward.

His luck had been good, as he weaved through a small dirty gully that opened into the large ground of an adjoining yoga centre. Among the yoga enthusiasts, his white pajama and shirt went unnoticed. He avoided all eye contact and instinctively walked westwards. He entered a large maidan, where the first groups of morning exercisers were flexing their muscles. A couple of them looked curiously at the barefoot Samir. Then they got on with their routine, assuming him to be one of those who followed his own quirky exercise regimen.

At the western end of the maidan, Samir came across a small, almost deserted road. He crossed it and entered a school ground. Because of the school holidays, the playground was empty at that morning hour. He then made his way through the grounds to the Sion-Panvel Highway that bordered the school on the west.

He stumbled for the first time as he stood by the highway. Not because his legs gave way under him, but because he was struck dumb by the number of cars whizzing past him at an alarming speed.

As the morning traffic screamed its way into his ears, he felt disoriented. It was as if the ambient noise levels had risen by many quantum decibels in the past nineteen years. Voices seemed to be louder, cars seemed to be noisier and tempers seemed to be shorter as he stood surveying the sputter and flow of the vehicles in front of him.