A Cut-Like Wound (11 page)

Right now, all that the room held was a chair and a table with a sea of phones on it. None of the phones except the black and red ones worked. The rest were mute witnesses to the corporator’s dealings. The office room too had its private staircase so that people could come and go without entering the main house.

He saw the man’s eyes fix on Tiger.

The corporator reached across and stroked Tiger’s head. The dog turned its head and licked his fingers. The man’s eyes almost popped out as the corporator hefted the gold chain around the dog’s neck. A flat chain almost an inch wide.

‘It’s not gold, if that’s what you are thinking. It’s just gold-plated,’ the corporator said.

The man didn’t speak.

The corporator continued to stroke the dog’s head absentmindedly. ‘I am only a corporator. Do you know there are one hundred and ninety-eight wards in Bangalore and I am corporator of only one … So don’t start assuming things about me! You have to realize that I am your representative. A simple man who has simple tastes. A man of the people.’

The corporator’s expression dared the man to contradict him with word or gesture. The man bowed his head and murmured, ‘I know, Anna. Which is why I am here. You are one of us. Only you will be able to help me.’

The corporator had a name but no one called him by it. He was anna. Big brother. The omnipotent, omnipresent ruler of the ward he had claimed for his own. He was anna to his siblings and henchmen. And he was anna to the people who had voted for him and to the supplicants who sought him out with pleading eyes and open palms. What need for a name then?

The corporator tilted his chin at Chikka, who stood by him.

Brother, stooge, voice of the corporator when he was not inclined to speak, Chikka asked, ‘What is your problem?’

The man took a deep breath. ‘I bought a little house in Obaidullah Street, 3rd Cross, off Shivaji Nagar Road. It’s a few streets away from the mosque. Razak has been living there for the last ten years. No one told me this…’

‘Chicken Razak?’

The man nodded. Chikka hissed in annoyance. Tiger scratched himself. The corporator maintained a bland expression. ‘So?’ he asked finally.

‘He refused to vacate when I asked him to. He just laughed in my face. I sank everything I had into the house. The pagadi on the house we live in will expire next month. Where do I take my family when we have to vacate the house we live in now?’

‘Isn’t he in jail?’ Chikka asked.

‘But his frooter lives there.’

‘Who?’ Chikka asked.

‘Liaquat. Calls himself Leila.’

‘If he’s Leila, aren’t you man enough to throw him out?’

‘I can’t do it alone,’ the man said. ‘And no one will go with me. Razak may be in jail but his pals are outside and if Razak is annoyed, they will not spare me or my family.’

The corporator waved his hand lazily in dismissal. The light caught the diamond solitaire on his finger. It pleased him to see that arc of light. He moved his hand again. Enjoy and dismiss. Dismiss and enjoy. Whatever it was, with a toss of the wrist, he could make the world turn.

‘Go now,’ Chikka said, reading his brother’s gesture. ‘Anna will do what he can.’

The man continued to stand.

‘What is it now?’ Chikka asked.

‘When will I be able to get my house back?’

Chikka merely stared at him. The man paled. Then he left quietly.

The corporator stood up. In a few minutes it would be time for him to leave for a visit around his ward. He wondered if he had time for a bath.

‘What are you going to do?’ Chikka asked.

‘I am going to have a bath.’

‘No, what will you do about him?’

‘Is he useful?’

‘He works in the PWD. A lowly clerk, but he may come in useful. There’s no telling…’

‘Then we take care of it,’ the corporator murmured. ‘Our contacts are what brought us here. Where’s King Kong?’

Chikka grimaced, thinking of the ape-like creature who doubled as driver and bodyguard for Anna.

‘He’s washing the car.’

‘He’s going to strip the shine off my new car with all that washing. Bloody monkey!’ the corporator grumbled.

Chikka smiled. ‘He treats the car as if it were his pet … You should have a word with him.’

The corporator stretched. ‘Whatever one may say of him, he is loyal. If I ask him to shoot himself for me, he’ll do it. That’s rare, that kind of unconditional loyalty.’

‘Are you saying I am not loyal enough, Anna?’ Chikka’s face tightened.

‘You are my brother. You are expected to be loyal. But he’s an outsider, an employee … enough of this! Now make a list of what’s happening in my ward. What I should know about when I get there.’

The corporator walked up the staircase. The left wing that stretched three thousand square feet was all his. No one was allowed to enter it unless accompanied by one of the ladies. It was here that the corporator bathed, dressed, slept and plotted the many schemes that made him richer and more powerful by the day. The rest of the house, all two thousand square feet of it, was where everyone else lived. His brother, visiting relatives from Vellore and Ambur in Tamil Nadu, the staff, the ladies. Even Tiger had a room of his own, with a teak bed and a silver water bowl.

Each time the corporator had to don his public face, he felt a little dirty. Tainted by the stench of fear and weakness he was asked to alleviate. It was like climbing into a closed car with an unwashed and drunk driver.

‘Anna,’ Chikka said from the foot of the staircase.

‘What?’

‘We have to leave in half an hour’s time.’

‘Says who?’

‘The meeting is fixed for eleven a.m. The traffic…’

‘Let them wait. I need to bath first.’

‘Yes, Anna,’ Chikka murmured.

The corporator paused and looked down.

‘Chikka,’ he said, ‘tell Akka to send Rupali and Leena up to my room.’

Chikka stood at the foot of the staircase, marvelling yet again at the mind that had conjured up this house. It is a strange house and we are a strange household, he thought as he stepped into the left wing that housed the ladies whenever they came by.

A flurry of voices met him at the door. He winced. He ought to have been used to it by now. But after four years, he still found that simpering note in a male baritone hard to stomach.

‘Akka,’ he called from the doorway.

‘Akka is not here,’ one of them called out.

Chikka stepped into the room.

‘Look who’s here!’ Nalini tittered. ‘Our very own Chikka Master! And what can we do for you?’

Chikka pretended not to hear the mockery flung at him. He was no one’s master and would never be. No one took him seriously. Not even these bloody eunuchs, he thought.

He had been a tiny baby, premature and weak, and so his mother took to calling him her Chikka. The little one. The name stuck. When Chikka stopped growing at five feet, no one gave it much thought. He would have his growth spurt later, everyone said. But Chikka stayed five feet tall. Neither a real dwarf, who might at least have got a government job under the handicapped quota, nor a proper grown man.

Even Anna treated him like a pet rather than a man. ‘My Chikka has more brains in his little finger than all the scientists at IISc,’ Anna said, ruffling Chikka’s hair with
the careless hand he stroked Tiger’s head with. ‘Go on, ask Chikka how much is 1298765.35 x 409878?’

When the health inspector the corporator was talking to blinked uncomprehendingly, the corporator urged, ‘Go on, ask him!’

Obediently the man asked, ‘How much is it?’

And Chikka, who knew what was expected of him, murmured, ‘532335344127.3.’

‘See.’ The corporator gleamed, holding up his mobile to show the answer. ‘He did that in his head in less than three seconds. My Chikka is amazing!’

Chikka felt a quiet rage gather in him. He and Tiger were no different. Tiger shook hands and he did mental math. They were both performing animals.

‘As are you bitches,’ Chikka said under his breath, gazing at the eunuchs.

‘Anna wants Rupali and Leena to go up to him,’ he said in a flat voice.

‘What about me?’ Nalini demanded. ‘It’s my turn today.’

‘No, it’s my turn,’ Meena whined.

‘Listen, I don’t have time for this. You’d better not keep him waiting,’ Chikka said, turning to leave.

‘If Anna doesn’t want us, we could keep you company,’ Nalini offered coyly, playing with her plait.

Chikka’s gaze hardened. He looked at the tall muscular creature in front of him. The square jaw and straight nose. No matter how long her hair grew or how many hormone shots she took, it was impossible to hide the fact that Nalini had been born a man.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

Nalini made a face. ‘Not up to your exacting standards, are we? For a short man, you have a very big ego.’

Chikka felt his fingers gather into a fist. ‘At least I know I am a man. You? What are you?’

G
owda kicked off his shoes and slid his feet into a pair of flip-flops he kept under the table. He loosened his belt and opened a couple of his shirt buttons. When Gowda needed to work, constraint of any sort fettered his thought process. Santosh watched him, more appalled than amused. What if the ACP walked in without prior information? Or, what if an MLA or even a corporator came in?

Gowda felt the young man’s eyes trail his every move. ‘Is something bothering you?’ he asked.

‘Sir … yes sir … no sir,’ Santosh stuttered. Then, summoning his courage, he said, ‘Your uniform…’

Gowda narrowed his eyes. There it came again. Censure from seniors. Disapproval from juniors. No one gauged a policeman by how keen his mind was. The stars on his epaulettes and the shine on his shoes were what mattered.

‘
He shall appear at all times in police dress and accoutrements and shall always be neat and clean in appearance
. We do that so we look trim and fit and vested with authority in our dealings with the public. The police manual doesn’t mention that I should at all times button my collar and cinch the belt until it cuts into my belly.’ Gowda flicked the pages of the file Ashok had sent him.

‘For now I want you to assist me. Not police how I wear my uniform.’

Santosh flushed. At the police academy, he had been called promising, dynamic and intelligent. Gowda made him feel like a foolish old woman. One day, one day, he promised himself.

Two hours later, when they raised their heads, Gowda looked at Santosh.

‘So?’ his eyes asked.

‘I…’ Santosh began, then quelled his words, afraid he would have his head bitten off.

‘What? Say it…’

‘I don’t think Razak has anything to do with the Liaquat murder. His enemies are not gang lords. He’s just a petty case rowdy!’

‘We say homicide. Not murder. That’s a constable’s language.’

Santosh swallowed.

‘But that apart, you are right. Razak was a dead end. So, Sub-inspector Santosh, we are back to square one. Think, think … I am sure you will see something I have missed. You have it in you…’

The words of praise were a shower of rose petals. Santosh felt the caress of a million pink lips on his upturned face and then like a slap of cold water he heard Gowda say, ‘That is, if you stick to police matters and not silly things like how many buttons of my shirt are open.’

Santosh’s brother, the author, called it the most Indian of traits: the penultimate paragraph of condemnation. As though we are unable to allow undivided praise for anything without adding an ‘if only’ clause. It was a congenital fault among Indians, his brother claimed. At this moment, Santosh was inclined to agree.

Gowda went home early. He would call in for a pizza, he decided. A new pizza place had opened on Hennur Road and was making home deliveries this far. He didn’t particularly care for pizza himself, finding it too doughy and bland, but
Roshan would wolf it down as if he hadn’t seen food for a week.

As the vehicle turned in through the gate, Gowda saw that his Bullet had been moved. He frowned.

He rang the doorbell. From within he could hear the din of a heavy metal band trying to raise their dead ancestors.