The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(34)

“What makes you say that?”

“The body was covered in mud and cow dung. BMC confirmed no cow dung in the sewage. They said the body could have laid buried in an abandoned farm area farther along the length of the pipe, near the Sanjay Gandhi National Park. That pipe had broken a week or so earlier, and mud had fallen in. Maybe the body slipped into the pipe along with the mud, and was flushed farther into the drain.”

Sanjay Gandhi National Park. That was less than an hour’s drive from the body found near Versova.

Gawde turned to the door, as though wishing for someone to enter. “Then I was transferred.”

“A routine reshuffle?”

Mumbai Police went through occasional reshuffles at the higher levels, commissioners and deputy commissioners, often influenced by political decisions. Some of that trickled down to the lower rungs of the hierarchy. Arnav wanted to confirm Mhatre’s statement about the punishment posting.

“How is that related with the case?” Gawde looked annoyed now.

“The case went cold, so I’m gathering all the information possible. Did the press report on it?”

“Once you’re transferred, you’re transferred.” Gawde stood up. “The press was busy reporting on more important matters at the time. Look, I’ve given you all I can. You need to leave now. I’m scheduled to meet someone.”

Arnav noted the lack of enthusiasm. He wouldn’t get another word out of the inspector. Gawde shook hands and followed Arnav out of the police station.

Arnav paused on the way to his car to check his messages. Gawde stepped into his car, started it, and leaned out the window. “Leave that case alone. From one policeman to another—no good will come of it. And watch your back. Especially with your boss. Ravi Mhatre, right?”

Gawde drove off before Arnav could reply.

Once in his car, Arnav messaged Mhatre, asking for a few minutes with him. He knew what to say to his boss now.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


TARA

Going by the frayed and discolored red carpet, a few decorations hanging on the walls, and the boxes and chairs piled up in various corners, Shetty had given Tara an old wedding reception hall for their practice.

The gaggle of women she’d met the day before stood chatting under bright-white lights. Various ages—a few teenagers in western clothes, others much older. They turned when Tara entered. Some of them smiled.

One of the older women called out, “So you are the teacher? The same Tara? You look as slim as ever.”

Tara struggled to place the round-faced, curvy dancer who seemed to know her. She hadn’t come in yesterday.

“Don’t stare like we’ve never met.” The woman broke into a grin, and memory slid into place. She was the sprightly girl Shetty had asked Tara to train more than a decade ago. Tara remembered her open, sleepy, warm smile that transformed her plain face into a remarkable one.

“Mithi?”

“Who else? You are a teacher now?”

“I teach, but I’ll also perform for the opening week.”

“You’re still a bar girl?”

Mithi had lived in the apartment barely a month before Tara left Mumbai. She was from those days in the Mira Road apartment when Tara woke up at 6:00 a.m. after going to bed at dawn, worked up a sweat with her calisthenics and yoga, slapped on a face pack, and read the newspaper to improve her English. Tara felt a pang of sadness for that foolish girl she once was. She had believed she could succeed if only she tried hard enough.

“We’ll talk at lunchtime? You know how Shetty is.”

“Yes, work, work, work.”

“Let’s get to it.” Tara smiled, dropped her bag on a chair, and approached the women. “The opening is in two days, and Shetty wants a show to remember.”

She spoke in her teacher voice. Pia, and even Zoya, listened to her when she used that tone. She arranged the women in a semicircle and asked Mithi to play the songs Shetty had sent. A crass Bollywood dance number burst from the speakers. She asked them to move to it. The results did not encourage her. Shetty had picked them for their looks, not talent. Each woman had ideas of her own—“sexy” steps, gestures likely to encourage the biggest shower of currency. In some ways, so little had changed.

As a child, she’d loved to dance. Her mother said, Keep dancing like this, Noyon; always be happy, but she wasn’t Noyon anymore, nor Noyontara. She no longer moved to follow the rhythm the way she used to, uncaring of who watched her. For those four years in Mumbai, she’d danced in the smoky, flashing, colored light of the bar, twirled for the eyes of men, hungry eyes, rude eyes, eyes that clamored to take from her till she had nothing left to give, eyes of pride, of anger, of greed. Dirty eyes. She’d received a long reprieve in Lucknow—Pia had given her that—fourteen years of dancing without worrying if she’d dressed sexy enough to earn her keep. Now, she must again reach for that seasoned, seductive Tara. Teach these women a thing or two about being a bar dancer.

Tara introduced them to the concept of dancing together, to the beat. By the time Tara called for a break, she was on the point of collapse. She strolled out onto the street, and dialing Zoya, heard that Pia was out in the neighborhood with her friends. She cut the call and turned back.

“Did you just talk to Zoya on the phone?” Mithi stood behind her, wearing a big, guileless smile. Tara couldn’t find it in herself to be upset. She nodded.