Day Two

The airport encounter made the newspapers the next day, and there was a color photograph depicting the body lying in the pouring rain with a plane taking off into the clouds overhead. It was a dramatic shot. Some footage made it on the nightly television news as well. Importantly, Karan was named as the alleged “rogue officer” who, it was claimed, had taken out the wrong person in a botched encounter. The long rap sheet of the “victim” wasn’t mentioned. All of Mumbai instead saw a file photograph of Karan in uniform. He looked young and dashing, belying the picture that had been painted of him. To those in the force it was obvious who had instigated this.

Immediately after the incident, Tiwari started working the phones and raised hell. When nothing happened he called on Parthasarathy, asking for immediate action against Karan. He wanted a joint meeting ASAP. with Ranvir to demand an explanation and perhaps some blood. “We cannot set a precedent by doing nothing,” he kept repeating. “This is not a mistake. It is rank insubordination.” For once Ranvir was quiet when spoken to.

Parthasarathy knew this thing would not die down easily because the gangs would go after Tiwari. This was a breach of trust, and in the khabari business it was a serious offense. Anticipating trouble, Tiwari had tried to deflect blame and had gone ahead and released some details to the press. But he needed an official response from Partha.

Where was Karan?

* * *

That night you harbored guilt. (Evam told you that this was natural.) You walked the streets holding a collapsible umbrella, you wandered into flooded alleys, and you whiled away time sitting in small Udipi establishments run by the Shetty clan, drinking strong South Indian coffee. You were hungry. You went to the Madras Café in Dadar TT, taking your time to finish a plate of idlis and a huge family-size dosa that you had to fold into thirds. You were tired and wet and miserable but you could not rest. You rode trains aimlessly for a few hours till the services began to dwindle. You wished you could go home quietly, wash your feet, and creep into your bed. You kept your phone switched off.

You were scared. (Evam told you that this was natural too.) You had no idea why you were scared. You had done something wrong. But it wasn’t that simple. If it was that simple you would have been fine after a while. You had done what you thought was right and you did it without thinking. Your second nature was not what you thought it was. You were human, not just a killing machine that followed orders blindly. You should feel relieved to know that. But you were scared.

You wished to know what Ranvir Pratap thought about what you had done. He is your umbilical cord, said Evam. Now you knew why you were scared.

You wanted to call him but you waited. For once in your life you thought, He should call me. But he didn’t. Why? Why, Ranvir Pratap, mentor of good men, why this silence? What would you have done in my place, sir? You have trained me and trained me well, so well that people do not believe someone like me can be normal so they dig into my past, into my every gesture, wanting to make me out to be some kind of aberration.

Will Nandini understand if you say, Yes, I did shoot, I killed a man but I let another one go. There is a man alive because of me. Will she see this the way you do?

This morning you awoke in an empty compartment of a train parked in the depot. You switched on your phone but kept it on silent. You watched it flash every now and then. Desai was calling relentlessly. He, this man you have never met, would likely end up at your house very soon.

Finally you answered his call and he sputtered for a while. You could hear some noises in the background, the hum of a familiar air conditioner. He wasn’t alone—he was probably with Ranvir, the mole with the master.

“You got the wrong guy!” shouted Desai.

You looked at your hands while you lied. You were mechanical in your pretense. It was easy as long as you did not think.

“You want me to believe you made a mistake?” shouted Desai. “You were supposed to shoot the decoy, damnit, not the real Abbas.”

You asked him something and he shouted some more. “How does it matter who the decoy was? What do you mean was he also a killer?”

But it mattered to you who you shot. You had realized that yesterday. You could not pull the trigger on a man who you had not studied, whose résumé you had not assimilated. You had to know that your quarry deserved your attention.

“You were given an order, Karan.”

You nodded, but they couldn’t see how you were torn like never before. Then you did another thing that your training taught you not to do: you spoke.

“Dans ce pays-ci, il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pour encourager les autres.”

“Karan, are you hallucinating? What are you saying? It sounds like garbage.”

You translated for him: “Desai, it’s strange how it’s good that from time to time someone dies so others don’t.”

* * *

Parthasarathy and Ranvir met in the morning and argued for a while. They had to handle Tiwari and calm him down. And they had to make an assessment of Karan. This could have been an error—after all, there was little time, it was raining, and he had to take a shot in a narrow window. But this was Karan. Both were disturbed. Should they have informed Karan in advance? Were they wrong in presuming that a police officer would follow orders and knowingly kill someone he didn’t know anything about, who would be simply collateral damage, and at the same time allow a known offender to escape? If he felt such a thing as a conscience Karan could have shot at the decoy and missed. But why did he have to kill Abbas? It was hard for Partha to comprehend.

“Karan never misses,” said Ranvir. “It’s the only part of his résumé that’s still intact.”

“I believe he is now AWOL?”

Ranvir nodded, looking disappointed. In his books, Away Without Official Leave was desertion. This was the second cardinal error that Karan was making. He should have reported back after the assignment.

Ranvir had called Evam at the crack of dawn, seeking an explanation.

“He probably expects you to call him, Mr. Ranvir. He wants you to speak to him,” Evam said, trying to figure out why Karan was on the run.

“And what about his actions yesterday?” Ranvir’s tone was accusatory.

Evam tried to provide some sort of explanation: “Aspies have a very strong sense of what is right and what is wrong. For them it is black-and-white, with no shades of gray. They cannot compromise in these matters and they don’t respond well to half-measures. So I am not surprised that Karan chose not to shoot the decoy. Personally, I think that was . . . Actually, let’s leave aside what I think.”

“But what’s shocking is that he then chose to shoot Abbas,” replied Ranvir. “How do you explain that?”

Even Evam didn’t have a satisfactory answer for this. A man who was trained to hunt spends stressful hours building the justification to track a target, chase the target successfully around the city, and in the final flush of the dance, at the very moment when he is to pull the trigger, he is told to “let him go” when he knows the rotten bastard will get away for no good reason. But could that man be excused for . . . It was hard to explain.

“In such situations of extreme stress, Aspies are affected more than others,” said Evam lamely.

“That’s great,” replied Ranvir. “So what will our Aspie do next?”

This was beginning to look like a true “rogue officer” situation, a nightmare scenario that the police dreaded.

* * *

Despite the strained circumstances, Nandini decides to go ahead with a group visit that she had committed to months earlier. A large Volvo bus arrives at the chawl, eats up a lot of space, and causes a traffic jam. The chawl has dressed up for the occasion, lights strung on trees and balconies in place of the usual clotheslines.

“We eat whatever we can pronounce,” says the superintendent of the chawl to the group of tourists that Nandini has brought with her. “It’s that simple. If we can’t pronounce it then we don’t serve it. In the posh neighborhood of nearby Breach Candy they love Italian cuisine, and in the upmarket Warden Road they adore French dishes. I cannot order those things. I only know how to order simple things like kozhi or kombdi wade or kalya watanyachi ussal.”

“The chawl is the beating heart of the city,” says Nandini. “Which is why my husband and I decided to live here and not in the police quarters.”

The group listens intently and smiles. Others from the chawl in the reception party are eager to have their say, and they speak to the visitors in turn:

“We listen to music that we can sing: three easy notes set to a repetitive beat, a nice chorus that we can shout out loud, and songs that everybody in the vicinity can recognize and join in. People say it’s boring but for us it’s a community thing. We do not attend concerts in Rang Bhavan, we cannot afford the Zubin Mehta performance, for example, and nobody here has mourned the decline of jazz in Mumbai.”

“We decorate our houses with what we can make ourselves. Anything handmade, preferably by a family member; like cushion covers that are embroidered with brightly colored flowers, or curtains that are patchwork from older clothes, and watercolors painted by wives that show women from Rajasthan with pots on their heads.”

“The city will never admit that the chawl has more character and local flavor than the skyscrapers.” This statement gets a small cheer.

“The Parel chawl is in a mill area, a place that saw real industry that made real products. Now all these fancy buildings have white-collar workers who do not know how to do an honest day’s work. They come in fancy cars, these young kids, and they cannot even change a lightbulb.”

“Some of us took to drink and others snorted things. Why? No idea. Why not? Maybe because that allowed us to sleep well. No, we are not cynical, but we become a little defeated after we hit forty. At fifty we are looking at our children and counting the ways in which they are different from us. That gives us hope.”

Nandini walks back with the group as they board their bus. “I’d even be happy to raise a child in this atmosphere,” she tells them. “There is glitz, there is charade, there is glitter, and there is sham—it all coexists, and it’s messy, like life. Did you see the kitsch inside each home? Have you witnessed anything like it before?”

The leader of the group speaks to her quietly. “Actually, one of the highlights of this visit was supposed to be meeting your husband. I promised them they would meet an encounter specialist. So sad he was away. I hope he wasn’t on another macabre assignment.”

Nandini laughs. That is all she can do. She has no idea where Karan is. Her calls went straight to voice mail. She visited all their haunts last night, hiring a taxi and spending hours searching places she thought he might be. She was initially calm, very calm. She was sure she would find him. But when she didn’t, it began to hit her hard. She called Ranvir and he sounded worried. That wasn’t a good sign.

“He’ll get in touch with Munna and Tapas,” he told her. “I am sure he will.”

“What exactly happened yesterday?” she asked him. “Could you please tell me the truth?”

He told her exactly what happened and she listened quietly.

“Mr. Pratap,” she replied when he was finished, “I have never supported what my husband does and he knows it. But after last evening, whatever he did, I am proud.”

Ranvir didn’t reply. He himself was conflicted for once. He needed time to sort out this messy affair in his mind. If only this bloody Tiwari would cool off for a bit.

* * *

The second day passes by slowly. You have found a hideout and you drop off to sleep for a while in the afternoon. Nandini comes to you in your dreams.

“Karan.”

She is standing behind the door. You have shut your eyes. You can do this. In your right hand you hold a gun. Your left hand reaches for the door latch.

“Karan!”

Squeeze the latch, slowly but surely. Take aim two inches above that perfect mouth. Say her name as you do it. She will widen her eyes.

“Karan!!”

The door squeaks as it opens slowly. You open your eyes. She stands framed, beautiful as ever. You squeeze the trigger and hear a dull click.

“Very funny,” she says as she peeps into the dark room. “You have a call from a man called Evam.”

She shoves a phone into your left hand and leaves. The door shuts and an unknown number glows in the dark.

“Hello?” you say.

“Where were you yesterday, Karan?” asks Evam.

You trace your face with your fingers. “Dr. Madness,” you whisper.

He laughs. “Man with a gun. Can we meet?”

The simple question vexes you and you hesitate. “Can’t we just talk on the phone?” You suspect everyone right now.

“No, it is better we meet.”

“Fine,” you reply.

“Good,” he says, and he hangs up. Why did he even call? Perhaps they were tracing your location. You don’t care because your movements were quick and obscure. You could lead sniffing dogs to their death.

You dream of lunch at home as your mind wanders. You have lost your sense of taste. You laugh a lot at the table. Your wife stares at you, wondering, wanting to join in.

“Karan!”

Your hand holds a fork and your plate is empty. You drop it and take a deep breath and the smell of agarbattis makes you sneeze. You turn to look at the shrine in the corner. There are fresh flowers. She has prayed.

“Karan, about yesterday.” She looks at you and you brace yourself. “Was he a bad man?” This unfailing question is the arbiter of reason in your marriage. Your answer is the glue.

You don’t have to force yourself to nod. She sighs. For once you had made a decision she would have been proud of. Shouldn’t you tell her who this dead fellow was? You will yourself to stop justifying what you have done. Your boss Ranvir Pratap must have gotten the message—you still need a good reason to kill.

* * *

The third day is difficult because you are tired and yet you have to be constantly on the move. Your movement has been random thus far but you realize there is a pattern setting in. Someone will inevitably pick up your scent in the next day or two. Every mind is trained, Ranvir would tell the team. Thought has a pattern, a signature, and a trace, he would say.

Your phone is giving you trouble. You keep it switched off but you are so restless, wanting to get in touch with Nandini, Tapas, Munna, Ranvir, Evam, your stillborn daughter. You start convincing yourself they cannot get to you and that you are finally anonymous, a true Mumbaikar at last. And so you go back to sleep.

* * *

You join a group that is out on a nighttime Heritage Walk led by Nandini. Walking after dark with a professional like Nandini is a different experience.

“My friend asked me if I was the type that is constantly outraged. She said she meets people who are always expressing their dismay about the city.”

“Does it come with age?” someone asks.

“I guess so.” She stops suddenly and laughs at something. “Stand still. Look.”

There are two street dogs and they are both interested in each other. The places they sniff make you want to gag.

“Drag your eyes away from Animal Planet. Look back here. Tell me, what do you see?” She points to a shadowless spot. Is that a trick? You look to the source of light, a single street lamp above.

“It is quite late,” someone says. “And this street has people milling about.”

“What people? I don’t see anybody.”

The hair on the nape of your neck stirs for some reason. Damn, the road is deserted, the sidewalk bare, and the sky? No clouds, no breeze, and no personality. This could be a film set.

“You are making faces, did you know that?” she says, placing her hand upon yours, acknowledging you for the first time.

You rub your hands on your thighs. A car is coming around the bend, preceded by its lights.

“We should get out of the middle of the road. Now. Why don’t you step aside?”

She jumps up onto the sidewalk. The lights swerve and travel across the wall, straightening into your face. Blinding beams, white light that dances and makes colored circles in your retina. Then it’s gone. You catch the tail end of the light. The car has a police license plate.

She rubs her eyes. “Are you there? I can’t see.”

“Still standing.”

“You didn’t even try to come to me. What’s wrong with you?”

You had been dreaming of mountains, grasslands, flowing water, and a weak sun; it feels like the onset of winter. You are rubbing your hands again.

“Karan, walk with me.”

“Do we have to hold hands?”

“Just for a while.”

“Nandini?”

“Yes.”

“How did I end up like this?”

* * *

You wake up now, rubbing your eyes. It’s still Day Three. You switch your phone on briefly and you receive a message in code. It’s from Lookout. We must meet in person. He mentions a place in Gorai Beach, an unmarked shack that you know. You set off in a roundabout way. It will take you two hours to get there.

On the train you have an out-of-body experience. One part of you exits the crowded compartment and clambers onto the roof, catches the overpass railing below the Dadar bridge, vaults onto the road, and goes home. Someone stamps your foot with a heel for dreaming and not moving. You look him in the eye till he turns to stone.

At the shack you lose it, you completely fucking lose it when you see Lookout and Different. The two of them are there having taken a dare, having flouted every written rule to meet you. There is no holding back. All the months you have spent together with these two you hardly spoke, never had a drink, a chat, or a night out. And yet it didn’t matter. You could feel what you never felt before and perhaps they did too because you actually hugged each other. It was awkward. They wouldn’t let go for a while. Who was to say that you were Aspies? You were happy to stand there looking—not at each other, but just looking around. Occasionally you smiled, laughed, or shared a cigarette. It was a strange constellation in the dark on the beach with wind and sand, salt and sea, and perhaps some ghosts you had set free. Nobody was there to take anything away from you at this moment. Tapas had brought what you liked—red meat, tenderized, cooked medium. Munna had a bottle of spirits that had no label, fittingly. You sat down, the three of you, threw your heads back, and drank from the bottle till the last drop. Someone shouted later that night, someone sang, and a dog or two came by to check your litter and settle in the wet sand.