The Trojan Mirror… C1-02

C1-02
The woman arrived exactly at 9:30 at his office. From the looks of it, she had not slept the whole night and had instead spent it crying. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was a mess.
“My name is Anjali Verma,” she began with a tremble in her voice, “thank you for seeing me Mr. Shastri. I don’t know who else to turn to.” Tears were already starting to well up in her eyes.
Avinash didn’t care too much for dramatics. Certainly not these whimpering bitches who think that the world is collapsing because they found a new shade of lipstick on the husbands collar. There had been enough of this type in his career and if this one was the same, he’d take her money and strangulate her himself. Problem solved.
“Sit down,” he said getting up irritably, “and tell me the problem. If you’ve come here to cry, suit yourself. I can be back in half an hour. But if you’re here for my help then control yourself and get to whatever you came here for.”
“I’m sorry, I’m trying to control myself but I can’t help it,” she said, her voice squeaking with effort, “please stay. I need your help. I’ve already wasted a lot of time looking for someone who can help me.”
“I work at LRIL and my nosing around was responsible for Rajesh Punjabi’s death last week. I know that the papers say it was an accident but it wasn’t. I was there when he was killed and now someone is trying to kill me,” she said in a loud rapid voice trying hard to control her sobs and covered her face with her hands.
“I see,” he said nodding his head. He could really use another drink right now. It was just morning and already his head ached. It promised to be another miserable day. Out of habit, he reminded himself again that he should quit his early sessions with the bottle. He desperately needed this client and he needed the money. Otherwise soon he may have to stoop down to livelihoods he promised himself against a long time ago.
“Listen lady, why the fcuk did you come to me? Go to the police.” He told her curtly.
“Wha… I mean, Shyam Yadav told me that you would be able to help me,” she replied trying hard to keep herself composed.
Avinash looked up with a jerk, “how the hell do you know him?” he asked.
“I’ve known him for many years, we went to school together in Lajpat Nagar. We sat together for the same exams. Eventually, he got through in police while I was doing Engineering.”
“If he’s your friend, why isn’t he helping you,” he said shaking his head.
“He told me that his hands are tied. Officially the case is closed and being a government employee, he can’t reopen the case without evidence. There may be big people involved in this. He told me that you are the best private investigator in Delhi and if anyone can help me you can,” her voice pleaded.
“I know him,” said Avinash, “and you’re a fcukin’ liar, he would never say that because its not true.”
“He also told me that you are difficult to get along with,” she said with a slight edge in her voice. Even with her disturbed state, she didn’t like being called a liar.
“He had also said,” she continued in desperation, “that you are the best private investigator in Delhi when you are sober and you can handle yourself in violent situations better than anyone he knows.”
Avinash grunted. A part of him hated those words but they were true. His condition was not a secret and he had lost many customers because of either drinking or violence, often both. In the course of the five years of this chosen profession only the desperate or the uninformed came to him.
“That sounds ’bout right,” he said. “Ok,” he added with a little insolence, “suppose its true. How ’bout you telling me now what happened?”
“So, you’ll help me?” She asked hopefully.
“Nothing of the sort,” Avinash told her flatly, “I don’t know the problem. You want to hang for wasting a man, fine. It’s your call. I can’t help you with that. I read the papers too and it was a freak accident. Police say so. Rajesh Punjabi was killed in that factory when he reached too far in a two ton hydraulic press. His head got trapped between the die plates and crushed him. Far as I know, they closed the case. Delhi police isn’t stupid.”
“No, I didn’t mean that I killed him physically,” she said in tears, “you haven’t been listening. He died because I tried to involve him in a conspiracy around my employers and now someone is trying to kill me.”
Another tear gently rolled down her cheek and fell into her lap. She didn’t care anymore what she looked like to the stranger sitting across her. Her eyes were swollen from crying and her sobs came in jerks as small bursts of air forced themselves from her lungs. Her lips quivered.
“Rajesh would be alive today if I had not started meddling in all this,” she said with finality.
“You’re fcukin crazy,” Avinash said loudly forcing up his level of conviction another notch. “I do read the newspaper Verma, and it was an important news. No foul play. The press would have loved to get some masala for their papers but there wasn’t any. That company is a multinational giant and whatever they do, people look more carefully for fault than in an Indian one.”
“I used to believe that newspapers, at least the national ones, were unbiased and truthful in their coverage, but now I know that its not so. I would not be here otherwise, Mr. Shastri. At least hear what I have to say before dismissing me.”
“I’ve seen a lot of cracks in my life,” Avinash said looking at her, “but you are the first one who wants to confess to a murder that police say was an accident.”
“Just here me out Mr. Shastri,” she pleaded, “I will pay for your time if you decide not to help me. Just listen to me once… please!”
If he got paid just for sitting and listening to her, he would survive. Avinash leaned back in his chair. He really needed that drink. His headache was getting worse. These people had no fcukin clue about real problems. A pin-prick was considered earth shattering horror. Fcukin pussies!
‘How about you,’ his mind whispered to him again, ‘would they have a fcukin’ clue if their best friends got fried by burning tires thrown over their heads while they watched? Would that be a real problem?’
‘Pleeeze stop,’ his tormented soul cried out and he screamed his eyes shut and turned his face so this stranger would not have to see the loser that she was putting her trust in.
His office became suddenly silent except for the small whirring of the fan overhead. He absently rubbed the lining on his dilapidated office desk and stared hard at the woman sitting before him.
She was dressed in a light brown summer sari carelessly draped over her shoulder. There were dark patches under her eyes from recent sleepless nights and her eyes seemed swollen from crying, at least in the last fifteen minutes in his office. Under better circumstances perhaps she would have looked more professional but today was not one of those days. He guessed that she was somewhere in her late twenties and her flawless diction demanded extensive education not really attributed to distraught housewives. She was slim and looked like she exercised regularly. Her shoulder-length hair was hurriedly tied by a single band behind her head and the two small diamond studs in her ears implied a loving gift from caring parents, maybe for graduation, either that or a very well paying job. But she didn’t look like a lavish spender, so it must have been a gift.
No nail polish or rings. Just a small but expensive quartz watch with a black dial on a leather strap.
He wanted to throw her out of the office to be alone with his demons. But he needed the money. There were no choices in that. He got up to and walked to the small water cooler next to the almirah in the corner of his office. He looked out of his window. There was a small marriage party dancing past his office building in this afternoon heat. Even from his third floor office he could hear the ruckus by over-enthusiastic friends of the groom screaming and dancing to poorly rendered beat of some new song about love denied. Somewhere near by a nervous bride-to-be must be waiting anxiously for her knight in shining armor.
The last marriage he had danced his heart out in created a widow within two weeks. That was five years ago. He had not been able to attend a wedding since. His heart cried out for Laxman as the image of a burning tire wrapped around his bullet-riddled body jumped to the front of his mind.
‘Noooo!’ his soul screamed, ‘a moment at a time. That’s what you have to do. Live a moment at a time.’
He took a deep breath and returned to his chair.