Free Compass Box Killer by Piyush Jha Page A

refuse through and through. Now in the baking sun, the stench was rising and spreading, threatening to choke the life out of the toughest nostrils. Virkar’s attention was drawn to the scurrying movements around the garbage dump. His sharp gaze focused on what looked like mongrel pups, but as his eyes zeroed in on one of the wallowing black creatures, he realized that they were not pups but rats! Giant black rats, gorging on the feast of Mumbai’s leftovers. Virkar turned his attention back to the slippery, slushy path that he and about twenty of his best policemen were trying to navigate on their way to a function to felicitate the man they were all escorting: Nigel Colasco. Despite several warnings, Colasco had insisted on attending this particular event. It was inside the dirtiest, least-developed part of Dharavi called Kunjupada that sat on the lip of the swampy nullah disguised as the Mithi River. Colasco’s sentimental attachment to this event went back almost twenty years to when he had held his first workshop for slum children at that very place. The people from the hutments that lay on that dark, damp patch revered Colasco. Every year, on the auspicious occasion of the Phitrabhoomi Devi festival, the Kunjupada Hutment Committee gave special prizes that were personally handed out by Colasco to the children of the slum. Despite the looming death threat over him, Colasco had insisted on making the trip to Kunjupada. Virkar had relented only after having personally surveyed the site with his men and rounding up all known troublemakers from the area as a cautionary measure. The residents of Kunjupada were miffed at the police presence, especially since they believed that this was perhaps the safest place for their hero, Colasco. Almost all their lives had been touched by Colasco’s benevolence in one way or another, so why would any one of them kill their benefactor?
    Having safely waded through the small crowd of impatient-looking parents and slum children gathered for the felicitation, the police party approached the makeshift wooden dais set up on one side of the small, open maidan between the tin huts. Virkar quickly positioned his entire contingent in strategic places around the wooden dais and only then gave the nod to the organizers of the function to begin the proceedings.
    A group of local Kunjupada elders stepped forward with garlands and sweets led by a thin, white-haired, kurta-lungi-clad man, who had the pompous bearing of a small-time politician. Virkar stepped forward and stopped the advancing group; he checked every garland personally, ruffling the flowers with a metal detector in search of any concealed weapons. ‘Aren’t you taking things too far, Inspector saheb?’ asked the lungi-clad man. Virkar continued with his inspection without acknowledging the man’ s presence or question. ‘You are making us feel as though we are terrorists and Colasco saheb is the Prime Minister,’ the lungi-clad man continued in a cantankerous tone. Virkar ignored him once again.
    ‘I’m speaking to you, Inspector. Do you know who I am?’ the man’s voice had now risen above the din of the clamouring slum children.
    This time Virkar turned towards him. ‘I know who you are, Mr Ramaswami Putharan. You’ve been the Municipal Corporator for this area twice during the eighties. However, my information tells me that you lost your deposit in the last election.’ Putharan looked like he had been slapped. Making apoplectic noises, he tried to come up with an appropriate answer but couldn’t find the words.
    Suddenly, Virkar’s eyes fell on a silver thali laden with what looked like malai pedas. ‘What’s this?’ he enquired.
    The wizened, shrunken old lady who stood teetering under the weight of the silver thali was not used to being directly addressed by policemen. She nervously shifted her weight from one foot to another, tongue-tied. ‘It’s Phitrabhoomi Devi maa’s prasad,’ interjected Putharan, having