Santosh.
‘So?’ his eyes asked.
‘I…’ Santosh began, then quelled his words, afraid he would have his head bitten off.
‘What? Say it…’
‘I don’t think Razak has anything to do with the Liaquat murder. His enemies are not gang lords. He’s just a petty case rowdy!’
‘We say homicide. Not murder. That’s a constable’s language.’
Santosh swallowed.
‘But that apart, you are right. Razak was a dead end. So, Sub-inspector Santosh, we are back to square one. Think, think … I am sure you will see something I have missed. You have it in you…’
The words of praise were a shower of rose petals. Santosh felt the caress of a million pink lips on his upturned face and then like a slap of cold water he heard Gowda say, ‘That is, if you stick to police matters and not silly things like how many buttons of my shirt are open.’
Santosh’s brother, the author, called it the most Indian of traits: the penultimate paragraph of condemnation. As though we are unable to allow undivided praise for anything without adding an ‘if only’ clause. It was a congenital fault among Indians, his brother claimed. At this moment, Santosh was inclined to agree.
Gowda went home early. He would call in for a pizza, he decided. A new pizza place had opened on Hennur Road and was making home deliveries this far. He didn’t particularly care for pizza himself, finding it too doughy and bland, butRoshan would wolf it down as if he hadn’t seen food for a week.
As the vehicle turned in through the gate, Gowda saw that his Bullet had been moved. He frowned.
He rang the doorbell. From within he could hear the din of a heavy metal band trying to raise their dead ancestors.
‘Should I wait, sir?’ PC David asked, trying to hide his curiosity at the noise that boomed and spilled over into the front yard.
Gowda shook his head. ‘No, you can go back.’
Gowda fished out his key and stuck it into the keyhole. But the door was latched from within. He hammered on the door. There was no response.
Gowda walked around the house and peered through the window into Roshan’s room. The boy had brought the stereo into his room. And he was prancing around in his underwear, head banging!
He tapped on the window. Once. Twice. He felt his irritation compound into rage. He had to tap on the window several times before Roshan noticed his father staring at him.
Gowda didn’t know what triggered it off – the frustration he felt at not knowing what to do next on the manja thread case, the irritation at being locked out of his own house, annoyance at seeing that his Bullet had been used by the boy without even a cursory ‘if I may’, his blocked sinuses, his growling belly, the thought of yet another pointless evening stretching ahead, the emptiness of his bed, the tedium of an everyday that seemed relentless – all of it sent his blood pressure soaring and smashed the last vestige of control.
When Roshan opened the door, Gowda reached across and slapped him, snarling, ‘When are you going back?’
SUNDAY, 7 AUGUST
Gowda stared at the head of foam in his glass. He raised his eyes and looked across the table at Michael. ‘I can’t believe I said that to my son,’ he said despondently. ‘What kind of a father am I?’
Michael toyed with the coaster on which the beer mugs had been placed. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Bob,’ he said quietly. ‘Our fathers said as much to us. If not the same words, something similar. We put it out of our minds, didn’t we?’
Gowda nodded. His father and he had a turbulent relationship. Nothing he did ever seemed to please his father. Basketball, his friends, the science forum, his plans to join the Indian Police Service. All through his student years he had felt the weight of his father’s disapproving gaze and once, the bite of his belt. His father wanted him to write a bank test and join the State Bank of India or Canara Bank. ‘You will have an organized life,’ he had said
‘So?’ his eyes asked.
‘I…’ Santosh began, then quelled his words, afraid he would have his head bitten off.
‘What? Say it…’
‘I don’t think Razak has anything to do with the Liaquat murder. His enemies are not gang lords. He’s just a petty case rowdy!’
‘We say homicide. Not murder. That’s a constable’s language.’
Santosh swallowed.
‘But that apart, you are right. Razak was a dead end. So, Sub-inspector Santosh, we are back to square one. Think, think … I am sure you will see something I have missed. You have it in you…’
The words of praise were a shower of rose petals. Santosh felt the caress of a million pink lips on his upturned face and then like a slap of cold water he heard Gowda say, ‘That is, if you stick to police matters and not silly things like how many buttons of my shirt are open.’
Santosh’s brother, the author, called it the most Indian of traits: the penultimate paragraph of condemnation. As though we are unable to allow undivided praise for anything without adding an ‘if only’ clause. It was a congenital fault among Indians, his brother claimed. At this moment, Santosh was inclined to agree.
Gowda went home early. He would call in for a pizza, he decided. A new pizza place had opened on Hennur Road and was making home deliveries this far. He didn’t particularly care for pizza himself, finding it too doughy and bland, butRoshan would wolf it down as if he hadn’t seen food for a week.
As the vehicle turned in through the gate, Gowda saw that his Bullet had been moved. He frowned.
He rang the doorbell. From within he could hear the din of a heavy metal band trying to raise their dead ancestors.
‘Should I wait, sir?’ PC David asked, trying to hide his curiosity at the noise that boomed and spilled over into the front yard.
Gowda shook his head. ‘No, you can go back.’
Gowda fished out his key and stuck it into the keyhole. But the door was latched from within. He hammered on the door. There was no response.
Gowda walked around the house and peered through the window into Roshan’s room. The boy had brought the stereo into his room. And he was prancing around in his underwear, head banging!
He tapped on the window. Once. Twice. He felt his irritation compound into rage. He had to tap on the window several times before Roshan noticed his father staring at him.
Gowda didn’t know what triggered it off – the frustration he felt at not knowing what to do next on the manja thread case, the irritation at being locked out of his own house, annoyance at seeing that his Bullet had been used by the boy without even a cursory ‘if I may’, his blocked sinuses, his growling belly, the thought of yet another pointless evening stretching ahead, the emptiness of his bed, the tedium of an everyday that seemed relentless – all of it sent his blood pressure soaring and smashed the last vestige of control.
When Roshan opened the door, Gowda reached across and slapped him, snarling, ‘When are you going back?’
SUNDAY, 7 AUGUST
Gowda stared at the head of foam in his glass. He raised his eyes and looked across the table at Michael. ‘I can’t believe I said that to my son,’ he said despondently. ‘What kind of a father am I?’
Michael toyed with the coaster on which the beer mugs had been placed. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Bob,’ he said quietly. ‘Our fathers said as much to us. If not the same words, something similar. We put it out of our minds, didn’t we?’
Gowda nodded. His father and he had a turbulent relationship. Nothing he did ever seemed to please his father. Basketball, his friends, the science forum, his plans to join the Indian Police Service. All through his student years he had felt the weight of his father’s disapproving gaze and once, the bite of his belt. His father wanted him to write a bank test and join the State Bank of India or Canara Bank. ‘You will have an organized life,’ he had said
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