The Crime Branch was given the Kadalil case in the second week of March. For a week prior to that, the health workers in charge of contact tracing had struggled with the case. The order came from the highest level. Kadalil was too close to the capital and the government wanted to rule out any hint of community transmission, especially given their lapses in the preceding weeks.
There was the usual round of pass the parcel that comes with cases that the Branch considers below its standard. One, no one had died, so far. Two, they were not too keen to dirty their hands with the virus, literally and figuratively. Three, they knew that the case could get dirty in other ways too.
The Branch decided to delegate it to a ‘special’ team created, and only temporarily affiliated to the Branch, for the case. Circle Inspector Shokie was not surprised when her team was chosen. She was one of the best for the job but there must have been other reasons. She had too many superiors, in the police force and in the political circles, who dreamt of the day when they would be served her head on a platter.
Her good deeds of the past are coming out from the grave to haunt her, the young sage-like but excited Constable Antony said to the older miffed but silent Sub-Inspector Shajeeb. Those two have been with Shokie the last two years.
Kadalil is an hour’s drive from the capital. On February 27, two people there tested positive for the coronavirus (aka covid-19) after exhibiting mild symptoms. They lived a kilometre apart. They did not seem to know each other. They had no history of foreign travel, and no known contact with people affected by the virus. Not even with several degrees of separation. Those two were the only cases in Kadalil but given the mystery, curfew was imposed.
The media cried itself hoarse. ‘Is this the start of community transmission?’ ‘Is this our end?’
(For obvious reasons, the names of the patients cannot be divulged here or anywhere.)
One is a retired (but from what, no one really knows) gentleman of sixty two, a man with strong opinions and a confusing disposition of appearing serious and humourous, wicked and honest at the same time. The retired, we will call him.
The other is a school teacher, a lady of fifty. She sports a hairstyle that was fashionable decades earlier. She must have been pleasant then. When she reads Hamlet even Shakespeare sees his father’s ghost, that’s the cryptic description of her apparently harassed students. Her title is, of course, the teacher.
“The two have only one thing in common,” the health workers passed on their conclusion to Shokie, “they have the ‘set-up’ to be cast as villains in a supporting role in any movie. They are not anti-social but they give it good company.”
At half past eight in the morning, Shokie’s team reported to the District Collector and the Superintendent of Police at the former’s office. They were given an office near the Covid centre, a stand-alone one bedroom-hall-kitchen cottage which was to be their residential quarters too.
Shokie was non-committal about Kadalil. Shajeeb seemed pleased with the place, “Just like my village-town.” Antony frowned, “Just like mine too.”
Even though the interview reports of the health workers were exhaustive and complete, Shokie decided that they should interview the two patients. All three of us, Antony enquired. Any other plans, his senior asked. He shrugged. He wasn’t too keen about entering the centre, not particularly because of the virus. The sweaty sartorial of the PPE was a deterrent. But he saw a positive in it, society could look more equal if everyone dressed in PPE.
The doctor-in-charge greeted them at the entrance, excused himself rather quickly after giving them directions to the two rooms. There were only two patients in the whole centre, and they were at opposite ends of a corridor.
Shokie decided to interview the retired first. The three stopped outside the door. The man inside was talking to someone on his phone, hands-off and in speaker-mode.
“Yentha samshayam, ninney poley meythanmaar thanney ethu yenikku thannathu,” the retired said angrily. (“No doubts at all, Muslims like you only gave me this.”)
Listening to that, Shokie nodded her head with a smile. Her team members noticed that even with the PPE masking most of the face. Later, Antony would tell the team that Shajeeb had observed his superior’s expression with the look of a student whose favourite teacher had been caught in derelicto flagrante for paedophilia. The mild-mannered Shajeeb would not reveal that Antony’s expression then had been that of the one at the blunt end.
They continued to listen to the conversation on the phone.
“Ado, yellavarum kuttapedutha alley...oru munkoor jaamyam poley onnu maappu parayaan vicharichenney ullu,” the man at the other end replied. (“Oye, everyone’s accusing, right...like an anticipatory bail, just thought of apologising, that’s all.”)
“Ninney poley viddi meythanmaar aanu prashnam,” the retired grumbled. (“Idiotic Muslims like you are the problem.”)
“Uvvey, viddi kottigal alley nammudey Gurukkal,” the other chuckled. (“Oh yes, idiotic Ezhavas are our mentors.”)
“Nee viddi kottigaley patti maathram samsaarikkallu!” the retired protested. (“Idiotic Ezhavas...that is the one topic you should not talk about!”)
Note: Only close friends who understand each other well would address each other with words like “meythanmaar” and “kottigal”. The politically correct lot would not even allow it to be used in self-deprecating humour used to attack rather than side with the social menace of religion and caste.
“Yevide ninnaado nee ethu pidichathu...nee nammude koottathil vannayirunno?” the other asked. (“From where did you catch this...did you come to our meeting?”)
“Yennu?” (“When?”)
“Athaanu yenikku pidikittaathathu. Njan thanney oru kootathilum ee edakku poyittilla yennu thonunnu. Hai...yennayirunnu njan...Pongalakku palliyudey annadhaanam undayirunnu...nee athinu vallathum cheytho?” the other said. (“That’s what I can’t understand. Even I have not been attending meetings lately. Hai...when did I...on the day of the Pongala there was the community kitchen organized by the mosque...did you do anything for that?”)
“Ethinu edayil Pongala...vattanmaar...” the retired said. (“Pongala in the middle of this...crazy people...”)
“Mindathirikkada... Pongalakku poyavar sugam aanallo...” the other retorted. (“Shut up...those who participated in the Pongala are ok...”)
“Nee ee shavathil kuthuga aano...avarudey thozhi kittumbozhum?” the retired asked. (“Are you poking at this corpse...even when they are beating you up?”)
“Manushyan mathangaley srishttichu, mathangal daivangaley srishttichu,” the other sang the first two lines of Vayalar’s song. (“Man created religions, religions created gods.”)
“Daivom pennungaley srishttichu,” the retired sang to the same tune. (“God created women.”)
“Ado, sathyam para...neeyum aa pennum valla pazhaya connection undo?” the other asked. (“Oye, tell the truth...do you have any old connection with that female?”)
“Yenikku balamaaya samshayam neeyum avalum koodi aanu ethu yenikku thannathu,” the retired replied. (“My strong suspicion is you and her together gave me this.”)
“Sshhh...beewi appurathu kaanum. Naattukaaru thallunathu kozhappam ella, pakshey avaludey thallu sahikkaan pattathilla,” the other said. (Sshhh...my wife must be close by. It is ok to get thrashed by the community, but her beating I can’t bear.”)
The two laughed and disconnected the call.
Shokie knocked on the door and they entered. They introduced themselves, Shokie in English, the other two in Malayalam.
“Do you prefer English?” the retired asked Shokie. She nodded. “Do you understand Malayalam?” She nodded again. “Of course, why else would you eavesdrop?”
“Who was that on the phone?” Shokie asked, ignoring his observation.
“Mirza,” the retired replied warily. She noted down Mirza’s contact details. He scowled at them. “You lot won’t harass him, right?”
“Friends for long?” Shokie asked.
“What do you reckon after eavesdropping for so long?” the retired retorted. “We were together in primary school. He broke my front tooth during kabaddi. I am still collecting compensation with...” He stopped, mentally kicking himself.
“Do you think we are bothered about what you two do?” Shokie said.
“He gets these beedis from Orissa...what stuff...” the retired said.
Then, they proceeded with the interview. The retired told them that he had mild symptoms and that he must have caught it sometime in the last two weeks. They went through his route map. For the most part, the retired was forthcoming with details. But, as if it was a natural instinct, he was reticent at times, especially with regard to private matters. And, more than once, he seemed to take them for a ride. The police team played along.
As they were about to leave, the retired asked, “Is this a government policy now...this Amar Akbar Antony act?”
“Of course...do you think I will team up with a meythan and a Pentecost otherwise?” Shokie replied with a wink.
“Of course not...” the retired laughed. “By the way, could you let me know how she and I caught it?”
“How did you know that the other patient is a lady?” Shokie asked. “The newspapers have not revealed that info.”
“Seriously...?” the retired chuckled, “in Kadalil? Just ask at some tea-stall...I am sure they will have our medical history, they might even know what you are looking for.”
Without much hope, Shokie decided to go against the rules. From the files, she took out a photo of the teacher. “Do you know her?”
The retired studied it for a while before shaking his head. “Looks familiar but can’t place her,” he said.
The three left him and went to the room of the teacher. They knocked, this time waited for the person inside to tell them to enter. They were not surprised to find her sitting erect against a pillow, with a shawl covering the hospital wear. She looked a bit pale. On the table next to her, there was a leather-bound Bible and the novel, Crime and Punishment.
For a moment, Shokie thought of joking about the selection of books. She reminded herself that she was with the more formidable teacher and not the mentally taxing retired.
This time, Shokie decided not to wait to beak the rules. She showed the teacher a photo of the retired. “Do you know him?”
“Aren’t you breaking the law by divulging his identity?” the teacher asked.
“In Kadalil?” Shokie decided to remain in control as much as she could. “Surely, that must be public info.”
“That does not excuse your action, does it?” the teacher said.
“You have not answered my question, Madam.”
The teacher stared at Shokie for a while, then looked at the photo briefly. “Familiar face. Does he have a shop in the market?”
Shokie continued with her questions.
Later, the three officers would agree that they felt as if they were the ones being interviewed.
Not that the teacher did not provide answers. It is just that the sterile answers which bore resemblance to the fine print on financial documents did not seem to get them anywhere.
Only as they were leaving did the teacher make some social contact.
She asked Antony, “Why have you stopped going to church regularly?”
Antony stuttered and fumbled. He promised the teacher that he would get his act in order as soon as the case was over. She clucked disapprovingly.
A little later, out of the PPE and the centre’s compound, Antony was ribbed by the other two about him getting his act in order.
“Geez, those two! One, a social anti-social and the other an anti-social social,” Antony exclaimed. His seniors agreed with him. “And, how did she know that about me?”
“Did we get anything we didn’t know?” Shajeeb asked Shokie.
Shokie muttered, “Familiar, my foot. Those two know each other.”
“We can’t use the third degree on them,” Shajeeb stated the obvious, more for Antony’s sake.
“Not even that will work on those two,” Shokie said.
They took a brief break for coffee and sandwiches (the constantly gastronomically challenged Antony had thought of packing that). The canteen at the Centre catered only to those within.
“Do we have the call details of their phones?” Shokie asked.
“Yes,” Shajeeb replied, “the health workers had gone through the calls they made and received in the last one month. And the associated tower locations, too. These two must be the last ones on the planet to keep their mobile phones immobile. They do not carry it outside their residence.”
“I want the list of calls for the last three months.”
“Three? For what?”
“Just a hunch,” Shokie said, “tell the data center to also collect the details of calls from the teacher’s school and also from that friend Mirza’s phone. Tell them to check for any common numbers.”
“But, that will take ages,” Shajeeb said.
“Even I can write a program to search for that data quickly, I think,” Shokie replied.
Her two juniors made a mental note to pick up computing skills. Whenever their boss said “Even I...”, it was to tell them that they should get to know their adversaries and their methods a little better. That is why Antony learned how to distill illicit liquor. And now, Shajeeb could pick most locks even though he preferred the old-fashioned way of breaking down doors.
The three split up to cover the long list of possible but mostly improbable points of contacts. They had worked together long enough to know which task suited whose area of expertise. Shokie had only one piece of advice for the other two.
“The health workers have been thorough with the contact tracing. But they must have concentrated on the recent past. Try to delve deeper.”
Shajeeb visited the houses near the two patients’ places of residence. As expected, the people were polite, helpful, reserved, time-consuming and quite useless. Even if the people of Kadalil knew anything relevant to the case, they would consider it a sacrilege to share that with him, Shajeeb realized. “Just like my village,” he thought,
Only one house deserved more of his time. The house of the retired was not visible from the ground floor of this house. The residents were two middle-aged men (“we came back to Kerala only few years back, now we repair everything, do anything, he is into high-grade Venetian blinds, are you interested, sir?”) and a young lad from the North. It was still mid-afternoon and the two men were a little drunk. They were very apologetic about it (“what else to do?”). They invited Shajeeb to have lunch with them. Shajeeb declined the offer (thinking, “Antony should have dealt with their lunch and drinks”) and asked them to continue with their meal during the interview. They told him that that were having it on the first floor terrace (“only part of the house with fresh air and wind”). The two men sat at a rickety table, the liquor bottle beneath. The young lad who must have cooked sat at a distance precariously balanced on a ledge. They had chapathi, rice, vegetable curry and fish fry.
Shajeeb viewed the area around. “Is that the house?” he asked.
“Yes sir, his bedroom is on the ground floor. That one on the first floor must be a guest room.”
“Have you been to his house?”
“He is not our type, sir. A bit crazy, he keeps to himself.”
Shajeeb let the discussion meander. The men were curious about the process of contact tracing. Shajeeb told them what he knew. Despite his stocky bulk and aggressive handlebar moustache, Shajeeb was the one in the team others found most social. The two men discussed the situation in Europe and elsewhere. (“I read that sex toys are selling like anything in places like New Zealand and Sweden. Maybe, that’s how it spreads.”, “Oye, people don’t share that!”, “Don’t they, sir?”)
Once in a while, Shajeeb steered the discussion back to the retired.
“He is the wrong sort, sir. People say he came back from abroad totally loony,” one man said.
“Sir, I don’t want to get him into any trouble, especially now when he has the virus, but, sir, I think he is into young girls,” the other said.
“Come on, she is not that young,” his partner objected.
“What, she must be barely twenty now and we have been seeing her there ever since we came here. She must have been fifteen then. She comes and goes, never for more than a night.”
“When did she come here last?” Shajeeb asked.
“Oh, that was long back...more than a month, right?” one man said.
“Long before the virus came here,” the other said.
The men tried to describe the young lady but the description could have matched any girl from the state. Shajeeb asked the lad if he had seen her. It took a bit of cajoling. Shajeeb tried to win his confidence by suggesting that he wasn’t averse to peeping at neighbours even now and that he had done lots worse when he was younger. The lad seemed to be the sensitive kind and was offended by the suggestion he was in the same category. Shajeeb backtracked and begged for any information, even claiming that it could be a matter of life and death. The lad replied that the girl seemed to be fidgety, or restless, all the time. “She was always walking from one end of a room to the next, alone or with company.” Shajeeb felt like saying that his wife suffered from the same. Instead, he asked if the retired and the young girl slept together. Once again, the lad’s mood turned dark. He shrugged a little later and grumbled that he could not see what happened there after the lights were switched off.
There was not much more Shajeeb could learn from them. He left the area and went to that of the teacher. He asked the neighbours if they had seen a young lady with the teacher. The neighbours who felt that he wouldn’t go away without any information told him that old students visited the teacher often. Shajeeb decided to call it a day after that.
Meanwhile, Antony had concentrated on the shops the two patients could have visited. The health workers had interviewed that lot. Their focus had been on possible ‘foreign’ contacts in these establishments. Antony decided to focus on the personal and, as suggested by Shokie, over a longer duration.
As was the case with Shajeeb, it was mostly unproductive and tiring legwork. “To delve deeper” added space and time to the complex search. One shop led to another, one house to the next, sometimes it was one step forward and two steps back, some people thought another would have the information and they had to wait only to be told they were misinformed. Some houses and shops seemed vacant and had to be forced to open. Most were just reluctant. Then, there were the youngsters who thought they had to send any person of authority on a wild-goose chase. On top of it, everyone had to wear mask and maintain a proper distance. Hospitality was in suspended motion. It seemed wrong to even ask for a glass of water.
Most of the shops were closed and when contacted at home, the shop owners were a grumpy lot. Antony allowed them to grumble about the lockdown and how they preferred to die with the virus rather than face economic disaster. But, without Shajeeb’s patience, sensitivity and sensibility, Antony did not allow it to go beyond a sentence or two. The grumpy had little else to offer. They knew the identity of the patients, “of course”, and all they had to say was “those two are not the type who mix with people”.
Antony managed to gather only two scraps of information that was different.
The first was at a dark joint named Ching Lung, supposedly the only Chinese restaurant in Kadalil. Antony wasn’t hoping to find a quick end to the mystery with the discovery of an infected Chinese from Wuhan. But, for reasons unknown, he was sure he would find something there. He had to bang on the shutter for a long while before it was raised a little. Antony muttered “police” and the reception became more effusive. The proprietor-cum-cook, a Tamilian from Salem, lived on the premises (“wife and kids have gone back to village, sir”). His grumble was more polite. As for the patients, he did not know the teacher. The retired was a customer, “home-delivery, gives generous tip”. Antony remembered then why he had had the premonition about finding some clue at that establishment.
“Do you actually know how to make Peking Duck? Or, is that on the menu card stuck outside for show like the faux Chinese fittings here?” Antony asked.
The proprietor looked pained. “Sir, I started cooking Chinese because of that dish.” Antony tried hard not to look impressed. The lament continued, “But, the people here have no taste. All they want is Chicken 65, as if that is Chinese, and Prawn Fried Rice.” Antony nodded like a fellow sufferer. “I would have made it for you now, sir, if times were different.” They observed a minute’s silence.
“That retired chap,” the cook exclaimed, “he was the only one who ordered that. And always that, that too with my authentic pancake and salad. I remember how I tried to teach him how to eat Peking duck in rolled pancakes, you know,” Antony nodded, “but he said he learned that in Chinatown in London.”
“When was he in London?” Antony asked.
“Oh, long back, I think. The rumour is that he was some big shot there but he returned from there a basket case.”
Antony thought for a while. He then asked to see the recent orders of the retired. Silently, he jotted down the dates and also the orders. The last order was placed a little more than two weeks before the retired came down with the infection. The one prior to that was more than two months before that.
“Isn’t this too much for one person?” Antony thought aloud.
“Maybe, he likes to eat it over a few days.”
They shared a look that said that that would be a sin as far as the food was concerned.
“Did you see any visitor when you delivered?” Antony asked.
The cook shrugged.
Antony stepped outside, unsure about what he should do next. He walked the kilometre or so to the shops near the teacher’s residence. He surveyed the silent, deserted street. He spotted some activity at a corner. By the time he got there, the half dozen who had been there had scooted and it looked like just another closed shop.
Antony banged on the shutter of the State-owned beverage store. “I know you are in there. Open up.”
At a small opening near the counter, a man in tears begged for mercy. “Sir, sir, my family is starving. Some loan sharks are out to get me.”
Antony stared at the man. That was why he had not been going to church lately, he thought. How many times have I begged in front of God like this?
“Stop this immediately. You are a Government employee. Don’t you know what will happen to you?” Antony growled.
Neither of them seemed too sure about those words of warning. Antony was about to retrace his steps back to the street when he decided to interview the chap, more for completeness than for anything else. After all, the man had evaded his first round earlier, mainly because Antony had assumed that the teacher would have nothing to do with a liquor shop.
Antony asked the man if he knew the patients. The man shook his head. Once again, Antony was ready to wrap up the interview. He was tired.
Exasperated, he asked, “Is that shaking meant to be yes or no?”
The man thought about that for a while. He wasn’t in the best of state, Antony decided.
“Sir, that crazy man never bought from here. He’s into foreign liquor.”
“Hmmm...” Antony closed his notebook and stepped back, wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“Sir, the teacher never came here but I used to send my boy with a bottle of brandy whenever she called me.”
“Was she a regular drinker?” Antony could not hide his surprise.
“Oh no, it was for making fruit cake, sir. She used half a bottle for every cake she baked. Her cake is simply terrific. My boy is her student, you know, in school. She gave us a cake two weeks back.”
“I thought she wasn’t the friendly kind.”
“That is all show, sir. She is like the rest of us. There’s some tragedy behind it all.”
“What tragedy?”
The man shook his head. Either he didn’t know or he was not ready to divulge anything about her.
“Did she always give you a cake?” Antony tried another tack.
“She gave my boy a huge piece every time, the day after she baked,” the man smiled, “they have some understanding about that.”
“Then, why a full cake this time?”
“I don’t know, sir. My boy said she looked very upset about something. And she wanted my boy to have it. She said something to him...what was it...a family should have it or something like that.”
Antony felt excited with this second scrap of information, though uncertain about its usefulness.
He recollected the earlier clue at Ching Lung. He asked the man, “When did she ask for a bottle of brandy prior to this?”
“Oh, that must be long back...two three months, at least.”
“Don’t you have a record of the sale?” Antony asked.
The man smiled sheepishly and shook his head.
Note: In this story, some dialogue in the vernacular has been presented in English. That is partly because nothing is lost in translation, perhaps. And, of course, the author’s laziness has to be blamed.
Antony scratched his head and thought for long. He decided to return to his team.
It had been a long strenuous day. They returned to their ‘office’ around eight. They were tired, hungry and in need of a shower.
Shajeeb was infuriated, and equally pleased, to find his wife Shameem waiting for him at the cottage, a large multi-compartment tiffin next to her.
“Nee evidey...yenganey?” he growled. (“You here...how?”)
She pointed at her scooter. He scowled at her. She explained that she had had no problems at the police checkpoints with the pass provided by Antony. The young man got his share of dark looks from his senior.
Antony approached to take the tiffin inside. He raised his eyebrows.
“Paththiri with chicken roast and salad. Some stuff that should last till tomorrow too,” she said.
“Chicken roast...Kerala style? With ghee, coconut oil or Saffola?” Antony enquired.
“Poda chekka...nindodu shaappaadu samsaaram thudangiyaal adi aagum,” Shameem took over her husband’s growl. (“Get lost, boy...if we start a discussion about food, there will be a fight.”)
She continued, “Shirleyye, evaney kettikkunnilley?” (“Shirley, not getting him married?”)
“What do you have against women?” Shokie muttered.
Shajeeb put a stop to the chatter and told his wife to scoot. He asked softly if she had eaten. He told her to be careful.
Note: Shokie’s name is Shirley Koker. She was born on a rainy day with mud and only mud everywhere. Her mother recalled some brave woman of the epics born from Mother Earth and whispered to her new-born, “Cheliyiley Shirley.” (“Shirley from the mud.”) As if that was not enough burden for the baby to carry, her father decided that her surname should be her mother’s name, Komalam K. Raghavan, abbreviated fashionably as Koker. With such a beginning her fate was predetermined, Antony concluded. A hack and a fan shortened her name to Shirlok. It was a politician who was slapped by her that called her Shokie. It was meant to be an insult. She wore it like a medal.
The three freshened up and enjoyed a quiet, filling dinner before getting down to business.
Shajeeb and Antony described their day and meagre findings to their quiet, dark chief.
“Good, fine job,” Shokie said at the end.
“I didn’t do as much. Just walked around Kadalil. Interesting place, interesting history. Did you notice the cliff and the structure on top? I walked to the top.” Her juniors nodded, bemused. “Kadalil was a peaceful place once with two families that served the royals well. Then, there was the murder of a visiting royal. And all hell broke loose. I found this info on the web, in a post titled Buried Gods. First, the families fought with each other. As to be expected, everyone got involved in the massacre. Then, they focused on an outsider suspected of being the murderer of the royal. They never got him. So, they took it out on all outsiders. You should see the beach on the other side of the cliff, as if it’s stained red and black by the killings. And, they built that structure to remember the massacre, the sacrifice for their gods.”
She continued, “They still believe that the outsider returns every year, bringing with him trouble. They call him the Man of the Hill.”
The two juniors could not understand why Shokie was telling them that tale. Or why she wasted time climbing a cliff.
“I thought,” Shokie said, “they met there.” Her juniors leaned forward. “If I want to meet anyone privately here, it would be there. That is the only place the people of Kadalil avoid.”
“Did they met there?” Antony asked.
Shokie shrugged. “All I found are old remains of pungent beedi or cheroot. The retired could have been there but I have no clue to the presence of the teacher.”
“She is not exactly the type to litter,” Shajeeb said.
“Anyway,” Shokie continued, “from there, it was more of our regular kind of legwork and gathering of information. You two have already found out most of it.”
“Antony, didn’t you hear about the teacher’s tragedy? I visited her school, met the Principal who lives on campus. He did not reveal anything. The ground staff still there would have been more helpful but they were scared of the Principal. I found out some of her senior students, especially the ones who were regularly disciplined by her or the Principal. The crazy school keeps a lookout notice naming such students on the board outside the Principal’s office. Reminded me of my school days.”
Antony joined in the collective shudder.
“Those kids were quite helpful. There is one who is regularly in trouble with the teacher. Strangely, he is really fond of her. Like a mother, he says. He told me that she must have been like them when young. There is talk of some old affair gone wrong and how she turned a bitter self after that. That’s all that they knew.”
“You two have heard of the retired described as crazy and that he had had some such episode in the past. I tried my luck with the best psychologist in Kadalil. But she had never treated the retired. Not surprising, I thought. I expanded my search area. Found the one who treated him. He has his practice in the city. But now, he is stuck with his kid in Saudi Arabia. I managed to talk to him. At first, he refused to even confirm that the retired was a patient. Then, admitted that much but stoutly refused to divulge anything else. I asked him if he could tell me anything about the retired that would not breach his doctor-patient confidentiality clause. He thought for a while. Then, he said that Hosappan (the psychologist refers to him that way, picked up from the nephew or someone who brought the retired to the psychologist) is not at all like what he looks. Once, long back, the retired and another patient had to wait for long in the psychologist’s waiting room. The other patient was a deeply troubled orphan who came with a nun for the sessions. Usually, the kid created a racket if she had to wait for long. And, the retired too was an easily agitated person, as he is even now. But, those two somehow hit it off. Nothing terribly close or affectionate. They kept passing to each other what caught their eye in the fashion magazines kept in the waiting room. No talk. No touch. Just that.”
“That’s all he told me.” Shokie paused. “I visited all the churches and convents here. Maybe, Antony should have been there.”
“The last time I was in one of those places, a priest warned me off the premises,” Antony said.
“Why...what did you do there?” Shajeeb asked.
“I confessed.”
His colleagues laughed.
Shokie continued, “They are tougher than the worst criminals we have had to interview.”
“I told them I was there to find if any of them had been in hotspots anywhere in the world. They were of course aware of our team’s purpose here. I collected details of all who lived there and their guests too. One of the convents has a boarding house. The school students have left for home. Only some orphans remain. I went through their guests register. One name kept popping up every two to three months. They told me that she grew up in the convent and now worked in Italy, doing rather well in the fashion industry, in places like Milan and Paris. A prodigy, according to them, and just twenty.”
“I wanted to ask them for details but I knew they would just clam up. All that I got from there was her name in the register.”
“I spent some time on Google, looking at links that mentioned her. She is very private. She has a website but it’s devoted to her work. You two might be able to get more out of that than me.”
“I noticed only one curious thing. Her third fashion show was dedicated to Ma and Pa. No one, not even the journalists who covered the event asked about the Ma and Pa of an orphan from Kadalil. Maybe, she had warned them off that topic. It seems to be no secret that she is a prodigious talent with a mercurial temperament.”
“Around then, it was late evening and just before you two returned, the data center finally called to say there was a number common to Mirza’s number and a phone in the school ladies’ staff room. It was a number in Italy, her number.”
“I called the number the data center gave me. She did not pick up. I tried calling her office. It’s closed because of the lockdown there. I sent a short note stating who I am. And, also mentioned that I would like to talk about her sick Ma and Pa.”
“She replied. Will call you around 12, your time. That’s all.”
“12? Tonight? Tomorrow?” Shajeeb asked.
“Do you think his generation will clarify?” Shokie tilted her head towards Antony.
“I am not twenty,” the young man protested.
“Behaves like one,” Shajeeb poked.
“So,” Antony quickly changed topic, “she must be the one who turned up here two weeks back and infected them. Wow. Case closed.”
“Aren’t you jumping the gun?” Shokie said. “I did not say that her name was in the guests register two weeks back.”
“But, the retired must have ordered the Peking Duck for her,” Antony said.
“But,” Shajeeb stressed, “was she there? The cake was not touched, remember.”
“Let’s wait for her call. One hour to 12. I am going to lie down now,” Shokie said.
She took the sofa in the drawing room. Antony stretched out on the floor. Shajeeb lay down on the bed in the bedroom.
The call came at a quarter past twelve.
“Sorry for the delay. It is a mess here. Sister Brenda is not doing too well,” the young lady said. She spoke fast and as if all was clear to those at the other end.
Shokie put it on speakerphone, introduced herself and the other two.
The young lady was less patient. “What do you want to know?”
“Could you tell us about your Ma and Pa?” Shokie asked.
“Don’t you know everything about us by now. I talked to them on the phone after I got your message. They told me that you are smart. That was the first time I called them on their phone. From now on, we don’t have to hide. If we survive this...”
Even though it seemed improper, Shokie did not reveal that they knew little apart from mere guesses, a Peking Duck and a cake.
“Oh, what the...” the young lady muttered. “I met Pa at a psychologist’s office. He spoke to Sister Brenda that day and asked for an appointment to talk about me. I do not know what all happened. I was just six then and not in the best of state. Neither was he. You could say I was another Pip with a benefactor. He started something like a trust fund for me. All he told me was that he could not be a father again but I could have a little of what a father should give. From that day, I did not have to worry about my financial state. I had money in the bank. He told me that his house and other properties would come to me. He told me to focus on education or whatever I wanted to do. That is how I got a Pa. He never met me alone, till I was much older. He made sure Sister Brenda was there always. When I was fifteen, I threw a tantrum and demanded a sleep-over at his place. He was scared. Sister was too. But I declared that I would stop my studies if I didn’t get that. I stayed with my Pa. I slipped in every two or three months when I needed a bed in a place that felt like home.”
The police team looked at each other, impatient to get to the point. But the girl was talking nineteen to the dozen, possibly her natural self, probably because she had been waiting for such a moment, to come out of the closet in a way.
“Ma was not that easy. I started searching for my mother when I turned ten or so. I asked Sister Brenda. She wouldn’t say. Just like how you must have found me, I went through old guests registers at the convent. I must have been thirteen by then. The year I was born, Ma stayed in the convent for four months. I did not talk to Pa or Sister Brenda about my finding. I managed to trace her and went to Ma’s house. I told her that I am the child she abandoned. She let me finish what I had to say. Well, you know her. She made me sit in a straight-backed chair, served tea and cake. I finished all the cake on the plate. My speech was at least appetising for one. She spoke to me in her clear voice after I was through, with speech and cake. Yes, she stayed in the convent, she admitted. No, she was not pregnant with me. Unfortunately, she added.”
“I felt like a fool. But she was very kind. She did not offer to be my mother or anything. She did not act motherly either. She treated me like an adult capable of taking what life has to throw at her.”
“All she asked me was, do you like the cake. I did, of course. She told me to pop in whenever I felt like having cake. That too happened every month or two.”
“We are very private people. In a place like Kadalil, we somehow managed to escape gossip. And, we stayed away from the phone. Those two are paranoid about the phone. Maybe they are right. But then, you must have found us even without that.”
Shokie thought it was the right time to cut in. Not that they felt sleepy nor that they were short of time. From experience, or whatever, she had some kind of foreboding that something was not right.
“Did you meet them around two weeks back?” Shokie asked.
“I was supposed to be there,” the young lady said, “but that’s when Sister Brenda caught it out here. She was in Rome. I brought her to Milan. It’s a real mess here. The general practitioner won’t come, the hospitals are full, they say Sister is not too serious. Even I seem to have had it mildly. It’s weird...when I caught it here, Ma and Pa caught it there.”
“Do you know if your Ma and Pa got it from someone else, at the convent or someone from there connected to you?” Shokie asked.
“No one else from the convent has stepped outside Kadalil, as far as I know. When Ma got it, I think the authorities there checked those in churches and convents. Right? And, my Ma and Pa are not exactly the type to meet anyone other than me.”
Shokie asked a few more questions about her previous trips before ending the call. She knew it was pointless.
The three sat in silence for a long while.
Antony stated the obvious, “We are back to square one.”
“Why did they meet on top of the hill?” Shajeeb asked.
“If they did...” Shokie shrugged. “Maybe, to talk about their...kid.”
They slipped back into the dark uncomfortable silence.
“Maybe, they caught it from the Man of the Hill,” Shokie muttered with a mirthless laugh.
The other two stared at her.
“The unknown outsider...that’s everyone’s god...or devil...”
