The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra Page 9

  It was another exceptionally hot morning, and Chopra soon found his shirt sticking to his back. They made an odd pair, he knew: the middle-aged gentleman with the greying sideburns, and the despondent-looking undernourished elephant calf. Children followed them along the dusty, crowded streets. One little rascal jumped onto Ganesha’s back and rode along pretending to be a hero from the latest Bollywood blockbuster, until Chopra turned around and shooed him away. Ganesha did not even appear to notice.

  They stopped by to see Chanakiya, who ran a little hole-in-the-wall shop repairing clocks and watches. ‘Ram ram, Inspector Sahib,’ the wizened little watchmaker nodded from inside the booth, sitting cross-legged on the narrow counter in his white lunghi and vest.

  Chopra picked up a watch he had left with Chanakiya some days previously. The watch had lasted him twenty-four years, and had been a gift from his father on the occasion of his wedding. Poppy was always encouraging him to get a new one, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was the only memento he had of his dear departed father. He paid Chanakiya twenty rupees for the repair, and moved on.

  As they passed the Al-Noor mosque on Lalit Modi Marg, Imam Haider called out to him: ‘Salaam, Inspector babu, salaam!’ Imam Haider was a robust presence, a bear-like man with the fiery red beard of a Mecca-returned haji and eyebrows like cutlasses. He wore a voluminous white kurta-pajama and a tasselled skullcap that Chopra could not remember ever seeing parted from the imam’s head.

  Chopra had a great deal of respect for Imam Haider. They had known each other for many years, having become friends during the riots back in 1993. The riots had flared up after the demolition of the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya by Hindus who claimed that the mosque had been built over the ancient birthplace of Lord Ram. Incensed Muslims had then retaliated by protesting in the streets; some of the protests had spilled over into violence. Violence had bred more violence, and soon, before anyone knew what was happening, mobs had taken to the streets, rampaging through the city, indiscriminately seeking blood.

  It had been a terrifying time for ordinary citizens in the city. But amidst the chaos and horror, Imam Haider had kept his head and coolly hidden hundreds of terrified local Muslims in the basement of the Al Noor mosque, and ridden out the worst of the rioting.

  Chopra had been the first man on the scene afterwards and, together with Rangwalla and his trusty revolver, had held at bay the last of the vigilantes.

  The two men chatted for a while, exchanging news. Imam Haider expressed great disappointment upon hearing that he had retired. He commented that with the recent rise of hardliners in the local area–on both sides of the Hindu–Muslim fence–a man like Chopra was needed more than ever.

  ‘These are difficult days, Chopra,’ said Haider. ‘On the one hand we have more and more firebrands and on the other we have a growing apathy. There is no middle ground any more. No room for moderation. The hotheads won’t listen and the others listen but don’t care. I don’t know which is worse.’

  ‘How are your sons?’ enquired Chopra, wishing to change the subject. He knew that once the iman got going on this topic he took a long time to wind down.

  ‘I am talking about my sons,’ intoned Haider mournfully. ‘The older one spends his evening studying his faith, which is good. But then, at other times, he takes it into his head to make incendiary speeches. The younger is interested only in cricket and movies. I tell you, Chopra, the world is changing, and not for the better.’ Haider looked down at Chopra’s companion. ‘Who is your young friend?’

  ‘His name is Ganesha. I am looking after him.’

  ‘I have heard of people taking up strange hobbies when they retire, old friend, but rearing elephants is a new one on me.’

  In between the Swapnadeep buffalo sheds and Gokaldas’s copperware shop, a large dark-skinned man wearing oil-blackened clothes hailed Chopra from the entrance of a tiny garage. ‘Ho, Inspector Sahib, have you thought about my offer?’

  Chopra shook his head. ‘Kapil, old friend, as I have told you many times, Basanti is not for sale.’

  ‘You’re a strange man, Inspector,’ Kapil laughed. The towering quiff of gelled black hair sitting atop his head quivered, and the pirate’s earrings dangling from his lobes bounced up and down. Kapil’s overalls had the sleeves cut off to reveal thick wrestler’s arms. He folded those arms now and looked down at Chopra from above a squashed nose. ‘For ten years you have had her tuned up every month, regular as clockwork. But you’ve never even taken her out from my garage. If you weren’t paying me so much money to store her, I would tell you you are a madman!’

  ‘What you have here, sir, is a classic case of a suicidal elephant.’

  Chopra looked at the veterinary doctor’s face in frank astonishment… and then Dr Lala burst out laughing. ‘I am just pulling your leg, Inspector.’

  The good doctor, he was discovering, was a quite different person to the one he had pictured on the telephone.

  Dr Rohit Lala was an overweight Marwadi whose wealthy family, as he had informed Chopra, had been horrified when he had refused to take over the chain of family jewellery shops and instead had gone off to study animal medicine. His father had passed away still bemoaning the fact that his only son spent his days rummaging around in the back passages of buffaloes instead of making money like a decent Marwadi boy.

  The veterinary clinic was located on the premises of an old, defunct textile factory, which lay behind the Sakinaka Telephone Exchange.

  Stepping through the run-down façade Chopra had discovered a small, unkempt office, manned by an enthusiastic-looking young man with bad skin and a comical moustache. From a room behind the office came the barking of a number of dogs kept in pens.

  The young man had led him, with Ganesha in tow, along a side alley to an open plot at the rear of the premises where a number of horses, buffalo and goats were corralled in chicken-wire pens. He had discovered Dr Lala examining a small bear whose fur appeared to be falling out in patches. The bear was extremely undernourished, and looked terribly ill even to Chopra’s untrained eye.

  ‘A good-hearted woman rescued it from a travelling circus,’ explained Lala. ‘I can’t save it, but maybe I can give it a dignified death. To be a vet one must first be a humanitarian. In a country where we are willing to make a god of every animal under the sun we have no word to describe what it means to put their welfare first. Now, let’s take a look at your young elephant here.’

  Chopra waited while Dr Lala carried out his examination.

  The doctor shone a light into Ganesha’s eyes, and examined his ears. He prised open his mouth with the help of his assistant and peered deep inside, paying particular attention to the tongue, teeth and gums. He looked inside the nostrils of the trunk. He lifted up the tail and examined Ganesha’s behind. He put a stethoscope to his steaming flank and listened intently. All the while he asked Chopra questions about the little elephant’s history, which revealed only that Ganesha’s reluctant guardian knew next to nothing.

  ‘Well,’ the doctor said finally, puffing out his cheeks, ‘I must confess that I am not sure exactly what is wrong with your elephant here. Aside from a certain laxness in growth–he is small for his age, which, by my estimate, is perhaps eight months–he seems to be in fair physical condition. He is not eating, you say, but the question is why not? I will have to take a sample of his blood and saliva and send it for analysis, if you wish for a more detailed diagnosis.’

  Chopra agreed to this.

  ‘Of course,’ continued Lala, ‘we may be dealing with a completely non-physical cause here. Elephants are highly emotional creatures. Perhaps something happened to this poor beast before you took charge of him, and that is at the root of this obstinate behaviour.’ Lala scratched his chin. ‘In this respect an elephant is no different to you or I, Inspector. When we suffer, we become despondent, listless, emotionally unbalanced. Perhaps our young calf is pining for his mother, his herd–elephants are very social animals, you know; perhaps the mere fact that he
has been removed to this new environment has upset him. Once he adjusts, he may begin to settle. Let us hope this does not take too long.’

  ‘If he does not adjust?’

  ‘I have seen elephants simply lie down and die,’ said Dr Lala. ‘Like humans, they have the capacity to give up on life.’

  Chopra looked down at Ganesha, who had collapsed onto his belly and was staring intently at a patch of dirt under his nose, looking every inch the picture of misery that Dr Lala had ascertained him to be.

  Chopra was overcome by a sudden feeling of helplessness.

  What business did he have trying to nursemaid this poor creature! If his Uncle Bansi had thought that he would be a good friend to the little calf he had been sorely mistaken.

  ‘Dr Lala,’ Chopra said, ‘is there a place where a calf such as this might find a home? A good home?’

  Dr Lala looked thoughtfully at him. ‘An elephant is a great responsibility, is it not?’

  Chopra said nothing.

  Lala pursed his lips. ‘There is a sanctuary in Visakhapatnam. An old friend of mine runs it. We attended veterinary school together. I will give him a call. Give me a couple of days.’

  Visakhapatnam, thought Chopra. That was on the other side of the country, a thousand miles away on the eastern coast.

  He wondered what Uncle Bansi would say. But then, Bansi had requested that Chopra take care of the little elephant. Surely this was the best solution. A sanctuary would look after Ganesha’s needs far better than he possibly could.

  Chopra looked down at the calf. Flies had settled on Ganesha’s eyes and a column of ants were marching resolutely up his trunk as if on military manoeuvres. Ganesha seemed oblivious or simply too despondent to care. He exuded an overwhelming sense of defeat.

  Chopra knew that he must do the right thing… and at that moment he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He felt sure that the Visakhapatnam sanctuary would know what to do with the dispirited baby elephant.

  Outside the vet’s premises, Chopra stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow. He reached into his trousers for his handkerchief. As he pulled it out, he accidentally spilled from his pocket the bundle of visiting cards that he had taken from Santosh Achrekar’s home the day before. The cards scattered over the dusty ground. He cursed and dropped to his knees to begin gathering them up. Behind him Ganesha waited patiently, his trunk dangling below his sombre face.

  Chopra shuffled across the parched earth, collecting the cards. Suddenly, he froze. He picked up the card that had caught his attention and straightened to his feet. He read the card again:

  MOTILAL’S LEATHER EMPORIUM

  Shop No. 5, Gold Field Arcade,

  Kala Qila, Dharavi, Mumbai, 400017

  Motilal’s. Moti’s. Chopra felt the sudden thrill of a connection made. Why hadn’t he seen it before! He felt certain that this must be the place that Santosh Achrekar had visited on his last day on earth. This was the place where he had met the enigmatic ‘S.’, perhaps the man who had killed him. The investigation that Chopra had concluded only the night before had met an impenetrable brick wall, had opened up before him again. It was an opportunity he did not intend to pass up.

  THE GREATEST SLUM ON EARTH

  The Kala Qila section of Dharavi lay six kilometres away, a long walk in the hot sun. But Chopra was determined to follow up his newly acquired lead.

  The route to Kala Qila lay along the M.V. Road, which meandered southwards around the sprawling eastern perimeter of the Chhatrapati Shivaji airport until it met the bustling Lal Bahadur Shastri Road. From there he could follow LBS all the way past Chunabhatti and into the Dharavi slum proper.

  Chopra decided that he would take Ganesha with him; if he walked back home first, he would lose a good hour of time. And he did not wish to waste another minute.

  He knew that the course he had embarked upon was reckless. He knew that if Suryavansh discovered that he was snooping around on the case, then he might well have to cross swords with him again.

  Chopra was not afraid of Suryavansh, but he did not wish complications to be placed in the path of his investigation. And then there was Poppy to think of. What would she say if she knew that within days of his retirement he was back to his old tricks? The whole point of retiring had been to get away from this sort of thing, so that his ailing heart might be spared potentially fatal excitement.

  Well, thought Chopra, I have made up my mind. And once a man does that, everything else should be left to fate.

  Halfway along the route, Chopra’s belly began to rumble. He decided to stop at a roadside Chinese restaurant.

  He watched the passing traffic on LBS Road as he ate his plate of egg fried rice. Across the street a small crowd had gathered to watch a shoot for a low-budget Bollywood potboiler. An overweight and aging leading man in a tight string vest and black wig was serenading a youthful heroine dressed in a skimpy miniskirt, who seemed oblivious to the constant wolf-whistling and suggestive commentary from the gathered crowd. A fat director was bellowing through a loudhailer at various lackeys.

  The leading man suddenly tripped over his feet and fell down, crashing into a table and spilling hot tea over a handsome dog panting beneath it, who was playing the part of the hero’s sidekick. The fall dislodged the hero’s wig, which landed over the dog’s eyes. The dog, blind and mad with pain, shot off along the street, barking at the top of his lungs. The crowd roared with laughter, thinking this was all part of the scene.

  Chopra thought again of the poor parents of Santosh Achrekar. Once again he imagined himself in the role of bereaved father. What would it be like to know that your child’s future had been taken away, not by accident, but by the evil designs of another human being?

  Chopra had never talked openly to Poppy of his feelings about the lack of children in their lives. Many times he had wanted to share his own pain and frustration with someone, but he had known instinctively that were he to give Poppy even an inkling of the disappointment he felt, it would for ever undermine the trust that existed between them. And so he had swallowed his tears, and pretended that the whole business of an heir really did not mean that much to him. When his colleagues brought in sweets to celebrate a new addition to their families, he would offer his congratulations and then quickly return to his desk, making no further fuss over the matter.

  But sometimes, in the depths of the night, when Poppy was dead to the world, he would lie awake in bed and wonder what it would be like to teach his own son the fundamentals of a proper forward defensive stroke, or how to pop the clutch on a new Hero Honda as Chopra Junior learned to ride his first motorcycle.

  Or a daughter, perhaps; he would imagine a line of potential suitors for her hand standing before him, trembling with fear, scared stiff of his uniform. He would imagine, with a chuckle, threatening to arrest them and have them beaten in the cells all night, so that in their fright they might reveal their true characters.

  He bought a bunch of bananas from a passing handcart for Ganesha, but the elephant was not yet willing to break his self-imposed fast.

  It had been two years since Chopra had last entered the Dharavi slum of Mumbai. At the time he had been pursuing enquiries on a kidnapping case, a case which had ultimately gone unsolved. It had been only his second foray into the slum and he had found, as on his first visit, that Dharavi was simply unlike anything that he had previously experienced.

  In essence the slum was a city within a city, albeit one whose true population had always eluded the census takers. Nevertheless, it was estimated that almost one million individuals lived within its narrow, choking, maze-like districts, all sandwiched in between the city’s two principal suburban rail lines, the Western and Central Railways.

  What had instantly struck Chopra on both the occasions that he had ventured here was how the residents of Dharavi remained steadfastly unembarrassed by their poverty. They lived in one of the most congested places on earth, an unsanitary, poorly equipped demesne where disease flourished and hardsh
ip was a way of life. And yet the slum was home to thousands of successful businesses. If one wished to see the true face of Indian entrepreneurialism, he had often reflected, then one had only to come to the slum-city. Here, without the benefit of foreign capital, or MBA-qualified ex-pats, micro-businesses thrived: little one-man–or one-woman–operations producing and selling everything from enamelled pots, tourist curios, Barbie dolls, blue jeans, cocktail dresses and carbolic soap through to a recycling operation that was the largest in the country. Chopra recalled a recent article he had read which suggested that Dharavi generated upwards of six hundred million dollars in hard currency each year. For this reason Dharavi had often been labelled ‘the world’s greatest slum’ by the newspaper-wallahs.

  Chopra could not disagree. There was something both magical and mysterious about the place. In the twilight zone of Dharavi, where even auto-rickshaws could not enter; where houses were constructed from anything available to hand–corrugated tin, plywood, pukkah bricks, asbestos and cardboard sheets–where a billion cockroaches played tag with a million rats; where black smoke from the potters’ kilns created an artificial cloudbank overhead; where hundreds of thousands of shopkeepers, street vendors, ragpickers, tinkers, tailors, black marketeers and miniature moguls operated beyond the reach of the municipal authorities; where the sound of hammering from the metalworkers’ smithies was a constant background noise… the human spirit still flourished.

  The Kala Qila area of the slum, Chopra knew, was famed for its leather shops. Leatherwork–from the tanning of hides to the production of beautiful leather garments for sale and export–was one of the oldest industries in Dharavi.

  As he walked through the district he was astounded, as always, by the closeness of everything. Dharavi was Mumbai compressed into a smaller-scale version of itself; and yet the same things still mattered. The thousands of little one-room dwellings sprouted aerials for TV connections; posters of the latest Bollywood releases were plastered on every paint-peeled wall; old men discussed the elections while smoking beedis and defecating into the open sewers; women gossiped about their neighbours’ husbands as they filled buckets from the communal spigots. There were even beggars here. Life was life, after all.