The Nidhi Kapoor Story (2 page)

“These politicians are always late!” exclaimed Nishant. Preeti, the first time actress and the heroine of the film, was hanging precariously on Nishant’s arm. She was wearing a long white wraparound dress that extended from her shoulders to the ankles. The outrageously loud, body hugging one-piece dress accentuated her shapely figure. The dress had a long slit on the left that started at the ankles and went as far up as her slender waistline. On the left shoulder was a large red flower. She wore a deep red lipstick matching the flower.

From a nobody, Preeti had catapulted to the very top of the fiercely competitive world with
Lahu Ka Rang
. She was an enigma to everyone around her. She had no connections to boast of and no godfathers whom she could ask for help. She rather had something rustic, something primal about her. Unlike most other newcomers that were tentative and insecure, she had no inhibitions.

“Yeah? If it were his party, I bet you would have been the last to arrive and probably the first to leave,” Roshan Taluja said.

Nishant laughed energetically. “Right, Roshan. In this country, we judge the importance of a man by two things. One, how late could he arrive at a function and keep everyone waiting. Two, once he has arrived, how soon can he excuse himself out of there.” The three of them laughed. So did other people standing around them. The loudest was Preeti, who seemed to be really enjoying the
conversation. Her antics in Nishant Kapoor’s presence did not go unnoticed. Even Neelima, Nishant’s wife, could hear Preeti’s loud shrills from afar.

Neelima was an actress herself before she and Nishant got married. Since then, Neelima had accepted the role of a mere homemaker while Nishant went out and earned his fame and fortune. At the party, while Nishant was entertaining guests with his natural charm and wit, Neelima and their daughters – Payal and Nidhi – were exchanging pleasantries with other guests.

Payal, nineteen, had sharp features and deep set dimples that went deeper when she smiled. Her eyes were bright and full of life. She had the spring of a hyperactive child in her stride and the magnetism of a livewire that made her the center of attraction wherever she went. Just like Nishant.

Nidhi, seventeen, was comparatively muted and reserved. Despite her silent countenance, she seemed to have inherited the best features of both her parents. Her deep eyes and perfect jawline came from her mother, her fine complexion from her father. She had a coy smile that intrigued everyone enough to want to talk to her.

If the gossip magazines were to be believed, even though Payal was the adopted child, Nishant Kapoor wanted her to carry his legacy forward. An army of trainers had already been hired to groom her for dance, theatre, diction and fitness. Payal seemed enthusiastic about the idea and put in requisite time and effort. She reveled when she moved around in the film circles.

Despite inheriting the regal looks of her parents, Nidhi
on the other hand, had shown no inclination towards the film business. She, in fact, hated the
filmwallahs
and such parties. She was present only at the insistence of her mother. Her idea of fun hovered around books and photography, two disciplines that required immense amount of tolerance and patience.

∗∗∗

It was now that time of the party when the monotony of conversation takes over gossip and guests start grooving to the music. Today, Preeti started the dancing furor. Since she was a newly crowned celebrity, she did not know the protocol and dragged a surprised Vicky Taluja, son of Roshan Taluja, to the dance floor. Vicky was an Assistant Director and had assisted his father with
Lahu Ka Rang’s
production. He was a newcomer himself and when Preeti started dancing with him, a few guests raised eyebrows. There were silent murmurs and glances in Nishant’s direction.

Nishant had taken a liking for Preeti, the way he did for all other newcomers. No one felt odd about it, for everyone knew of Nishant’s avarice for good-looking women. Even if they were unknown and anonymous, Nishant met them with as much warmth and affection as one would expect him to reserve for his wife.

Preeti was dancing dangerously close to Vicky. Despite his father’s reputation, he was just an AD and was clearly uncomfortable with so many seniors from the industry staring at him. He had lived his life under his father’s wings and was clearly not used to the limelight. Nishant noticed
everyone staring at Preeti and though he did not want to intervene while Neelima was around, he felt he ought to protect her. He wasn’t really afraid of his wife but he did not want any ugly confrontation.

While the excruciating seconds ticked away, Preeti got bolder with her moves and Vicky got more uncomfortable. Nishant tried to ignore but could not tolerate it any longer. He went on the dance floor and like a gentleman, bent on one knee and asked Preeti for a dance. Before Preeti could even accept the invitation, Vicky excused himself and rushed to the bar. Preeti giggled like a fifteen-year-old. She moved towards Nishant, extended her bare leg sensuously and rested it on Nishant’s bent knee. Nishant caressed it and got to his feet. He held onto Preeti’s tiny waist in his strong grip.

Before the crowd could digest the suggestive real-life steamy scene playing on the dance floor, the DJ played one of the most famous Nishant Kapoor dance songs. Preeti ran her hand through Nishant’s thick wavy hair and started to groove to the music. Nishant followed her moves and soon they were gyrating to the music. Nishant had embraced Preeti into a hug and his hands were rested comfortably on the small of Preeti’s back. Her head was leaning on Nishant’s shoulder and she was apparently whispering something into his ears.

Neelima had known, tolerated and ignored Nishant’s escapades for well over twenty years now. Most of these encounters happened behind closed doors. But this open display of debauchery in the presence of her daughters and the entire industry made her furious.

Nishant had his back towards Neelima, unaware of his wife’s seething anger. Preeti could see Neelima, but she remained unperturbed. To make matters worse, Preeti curled her lips into a contemptuous smile and sneered at Neelima. Neelima could not endure it anymore and started to walk towards the dance floor. Nidhi clutched at her mother’s arm and tried unsuccessfully to stop her.

Neelima tugged at Nishant’s shoulder and broke the unnaturally long cuddle that Preeti and Nishant were in. Without Nishant’s strong frame to shadow her, Preeti seemed tiny, fragile and vulnerable. Neelima, on the other hand, looked like a reincarnation of Devi herself. She was breathing heavily, her jaws were clenched and her body trembled from rage pent up inside her.

Preeti looked at Nishant helplessly. She extended her arm towards Nishant, seeking his support, his embrace. Nishant was however, hesitant. He was put on spot. He suddenly had to choose between his wife of twenty years and a young starlet. Neelima, the faithful wife, saved Nishant from embarrassment yet again. Before he could react, Neelima caught Preeti’s arm and slapped her hard with all her might.

The blow was too much for a frail Preeti. She fell down in a heap. Just like in films, things came to a standstill. As if on cue, the DJ stopped the music. Glasses were left hanging in mid-air, mouths were left gaping and the laughter around the party died. The rasp sound of a powerful slap floated above the din of the party.

Neelima was shivering with rage and the adrenaline rush. She was breathing hard and glared at Preeti, who was
still motionless on the floor. Everyone was dumbfounded and no one knew what to do.

Guests looked at Nishant for a suitable reaction. Even the two daughters were looking hopefully at their father for some signs of reconciliation, efforts to bring peace and truce. Preeti’s face had reddened and her upper lip was beginning to swell. She had tears in her eyes and she crawled imperceptibly towards Nishant. Nishant, as if he woke from a deep slumber, yelled in his booming voice, “How dare you, Neelima?”

And then, without any warning, Nishant slapped Neelima. Hard.

He slapped his wife of almost twenty years. The mother of his two daughters. His companion through thick and thin. A woman often credited as the hidden force behind Nishant’s success. An upcoming actress who let go of her dreams to look after Nishant’s household.

Nishant’s punch landed on Neelima’s nose and cheeks with a smack. It ruptured the blood vessels in her nose and a faint red trickle ran down her nose.

Surprisingly, Neelima did not balk. She just stumbled backwards and immediately found her ground. She remained defiant and there was no trace of fear in her eyes. Nor did she shed any tears. Her face did not give away her emotions, but her cheeks were beginning to puff up and blood was running down faster and thicker than before.

Payal and Nidhi saw their home tearing apart into shambles with that one blow. They rushed towards their parents. Payal was the first to reach Nishant. Her eyes were moist and she was looking at Nishant tenderly. She held
Nishant’s hand and starting massaging it slowly.

Meanwhile, Nidhi was trying to support Neelima. But Neelima stood her ground firmly. She nodded at Nidhi, waved her away and looked straight into Nishant’s eyes. “Will that be all, Nishant?” she said in an unwavering, confident voice.

Nishant was enraged at this open display of insubordination. Before anyone could react, he started pelting Neelima with blows. He was oblivious to where his blows landed, what bones he broke, what marks he left on her tender body. When Neelima fell down from the nonstop assault, he began to kick her. He did not see blood or tears. He did not hear screams and gasps of other women present at the party. He did not register the shock on the faces of other men. He did not see his wife dying with each blow that he delivered to her. He did not see his home getting dismantled, the foundations uprooting, with every grunt that escaped his throat when he hit his wife. He did not see anything. He could not. He could merely see himself. And Neelima. A woman who had refused to balk when he asked her to. What if she was his wife?

Surprisingly, no one had the courage to intervene. With the indifference that Neelima accepted these blows, they realized that this was not the first time that Nishant was hitting Neelima. Payal was crying incessantly all this while. She had hidden her face in Nidhi’s arms. Nidhi, on the other hand, was quiet and resolute. Her eyes were stoned, as if she was hypnotized. She was staring at her father beating her mother. And then something snapped inside her. She flung Payal away from her, wailed and threw herself at Nishant.
Nishant didn’t see her coming and both of them fell down from the impact. Nidhi, with surprising agility, climbed up on him and pinned him down to the floor with her knees.

“Enough, papa. One more move and you are dead,” she growled.

2. Day 1, Morning. Police Station.

It began like any other day in the office for Prakash Mohile. As the Assistant Commissioner of Police with the Special Crimes Division of Mumbai Police, his job was a tough one. For a city that more than two crore people call home, Mumbai had a very small police force of just about 49000, divided into 89 stations. With all the VIPs, film stars, politicians and industrialists who demanded constant protection from threats, legit or otherwise, the police force was always understaffed and overworked.

Amongst all myriad responsibilities that Prakash was entrusted with, he was also in-charge of protection for the film fraternity. And he hated it. Not the job per se, but the tantrums and shenanigans of the very people he was supposed to guard. He did not have time for jests, humor and other such light-hearted human emotions. His only commitment was to the department. His only passion was to do his job well. His only escape was a ride on his Bullet and a few rounds of Jack Daniel.

Today, like most mornings, he was leafing through case files from the previous evening, hearing out the mercy pleas of kin of miscellaneous men arrested yesterday and barking instructions at his juniors for the day ahead, all at the same time. Not for a minute did he look in the direction of Rujuta Singh, a freelance photojournalist attached to him for a month-long assignment. Rujuta was doing a photo-
essay on Mumbai police for an international publication and though Mohile did not appreciate anyone interfering with his work, Rujuta was put in his command by the city Mayor. Even though she was young, good-looking and intelligent, Prakash considered Rujuta more of a nuisance than anything else.

Most cases today were drab as usual. The same set of extortion calls, thefts, road accidents, celebrity altercations, and other petty crimes. By the time policemen spend five or so years in the service, they become indifferent to these miseries around them. Not Prakash. He had been in service for more than ten years. Every morning while allocating cases to his subordinates, he would ponder on the meaning of life and unnecessary grief caused by these avoidable crimes. He was thus most sympathetic to the issues of poor and helpless, and most indifferent to the miseries of the rich. He would allocate cases of the fanciest film star to the worst in his team and work personally on the cases of anonymous men and women who were barely making it through the tough city of Mumbai.

When he kept a very high profile case for himself, his staff was surprised. Even Rujuta took note of it, now that she had been shadowing Prakash for almost two weeks and thus was somewhat aware of his style of working.

“So, Mohile Saab, finally you found a case worthy of your time? You are finally going to chase limelight now with this stupid thing at Nidhi Kapoor’s house?” Rujuta sneered, stuffing her things hastily in her bag. She knew that once Prakash did the case allocations, he wanted every policeman on the field pronto. No one but Rujuta could’ve asked this
question since she was the only one at the police station who did not subscribe to either fear or respect for Prakash. And she was anyway known to speak her mind. Often, and with conviction.

Prakash looked up at Rujuta, gave her his trademark smirk and went back to his files. That smirk had an infamous reputation. Prakash used it when he knew he was right and the other person, wrong. For suspects and criminals, it meant that Prakash had called their bluff and they were now in his bad books. For his subordinates, the smirk meant that they hadn’t done their homework well. For people who did not know Prakash, it just came across as a silly smile of a bald police officer. Since Rujuta was relatively new, she thought that Prakash was bemused at something that she had said.