Compass Box Killer (8 page)

As he surveyed the policemen’s tense faces, Virkar couldn’t help feeling a little ashamed about his little deception. However, he felt better when saw their sharp expressions, once again on the alert for the person who had made a bloody declaration to kill the man they were here to protect.

‘I
’ve been working as a technician for the past four years at my uncle’s electronic repair shop in Malad,’ said the killer. His oily, slicked-back hair and the soorma in his eyes were in contrast with his frayed jeans and red T-shirt that read ‘Reabockk’ on the front. Barkat Ali was unimpressed. For one, he was used to such tall claims being made to him. Everyone who wanted a job at the three-decade-old Barkat Alitronics, his electrical repair and maintenance shop in Dharavi, claimed that he was God’s gift to ‘electricianity’. He laughed at the word he had coined. Most of these braggarts didn’t know how to connect two wires to save their lives. And this scrawny, young scrap of a boy who looked like he was still waiting for puberty to hit, seemed to be even less proficient at what Barkat Ali considered a dying art. He spat out copious amounts of pan-stained saliva and wiped his mouth with his calloused fingers. The killer stared at the healed burn marks on Barkat Ali’s fingers. Noticing the young candidate’s keen interest in his lacerated fingers, Barkat Ali offered an explanation. ‘Thirty years of receiving electrical shocks,’ he said, menacingly dangling his fingers literally under the killer’s nose.

The killer didn’t flinch; instead he retorted with, ‘I can’t compete with that. I’ve just worked four years
without
receiving any electrical shocks.’

Barkat Ali raised a sneering eyebrow. The killer’s spunky response had touched a raw nerve. ‘Dedh shaane, have you come to ask for a job or to show me how smart you are, eh?’

The killer stared back, undeterred. ‘How does it matter? You’ve already decided not to give me the job, without even testing my skills and seeing if I’m good enough.’

Barkat Ali narrowed his eyes. He was a busy man and was used to taking spot decisions, but this young upstart had dared to challenge his experience. He was not going to let it pass without humiliating this langoor. ‘Come, let’s find out how good you are,’ Barkat Ali barked. Without another word, he turned and walked into the deep, dark portals of his shack-like shop. The killer followed him silently. Barkat Ali led him through a narrow corridor lined with wooden shelves laden with electrical spare parts of every type and size. What the killer had initially thought to be a small shop turned out to be just the front of a large godown into which Barkat Ali now ushered him. Inside the cavernous space, workmen slaved over tables lined all the way to the tin walls on all four sides. The killer swept his eyes across the godown, taking in the all the toasters, microwaves, washing machines, electrical irons and other household appliances strewn about in various stages of repair. Barkat Ali’s smug voice turned the killer’s attention back towards him. ‘Toh, mere shock-proof bhidu, ready for your entrance test?’

The killer nodded, not knowing what was in store but suspecting that it was something that would pose a big challenge to him. Barkat Ali pointed at an old black-and-white television set lying on a dusty table next to him. As he reached out and patted it fondly, fine grains of dust rose from the cheap laminate top. ‘My first TV, ’ said Barkat Ali, pride oozing from his voice. The killer looked at the ancient television set; a dull grey convex screen stared blankly back at him. The brand name, EC TV, was emblazoned on one side of the television set just above a bunch of chunky chrome knobs. Barkat Ali’s voice cut through the dank air of the godown. ‘Black and white. Valve technology. Specially made by the Government of India as the “People’s TV”. This particular set has not worked for more years than I can count.’

The killer continued to stare at the television set that had obviously seen better days, wondering if the circuit board was still inside it.

‘Toh, mere Bijli kay PhD, what are you waiting for? Make it work…go on!’ Barkat Ali chuckled. The killer lifted a screwdriver lying on the table, walked around the television and began to unscrew the wooden back cover of the TV set. Barkat Ali stood watching him for a few moments, inviting the other workmen to join him by chuckling loudly. By the time the killer had unscrewed the back off, Barkat Ali had lost interest and walked back to the shop front. ‘Shaana kauwa!’ he had guffawed, throwing the boy a pitiful look.

The killer rolled up his jeans and sat down on the dusty floor to work. He turned his attention to the insides of the ancient TV. This would require his complete concentration. He realized that he would need a soldering iron as he applied pressure and extricated the detachable circuit board. The killer smiled to himself as his sharp eyes surveyed the jumble of the small resistors welded across the board. He had fixed many such circuits a long time ago, and unlike what he had thought earlier, this was not going to pose too much of a challenge to him. Suppressing his laughter, the killer glanced up at the figure of Barkat Ali disappearing down the corridor. ‘Thirty years of practical experience is no match for five years of quality education,’ he muttered under his breath. He was going to get this dinosaur of a TV to work, and he was going to get the job at Barkat Alitronics, even if he had to put up with Barkat Ali’s stupid, insulting habit of name-calling. The next phase of his plan depended entirely on the success of this challenge and there was no way that he would turn back now.

T
he police party passed an open garbage dump. The previous night’s drizzle had wet the refuse through and through. Now in the baking sun, the stench was rising and spreading, threatening to choke the life out of the toughest nostrils. Virkar’s attention was drawn to the scurrying movements around the garbage dump. His sharp gaze focused on what looked like mongrel pups, but as his eyes zeroed in on one of the wallowing black creatures, he realized that they were not pups but rats! Giant black rats, gorging on the feast of Mumbai’s leftovers. Virkar turned his attention back to the slippery, slushy path that he and about twenty of his best policemen were trying to navigate on their way to a function to felicitate the man they were all escorting: Nigel Colasco. Despite several warnings, Colasco had insisted on attending this particular event. It was inside the dirtiest, least-developed part of Dharavi called Kunjupada that sat on the lip of the swampy nullah disguised as the Mithi River. Colasco’s sentimental attachment to this event went back almost twenty years to when he had held his first workshop for slum children at that very place. The people from the hutments that lay on that dark, damp patch revered Colasco. Every year, on the auspicious occasion of the Phitrabhoomi Devi festival, the Kunjupada Hutment Committee gave special prizes that were personally handed out by Colasco to the children of the slum. Despite the looming death threat over him, Colasco had insisted on making the trip to Kunjupada. Virkar had relented only after having personally surveyed the site with his men and rounding up all known troublemakers from the area as a cautionary measure. The residents of Kunjupada were miffed at the police presence, especially since they believed that this was perhaps the safest place for their hero, Colasco. Almost all their lives had been touched by Colasco’s benevolence in one way or another, so why would any one of them kill their benefactor?

Having safely waded through the small crowd of impatient-looking parents and slum children gathered for the felicitation, the police party approached the makeshift wooden dais set up on one side of the small, open maidan between the tin huts. Virkar quickly positioned his entire contingent in strategic places around the wooden dais and only then gave the nod to the organizers of the function to begin the proceedings.

A group of local Kunjupada elders stepped forward with garlands and sweets led by a thin, white-haired, kurta-lungi-clad man, who had the pompous bearing of a small-time politician. Virkar stepped forward and stopped the advancing group; he checked every garland personally, ruffling the flowers with a metal detector in search of any concealed weapons. ‘Aren’t you taking things too far, Inspector saheb?’ asked the lungi-clad man. Virkar continued with his inspection without acknowledging the man’ s presence or question. ‘You are making us feel as though we are terrorists and Colasco saheb is the Prime Minister,’ the lungi-clad man continued in a cantankerous tone. Virkar ignored him once again.

‘I’m speaking to you, Inspector. Do you know who I am?’ the man’s voice had now risen above the din of the clamouring slum children.

This time Virkar turned towards him. ‘I know who you are, Mr Ramaswami Putharan. You’ve been the Municipal Corporator for this area twice during the eighties. However, my information tells me that you lost your deposit in the last election.’ Putharan looked like he had been slapped. Making apoplectic noises, he tried to come up with an appropriate answer but couldn’t find the words.

Suddenly, Virkar’s eyes fell on a silver thali laden with what looked like malai pedas. ‘What’s this?’ he enquired.

The wizened, shrunken old lady who stood teetering under the weight of the silver thali was not used to being directly addressed by policemen. She nervously shifted her weight from one foot to another, tongue-tied. ‘It’s Phitrabhoomi Devi maa’s prasad,’ interjected Putharan, having finally found his tongue.

‘Sorry, I can’t allow this,’ said Virkar sternly.

The old lady timidly spoke up. ‘But, beta, this is the Devi maa’s prasad. I’ve brought it from the mandir myself.’

Virkar signalled one of his men to take the thali from her hands. ‘Sorry, maaji, no prasad for Mr Colasco.’

A policeman tried to take the thali from the old woman who looked close to tears. Suddenly, Putharan stepped forward and took the thali from her before the policeman could do so.

He glared at Virkar. ‘Are you saying that you’re not going to allow us to practice our rituals?’

It was Virkar’s turn to be tongue-tied. He knew that Putharan had seized the one weakness in the policing system of India—the fear of hurting religious sentiments. Anything that Virkar said or did now could be blown out of proportion, and the situation could easily turn nasty.
Attack is the best form of defence
, he thought, and said calmly, ‘Mr Colasco’s life is under threat. The prasad could be poisoned.’

But Putharan was not going to give up so easily. He raised the thali above his head theatrically, and, speaking loud enough to be heard by everyone gathered in the small ground, said, ‘Are you saying that Devi maa’s prasad has been purposely poisoned by us?’

A rumble of discontent rippled through the crowd. Virkar was aware of the failed politician’s attempts to squeeze sympathy for himself out of every opportunity. But he was not going to allow it. ‘Well, if it is not poisoned, please have some before offering it to Mr Colasco,’ he suggested. Putharan’s face suddenly deflated like a balloon. ‘I…er…it’s my fast today,’ he finally managed.

He’
s good. No wonder he is a politician
. Virkar turned to the old lady. ‘Then maybe maaji can have some before offering it to Mr Colasco?’

The old lady shrunk a few more inches. ‘I’m also fasting. I’ve been fasting for the past sixty years. I mean…every year on this day.’

Virkar knew that he had the advantage. He turned to the gathered crowd and said, ‘I fear that this prasad may be poisoned. Is there anyone here who would like to taste the prasad before offering it to Mr Colasco?’ The group of people stared at the ground in silence. No one raised a hand or made eye contact.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Virkar noticed that Raashi and her cameraman were standing on one side of the stage. The reporter, as always, was power-dressed, looking totally incongruous in their current setting. Virkar was about to curse under his breath, as was his usual practice whenever he saw her, but stopped when he noticed the admiring look on her face. Virkar was confused. He was expecting a fresh round of fighting but her expression seemed to indicate otherwise.

‘Inspector Virkar, can we please start the function?’ Colasco’s clipped words cut through Virkar’s thoughts. He and the policeman with the thali stepped away from the group and everyone quickly took their positions on the dais. As was the usual practice over the years, Colasco stepped up to the podium, ready to start announcing the prize winners. But as soon as he held the mike, a small flame burst out from the top of his head, and he fell on to the wooden dais, shaking uncontrollably while trying to wrench himself away from the steel mike that was stuck to the burning skin of his palms.

W
ood is a bad conductor of electricity—that’s why he’s still alive
. The realization flashed through Virkar’s mind as he watched Colasco writhing on the wooden dais. If it hadn’t been for the wood, Colasco would have died instantaneously, given that the shock had been potent enough to cause a flame to emanate from his body.

However, the electrically-charged steel mike stand burning Colasco’s palms was the biggest deterrent to providing him with any sort of aid. If Virkar touched either the mike or Colasco, he, too, would get a severe shock. There was no question of pulling them apart with his hands. His eyes darted over the dais looking for something he could use to pry them apart, even as utter chaos broke out among the audience. Around him, the frightened slum elders started withdrawing from the scene, afraid that the flames would leap out at them and spread everywhere. Women were grabbing their screaming children and beating a hasty exit. Virkar’s police contingent, too, was rooted to its spot, not knowing how to react in this moment of crisis.