Murder in Mumbai by K. D. Calamur

took his place at the cluttered desk and browsed the paperwork to look for something pressing. There was nothing—but that could be because the night staff hadn’t bothered to transcribe anything yet.
    â€œGaitonde,” he called, summoning the station’s long-serving constable.
    Gaitonde took his time, reveling in the knowledge that he’d been here longer than anyone and needed to hurry for no one. He looked at Gaikwad and thrust his head forward, as if to ask, “What?”
    Gaikwad was used to this. “Anything happen at night?”
    â€œNo. It was quiet.”
    â€œWhat do we have today?”
    â€œThose people from the
mohalla
are coming to talk about some
danga
. Then there is a couple who has been wanting to get married.”
    â€œWhere from?”
    â€œRajasthan.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThat’s it so far.”
    * * *
    A Mumbai police officer was much more than a sleuth. He was in many ways a community facilitator, a coaxer, a cajoler; someone who would talk to various religious groups and placate their various gods to ensure there was no violence; someone who could talk to a neighborhood elder to have a word with an errant teenager.
    A police officer did all this—and solved crimes. And for every cop like Gaitonde, counting his days until retirement, or others who had enriched themselves for generations to come, there were many like Gaikwad for whom donning a uniform, coming to work, and ensuring that Mumbai remained the city its people desired was an all-consuming passion.
    â€œSend the couple in,” he said.
    He’d seen it a hundred times before: a young couple escaping their homes in the north, fleeing from the constraints of rigid caste and religious rules that forbade their relationships. The only place they could go to escape was Mumbai. It was the only place where they could get lost, where they could elude sometimes-murderous families. Mostly they wanted protection; sometimes they wanted to be married. A sympathetic police officer would always help.
    The boy couldn’t have been older than nineteen.
    â€œHow old are you?”
    â€œTwenty-three, sahib,” he replied. His voice was timid. His head bobbed as he answered.
    â€œAnd you?” Gaikwad asked, looking at the girl.
    â€œNineteen,” he replied.
    â€œDid I ask you?” Gaikwad said, cutting him off.
    â€œNineteen, sir,” she replied, her eyes not leaving the floor.
    â€œCome here to get married?”
    â€œYes, sir,” he replied.
    â€œWhy not at home?”
    â€œI’m from the gardener caste, sir,” he replied. “Her family are weavers. When they found out about us, they beat her. My father threatened to kill me.”
    â€œYou have your birth certificates?”
    â€œYes, sir,” the girl replied, gesturing to a plastic folder that she clasped tightly as if it held her most precious possession.
    â€œ
Theek hai
,” Gaikwad said. OK. “I’ll write a note for you. Go to Bandra court and ask for Kode. Tell him I sent you. He’ll register your marriage.”
    â€œThank you, sir. Thank you,” the boy replied. He walked toward Gaikwad and tried to touch his feet, gesturing to his fiancée do the same. It was a mark of respect given to elders.
    â€œEnough, enough,” Gaikwad said. “You’re in Mumbai now. Just take care of each other. Go.”
    As he watched them leave, Gaikwad could only hope that theirs would be a happy ending. He saw many cases like this each year. Not all of them ended well. It was quite common for the families involved to entice the couple back with promises of reconciliation, and then to kill them. Their misplaced sense of family honor and betrayal triumphed any love they may have felt for their children.
    He looked at his watch. He had to see Hazra.
    â€œGaitonde,” he called. The constable waddled in.
    â€œTell the
mohalla
wallahs to come later.”
    Gaitonde