Free Murder in Bollywood by Shadaab Amjad Khan Page B

see.’
    ‘Sir, we met just yesterday at your office,’ Meeta replied awkwardly.
    ‘Oh! Ha, ha, ha! You see, I am forgetting, not because I am getting old, but because I am so very busy.’ Ghankar laughed uproariously, in a feeble attempt to conceal his gaffe, even as all the policemen around appeared less amused and more embarrassed.
    ‘But you must be wondering what we are all doing standing here outside, instead of being at the crime scene inside, looking for clues,’ Ghankar spoke once more. ‘It is because we have already examined the place and it’s very clear that Ram Prasad Tiwari died because he slipped and fell in his bathroom, cracking his head against the tub, which makes it an accident, and not murder. But obviously, the cleaning lady who found the body this morning did not realize that and called us all down here for this false alarm. So, I am very sorry, Meeta, if by getting you here so early, I have ruined your beauty sleep in any way,’ he concluded innocently, in an effort to mask the underlying sarcasm in those words.
    ‘No need to apologize, sir. Our job does not afford us the luxury of a beauty sleep, and this was something we were told at the academy. So, I was in my office at exactly nine-thirty, just like every day. But false alarm or not, since my squad and I are already here, we would like to examine the crime scene for ourselves if it’s all right with you,’ Meeta replied appropriately.
    ‘Fine, examine all you want. In fact, I will come with you myself so you can show me what I missed,’ Ghankar said, pretending to be indifferent, but seething from inside, as he led Meeta into the bungalow, followed by Hoshiyar and a few select officers, one of them being Zagde, who had arrived on the scene with Hoshiyar, but preferred to stand by the jeep the whole time, wisely staying clear of Ghankar’s radar. As the police team made its way past the living room and entered the deceased’s bedroom, Meeta wisely took a back seat and let Hoshiyar take the lead. The room in question was a shocking contrast to the living room, for while the latter was done up sedately in hues of off-white, beige and brown, the bedroom was decorated in shades of pink, purple and red, right from the walls to the furniture, with a whole lot of film posters from the ’40s to the present day, adorning every inch of that space. And in one corner, there was even a walk-in closet, much like a long corridor, which wasn’t used as a wardrobe, but as a storage place for Bollywood memorabilia of all shapes and sizes, from costumes, to props, even get-ups and disguises. Just a few steps away from that chamber of fantasy was an open door, leading to a stark white bathroom, where the body of Ram Prasad Tiwari lay, lined with chalk, at the foot of the bathtub in nothing but a pure white bathrobe, with the red that gushed forth from the crushing of his skull providing the only break from the cold, bare monotony of white, until a sea of khaki surged forth and besieged him, studying his carcass minutely to determine if the reason for his end was foul play.
    ‘He was definitely one of those gay types, I have no doubt,’ Ghankar proclaimed uncouthly.
    ‘And what makes you say that, sir?’ Meeta asked, a trifle offended.
    ‘Well, can’t you see the colours he’s used in his bedroom. All these pinks and reds and whatnot. Real men don’t use these pansy colours. This Tiwari fellow was definitely a homosexual and this room was his love nest, where he used to do
masti
every night with men just like himself. Dirty, filthy perverts, all of them! Ghankar exclaimed with genuine disgust.
    Meeta, who was taken aback by her superior’s blatant prejudice, couldn’t help but remark, ‘I didn’t know you had such hatred for homosexuals.’
    To this, Ghankar shrugged and replied, ‘I don’t like these gay types, because they don’t like women.’ He then threw back his head and laughed uproariously at his own tasteless words.
    While