What Happened That Day -- a short story about crime in Mumbai

By Shevlin Sebastian

Rohit sat behind the steering wheel of a Kia Seltos, humming a Manna Dey song, 'Zindagi Kaisi Hai Paheli.' The car idled at a signal in Byculla. On the seat beside him, a revolver lay under a Marathi newspaper. His fingers touched the smooth steel. Cold.  

A woman in the rear-view mirror applied lipstick. Once, he'd watched women like her from the pavement, his pockets empty. 

The signal changed. A BEST bus in front. Autorickshaws behind it. Motorcyclists beside his car. He looked at his golden watch with the large black dial. Ten minutes late.  

Rohit pressed the accelerator, heading to Andheri to meet Sunil Jhangpuria. 

At the construction site, he slipped the gun into his pocket.  

When he stopped at the entrance to an office, Sunil smiled. 'Come in.' 

Rohit pointed at the tin roof. 'Arre Sunil, why an office here?'

'It's best to be among the workers. They work better.'  

'Good point.' 

Sunil gestured to the peon. A thin, reedy man. 'Aslam Bhai, two cups please.' 

With slow, measured steps, Aslam Bhai came out. Like Rohit's father in his later years. His mother said, 'Be ambitious. Not passive like your father.' 

'How are things?' Rohit said. 

Sunil twisted his lips. 'For this project, not many buyers, yet.' 

'Bhai, they'll come. You have an excellent reputation.' 

'I hope so. It's a big investment.'

'What number is this project?' 

'Twelfth.'

'I'm sure at the start of all those projects, the buyers were few.' 

Sunil stared at Rohit. 'Yes. You're right.'

Aslam Bhai set down the tea. He and Sunil sipped in silence. 

'Any Bollywood gossip, Sunil Bhai?' 

Sunil smacked his lips. 'You know Harini?' 

'The one who acted in 'Ek Raasta' opposite superstar Wasim?' 

'Yes. That's the one.' 

'What about her?' 

'She told a friend that Wasim has a small one.' 

Rohit laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. 'Man, that's too much.' 

Sunil added, 'And they call him a superstar.' 

Rohit laughed again. 

After the peon cleared away the cups, Rohit said, 'Is the stuff ready?'

Sunil opened his drawer and took out several thick bundles.

Rohit opened his bag. Sunil dropped the bundles one after the other. Nice if it were his. Deepa and the kids. 

Sunil said, 'One hundred petis.' 

'Only one crore. What about the remaining Rs 2 crore?' 

'I need two days.'

Under the table, Rohit clenched his fist. 'You didn't tell us earlier.' 

'I'm sorry. Some last-minute problem.'

'I have to talk to Prashant.' 

He stepped out. Called his boss. Told him what had happened. 

'He's never done this before,' said Prashant. 

'First time.' 

'Is he in some kind of trouble?' 

'I don't know. Should I threaten him?' 

'He's never failed before.'

'Yes.'

'Take it. Collect after two days.'  

Rohit returned. Sat down. Patted the revolver. 'You're not experiencing any labour trouble?' 

'No.' 

'Are the building materials arriving on time?'

'Yes.' 

Rohit zipped the bag. 'Call us if you face any problems. We are here to protect you.'

'Thank you.' 

'I'll come again. Don't disappoint us.' 

Sunil placed a palm over his heart. 'I promise.' 

Rohit pressed a thumb against his chest. 'Tell Harini there are real studs available.' 

This time it was Sunil's turn to laugh. Hope he's smart enough to pay in two days. 

Outside, a cement mixer growled in the distance. Workers shouted across floors of the twenty-storey building. Their voices echoed. 

Sunil, get your act together. 

Rohit turned the ignition key. That morning Prashant had told him, 'Nadkarni is evading me. Put the rod to his head.'

A few pings. He stopped by the side of the road and opened his WhatsApp. 

Rekha: 'Darling, waiting for you.' 

Deepa: 'Kitchen tap leaking. Can you call a plumber?' 

Harish: 'In town. When can we meet?' 

A man stepped near his window. Rohit looked up. He was wearing a mask. A pistol pointed at his face. Oh Ganesha. Who is this man? His left hand reached for the revolver. Who sent him? 

The first shot slammed into the middle of his forehead. Aai, Aai, Aai. Where are you? Another punched into his chest. Electric shock in his body. The third tore into his neck. Blood spurted out, staining his white shirt. His eyes closed. His head fell onto the steering wheel. His mind turned pitch-black.  

On the road, women put their fingers to their ears. Men ran. Vehicles stopped as drivers stared with open mouths through the windscreen. Two masked men on a motorbike. One opened the door on the other side and grabbed the bag. 

Within seconds, they vanished. 

A constable ran up. He opened the door. 

He felt for a pulse. Through his mobile, he shouted, 'Ambulance. A man has been shot.' He stepped out onto the road and waved the traffic onwards. 

The ambulance crew pulled Rohit out of the car and placed him on a stretcher. It sped away at high speed, siren blaring. 

A cop in Prashant’s pay said, 'Sir, I heard Rohit has been shot.' 

Prashant gripped his throat. 'What do you mean?' 

'Two masked men on a motorcycle. They fled.' 

He called his associate, Manish. 'Speak to Sunil. Ask him what happened.'

Manish slid a pistol into his trouser pocket. 

Aslam said, 'Sunil Saab went out.' 

'Do you know where?'

'No, Sir.'  

Manish called Prashant. 'He's not here. I called him. The call's not going through.' 

Prashant rang a contact in the cyber cell and gave him Sunil's number. 

Half an hour later, the officer called back. 'Bhai, the number is not active.'

He took a deep breath. Sunil never played games. Why had he disappeared? Why had he held back the money? Two months ago, the leaders met at Borivali. Territories had been demarcated. Every dispute settled. At the end, wide smiles and lots of drinks. Women waited in the other rooms. 'All fresh maal,' Prashant said. So who did this? 

Prashant told Manish, 'Go to the hospital. Confirm Rohit had died. After that, inform Deepa.' 

His team members sat around the dining table. He clapped his hands. They fell silent. 

'I need answers. Who ordered this hit? Who took the money? Where is Sunil? Why has he fled?' 

The members kept their eyes lowered. They took sips from their cups.

'Harish, find out who ordered the hit. Hit the network. The two killers. Hari, look for Sunil. I want answers. Fast.'   

Shouting erupted near the gate. Danish, a sharpshooter, looked through the window. 'Police raid.'

Prashant's stomach churned. He needed a Gelusil. 

He turned to his men. 'How come nobody told us in advance?'  

The others took out their revolvers. Prashant raised his palm. 'Don't be a fool. We can't kill officers. They'll finish us.' 

He called out, 'Raghu.' 

When the servant arrived, wearing black shorts, he said, 'Collect all the weapons. Put it in a black plastic bag, and hide it in the garbage.'

Raghu ran to the kitchen, and returned with a large bag. Prashant looked at his team. 'Get rid of them.'

The revolvers fell into the bag. Clang, clang, clang. 

Prashant said, 'Hurry up, Raghu. Take it away.' 

Raghu ran back. 

The bell rang. 'Ting Tong.' 

Prashant opened the door.  

The officer showed him a document. Behind him stood several constables. 

'What is it?' Prashant said. 

'Arrest warrant.' 

'For whom?' 

'All of you.' 

'How do you know who is here?'

The officer read out the names one by one. Danish. Rathore. Amit. Totally accurate. How did he know? Did they have a rat? If yes, who? Many of his gang members he knew for decades.   

Prashant said calmly, 'Why now?' 

The officer said, 'Boss's orders.' 

Prashant whispered, 'I pay your boss.' 

The officer looked away. 

They entered. Called out the names. Put handcuffs on. And led them out. No search. Thank God. The whole neighbourhood had stepped out. Prashant looked up. Verandahs were clogged with people. Enjoying the tamasha. On the sidewalk, human rights activist Gatonde threw a fist at him. Prashant's eyes reddened. Bloody idiot. He'll get him one day. 

He turned to the officer. 'Where are we going?' 

'Arthur Road prison.'

At the hospital reception, a nurse told Manish, 'Rohit Gaikwad. Dead on arrival. In the mortuary.' 

As he stepped out of the hospital, a thought. How to tell Deepa she's become a widow. Tough job. 

He got into an autorickshaw. Fifteen minutes later, it stopped in front of the three-storey building in Byculla. Manish got out slowly. He lit a cigarette. Took a few drags. People moved around him. He shook his head. No point waiting. He flicked the butt to the side of the road.  

Manish made his way to the first-floor apartment. He knocked on the door.

Deepa opened it. In a plain white cotton sari. One glance at Manish and she said, 'Has something happened to Rohit?'

He nodded.

She led him inside.

She sat on a sofa. Manish on an armchair. A small glass table in the middle. A folded Lokmat newspaper. 

Manish said, 'Do you still read the newspaper?'

'Rohit did.' 

'Yes.' 

She leaned forward. 'What is it?' 

'Two men shot Rohit at a traffic stop.' 

'Is he dead?' 

'Yes.' 

Deepa fell back on the sofa. Relief flickered through her before the tears came. 

Manish caught the look. So she'd had enough of Rohit. His womanising. She had known.  

'Where are the children?' 

'In school.'  

She cupped her open mouth. 'What happened?' 

'We don’t know,' said Manish. 

'What do you mean, you don't know?' 

'We are investigating.'

'They can't get away.' 

'Absolutely.' 

Tears clung to her eyelids. 

'Prashant said he will come next week. You don’t have to worry. He will look after everything.'

'Where is Rohit now?'

'In the mortuary. There will be a post-mortem. If you need any help, please call me.'

'When will they release the body?' 

'Most probably, tomorrow.' 

She stood up, went and touched the statue of Lord Ganesha in an alcove. 'Thank you,' she whispered. 

He called out his number. Deepa entered it into her mobile.

Manish gently pulled the door shut. Tough lady.  

Deepa entered the bedroom and opened the steel almirah. She looked for the bank passbooks in the safe. There were two: State Bank of India and Bank of Maharashtra. Both accounts had deposits of Rs 10 lakh each. Rohit had kept a file on the top shelf, next to his revolver. 

She brought down the files. She glanced at her mobile. The children would arrive in half an hour.

She checked. Yes, an FD file. Seven certificates in all. A total of  Rs 30 lakhs. The flat and the car belonged to Rohit. She would sell the car. From now on, Uber, auto or train.

Deepa put the files back, shut the almirah and called her sister and mother. She stared at her palms. The children would be devastated. It would not be easy to live in this city without a man. Men would start hitting on her once they knew she had become a widow.  

She pressed her face into her hands. Rohit's savings. It would protect her and the children. Would it be enough? She closed her eyes. How he would giggle whenever she caressed his nipples. 'I feel ticklish,' he'd say. She smiled despite herself. That peck on her cheek when he said,  'Deepa, going weightlifting. Bye.' How she loved to run her hands over him when they lay next to each other on the bed. The ease with which he could lift her up and kiss her. Who would hold her now?  

Rohit. The name she called every day for 16 years. Her parents had come with the proposal. 'Not very educated. But he is earning well.' He belonged to the same caste. She said yes. What if she did not get another good proposal? No doubt Rohit looked after them materially. The clothes for the children and her. A gold necklace. Holidays to Alibaug and Goa. But there were his kinky demands. Anal sex. 

She begged him. 'Rohit, it's painful.'

'Use the jelly more.' 

'Can't we have sex the usual way?' 

Many times, she could not sit for long. 

No matter what time he came, or whether she was tired or not, he had to have a session. Insatiable. Despite all those women. 

The bell rang. The children had returned. Daughter Manisha and son Jitin. Manisha in Class 12. Jitin in Class 10. She set the table for vada pav, khanda baji and ginger tea. How to tell them? 

Let my Aai do it. 

She sipped her tea. 

Sunita's call came back to her. 'Rohit comes to our building.' 

'For what?' 

'There's a call girl on the second floor.' 

Deepa drew in her breath. 'How often?' 

'Almost every day.'

When she confronted Rohit, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. 'That Sunita is crazy. There are offices in that building. I go there for work.' 

Some weeks later, Sunita called. 'The girl has left.'

'Where?' 

'I don't know.' 

She walked to the washbasin, spat and washed her mouth. But as her friend Lata had said, 'Every man has something good and bad in him.' 

There was his radiant smile whenever he saw the children. How they jumped up and down when he came home. 'Papa, Papa.' He hugged them and pulled at their cheeks. He walked on all fours, with them balanced on his back. 'When I was a child, Usha Aaji would take me like this with Shobha Atya.' 

That conversation with Usha, before she passed away suddenly, at sixty-two, of a heart attack. 

'His father was a weak man. Never earned properly. I had to work as a maid.' 

'Who looked after the children?' 

'My mother. She was a widow.' 

Deepa swallowed silently.  

And it was Shobha who told Deepa one day, 'Rohit is not a businessman. He works for an underworld gang.'

'Does he kill people?'

'No. He collects money from rich businessmen. If they resist, he only points a gun.' 

'How are you so sure he hasn't killed anybody?'

'He swore in the name of Lord Ganesh.' 

'Is that enough?' 

Shobha became silent, as she sipped the cup of masala tea that Deepa had made. 

After Manish stepped out of Rohit’s house, he received a call. It was a member of the rival gang. 

'We heard the police had arrested Prashant.'

'What are you saying?' 

The man repeated it. 

'I don't know about it,' Manish said.

He called Prashant’s landline number. Ashok, the servant, said, 'Hanh, Manish Bhai, the entire gang has been arrested.' 

Manish stepped into a roadside hotel and ordered tea. He sat silently for a few minutes.  

He switched off his mobile and threw the SIM card into a drain outside. He headed to a house in Andheri and let himself in with a key. 

The two men were sitting on the edge of the bed, watching TV.

'Show me the bag.'

He counted the money. ‘Shit. It was supposed to be Rs 3 crore.’

He pointed his revolver at them. 'Is this the money?'

The boys fell at his feet.

One of them said, 'Sir, we did not even open the bag. Please believe us.'

Their tone. His years of experience. They were telling the truth. For some reason, Sunil had given Rohit less than he had promised. 

'Okay,' he said. 'Get up.'

He gave them Rs 20 lakh. 'Go back to Uttar Pradesh or Nepal.'

'Yes, Sir.' 

'If you don’t want to get caught, stay underground for one or two years.'

'After that, can we return?' 

'That's a risk you have to take.' 

They put the cash in suitcases and left.

Rohit dead. Prashant and gang in jail. Where the hell was Sunil? Would they come after him? 

He wanted to find out about Sunil. But he had no phone now. 

At 8:30 p.m., Manish entered an unreserved compartment of the Kolkata-bound Jnaneshwari Express. His suitcase contained the remaining money, his revolver, and some clothes. 

As he lay down on the berth, he shut his eyes. That Sunday night flashed before his eyes. He had pasted a wiretap across his chest, put on a shirt and gone to spend time with Prashant and the others. Sunday lunch. Prashant had invited the gang for drinks and lunch. 

'Arre yaar, feel free,' he told Manish on the phone. 'My wife and kids had gone to her parents' home in Satara. Two weeks. Lots of screwing to be done.'

Manish laughed. 'Sure.' 

His heart thudded as he climbed to the fourth floor. When he entered, most of them were there. 

Prashant shook his hand. 'What do you want?' 

He pointed at the cabinet. Whisky, rum, brandy. He filled a glass of brandy with soda. On the low table, plates of pakoras, cutlets, and chicken legs. 

'Manohar's shipment of gold from Dubai has been stuck,' said Prashant. 

'How?' said Govind. 

'I spoke to Manohar. He fears somebody snitched.' 

His knees knocked against each other. 'Snitches should be killed,' said Manish in a loud voice. 

Prashant gave a thumbs up. 'Not killed. Slaughtered. Cut up like a chicken.'

Manish's throat turned dry. He went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water from the cistern. He drank it in one gulp.  

Manish spoke about past murders, bootlegging and extorting builders. He deliberately mentioned names. Then the conversation drifted to the many women they had slept with. 

'You could have brought your woman?' Prashant said. 

'Maybe, another time.' 

'I'm told she is a bomb.' 

The others laughed. Govind said, 'He spends all his money on that cunt.' 

Reluctantly, Manish said, 'Yeah. Quite good.' 

One decent thing about Prashant. He never tried to seduce girlfriends of his team.

An urge to urinate. Inside the toilet, he washed his face. Wiped it with his handkerchief. Looked at himself in the mirror. The word, Snitch, rocked his mind.

When he returned home, he listened to the recordings. 'Perfect,' he murmured. 

On his laptop, he transferred the recordings to a pen drive. He sealed the envelope with trembling hands. He went to the courier office. Paid the money. It would be sent to the Crime Branch office. Outside, his chest heaved. His future was sealed. Good or bad? He'd find out soon enough.   

'Meals, meals, meals,' a man yelled as he walked down the corridor. Manish gestured. He bought a packet of chicken biryani, sat cross-legged and began to eat. 

Thoughts ricocheted through his mind. That day, when he had gone to spend some time at his sister's home. His niece Alpana had asked, 'Mama, what do you do?'

For a moment he stared at her. I kill people. I destroyed so many families. I steal money that other people make. 'Alpana, I work in an office.'   

He scratched his chin. 

No peace of mind. Prashant would never let me leave. I had to sink all of them. 

His decision to not marry. It had broken his parents' hearts. And in the last two years, they had passed. First Aai. Then Papa.   

In Kolkata, he would get plastic surgery. His snub nose would be straightened. The chin cleft closed. He would shave off his hair and wear a wig.

A fake Aadhaar card and ration card. 

He would open accounts in several banks and deposit the money over one-and-a-half months, so that it aroused no suspicion.

Then on to the Sevashram in Bolpur, 160 km from Kolkata. A monk. Clean himself of all his sins. 

He got the idea after he read the Hindi translation of the book, 'The Autobiography of a Yogi' by Paramahansa Yogananda. Negative karma. That's what he had. Maybe he was being stupid. And the gang might come after him. Who knows? Prashant might suspect something once he was found to be missing. 

At Arthur Road prison, Deepak told Prashant, ''Why don't you call Manish? He's the only one outside.'  

Prashant managed to get a phone by bribing a constable. 

He called Manish. He got the automated response: 'The number you are calling is currently unreachable. Please try later.'

Prashant hit the wall with his fist. 'Damn.' 

Deepak said, 'Maybe, he's been arrested.' 

Prashant nodded. 'Maybe.' 

He added, 'If that builder Sunil does not come to meet me in prison, I'm going to give a supari.'  

The train gathered speed. The rattle of the wheels became monotonous. 

He finished his biriyani. Threw the plate in the bin under the washbasin. Washed his hands. Lay down again. 

In his flat, every night. Blood-soaked dead faces screaming, 'Why did you kill me?' He turned from side to side. Sweat on his forehead. The flat empty. No option but to take sleeping pills. How many times could you have sex, buy new clothes, buy another car? The others had families to look after. He had no one. His mistress. She'd think about the lost income. Then move on. 

But could he? 

(This story was originally published in kitaab.org. This is a reworked version)

War Minus The Shooting

By Shevlin Sebastian

COLUMN: Tunnel Of Time

When Uruguay, the last South American side, went out of the 2010 World Cup, our hearts were truly broken. It was going to be an all-European final on Sunday: Spain Vs Holland. Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay, Chile, and Ghana: by losing they made us bleed. Why do we Indians root for these countries? It is primarily because their football is free-flowing and magical.

When Lionel Messi of Argentina is given the space to move around, his ball control is dazzling. The 'zero angle' goal that Brazilian right-back Maicon scored against North Korea was breathtaking.

There is a joy which one experiences in the face of such wonderful skills, shown especially by the South Americans. Then you remember the tough backgrounds that most of them came from. Argentine forward, Carlos Tevez, like the great Diego Maradona, grew up in a crime-ridden neighbourhood in Buenos Aires. Both surmounted formidable hurdles to make a mark on the international stage.

On the other hand, look at the Europeans. Many European nations have excellent football academies, top-notch coaches, and some of the richest domestic leagues in the world. They enjoy advantages that footballers in poorer nations do not.

During the quarter-final between Argentina and Germany, at Cape Town, we saw how the free-flowing creative skills of the South Americans were stymied by clever strategy, and the indomitable willpower of the Europeans.

This match created a moment of introspection. Should we follow the Eastern way, of treating life like a river and going along with the flow, which is what the late spiritual leader Osho had suggested, or should we follow the European method: have aims and goals, plan your strategies, and be ruthless.

A football match is also a metaphor for our daily lives. You are moving in society, showing good skills, but there are people lurking about, at the side, in front, and at the back, who are ready to trip you. You dribble past one, two, and even three adversaries, but it is inevitable that you will get tripped and fall. But you stand up again, and the attempts at tripping continue. Sometimes, those who do the ‘paara’ (Malayalam word for tripping) are exposed. They are shown the red card, and asked to leave the field.

But the dilemma continues: what does one do when faced with non-stop aggression? Keep calm and work your way around the antagonist? Or kick back at the foe and risk the danger of getting a yellow or a red card?

There are no clear-cut answers because life is messy, just as when a player moves forward with the ball, he faces messy situations. But here is how author George Orwell analysed the game of football, and, in an indirect way, life: “Sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence: in other words it is War Minus The Shooting!”

(Published in The New Indian Express, Kerala, on July 10, 2010)