Bhendi Bazaar
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This book is dedicated to Zoe.
‘Who’s Zoe?’ you might wonder,
but Zoe knows who she is… so I’ll say it again:
This book is dedicated to Zoe.
BHENDI BAZAAR is one of the several infamous red-light areas in Mumbai. It is right behind Crawford Market, where the top brass of the Mumbai Police are headquartered. Neither the name nor the location is incidental though. Story is, that Crawford Market was one of the prized wholesale markets built by the British. The British called the area south of Crawford Market “Behind the Bazaar”; the Indians picked up the British lilt as BHENDI BAZAAR.
MUMBAI — it was once Bombay. Till 1995.
Hawala, hooch, hafta and hookers are some of the infringements that infest Mumbai. To assume that the hoi polloi or the high-heeled don’t know about it would be naive; the police, sometimes, even know the ‘who’ and ‘where’, but they have bigger criminals to catch. Most Mumbai citizens don’t think it’s their business to interfere, to stop or to report. They have their own pains and miseries; they have no desire to be involved. Who has the time anyway? Mumbai gives you a lot, but sucks the life out of you in bargain. The traffic, the population, the drudgery…
Despite the battles they know they would have to fight daily to survive, approximately 450 new people come to this distending megalopolis daily to make it their home — that’s a city like Brussels added every year. They come because they know this is the only city in India that will provide them with, if nothing else, two meals a day.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Author’S Note
ONE
1982
New Delhi, India
The Non-Aligned Movement, of which India was a founding member, was an attempt to impede the Cold War, but all it could accomplish was to hold back the members from overtly siding with either of the duelling superpowers — the Soviet Union and the United States.
Soviet Union’s love for India and vice-versa, however, wasn’t exactly a clandestine affair. It wasn’t pure circumstance that India was the first international customer for MiG 29s; it was to counterbalance neighbouring Pakistan’s purchase of F-16s from the US. The two Non- Aligned States!
With the US boycotting the Moscow Olympics in 1980, even the optimists hadn’t expected the Soviets to participate in the 1984 Games at Los Angeles. To exhibit their solidarity with sport, the USSR allowed, under controlled conditions, those involved with sports to travel to New Delhi as spectators for the 1982 Asian Games. The Kremlin had decreed that the various sporting bodies would be responsible for taking a limited number of athletes abroad and carting them back the day after the games concluded. No tourism. So, while visas for Soviet nationals to the Capitalist Bloc were excruciatingly difficult — if not impossible — to obtain a visa to a Non-Aligned, but nevertheless friendly, State became comparatively straightforward. Particularly under this pretext. In any event, why would any compos mentis individual leave a socialist paradise to live in the Third World?
The closing ceremony of the Games over, everyone, athletes and the spectators, retreated to their hotels. It was the Soviet camp’s last night in New Delhi and it was time for all 157 of them to return to the Red the following morning by the scheduled Aeroflot flight from Palam Airport. It was, for most, time to pack up and return to the rusting life behind the Iron Curtain.
Not for Magdalena, Dunya and Varinka. They had plans. They had made plans long before leaving Moscow. More than a year before the Games, to be precise; when the trio had been told about the opportunity. The only uncertainty, and the girls’ worst fear, was if their government decided to pull out at the last minute, crumbling under some unforeseen pressure, or if the political environment worsened due to their nation’s ongoing military presence in Afghanistan. But it didn’t, and the three friends progressed with their plans. They didn’t picture themselves living their entire lives in a communist country dreaming of independence, capitalism, the lifestyle. Intelligent enough to understand there wasn’t an escape in ordinary circumstances — which western European State would grant a visa to teenage girls? — they hatched plans to flee, for good, on their return from New Delhi. Magdalena, seventeen, and the oldest of the three, was the originator of the idea. It didn’t take her much effort to convince the other two.
“Can we? How? Are you sure? Will it be risky? What if we are caught? Will we be jailed? Where will we go? What shall we do?”
The team, together, gathered answers to many other such questions. Sadly, a few questions were still unanswered when they boarded the flight to Delhi.
The United States was ruled out as the final immigration destination. It would be too risky, explained Magdalena: their security was airtight, and young girls of Russian origin would ring alarm bells. She vaguely remembered her mum telling her stories about one of her aunts who had escaped to England after the War and the idea had stuck in her young mind. “England, we’ll go to England,” she had told the other two excitedly. The entranced sixteen- year-olds were raring to believe anything that would take them away from the drudgery of the mundane, bourgeois life confined by the shackles of communism, to an alluring Western life like an endless rainbow. Some lunatics fantasised about a détente between East and West, but it wasn’t going to happen any time soon; if one wanted a free life, one had to flee. Of course, there were risks, but they would be well worth it. Magdalena had kept the detailed plan under wraps from the other two till she was confident they wouldn’t renege on taking off and, then demanded rigorous secrecy regarding the plan.
The English language lessons started immediately. The girls saved every Rouble from their puny pocket money, moonlighted doing chores for neighbours and neighbourhood stores, after school and between their gymnastic practices, to raise enough cash to procure counterfeit Irish passports for Margaret Flynn, Deborah O’Donnell and Viviane Casey which would allow entry, without visas, into the UK.
“Why not British passports?”
“Because the British authorities have a higher probability of recognising a local counterfeit passport vis-à-vis a foreign one.”
The plan was simple. The girls would disappear at New Delhi airport and take a domestic flight to Bombay, which left two hours after their arrival at the airport, but still an hour before the departure of the Aeroflot flight. Magdalena even paid her contact, Mr Borgov, for refuge — on arrival in Bombay — for almost twenty-four hours before they would be put on a flight to London. One Mr Patel would check the landing time of their booked flight from Delhi and look for them at Gateway of India between six and eight hours from the flight landing at Bombay on December 5th.
“If you don’t make it between these hours, you’ll be on your own. He cannot wait forever. Money forfeited.”
“Yes, Mr Patel has your photographs, and will find you.” “Yes, he’s done this before.”
“Mr Pate
l will fix you a decent accommodation in a hotel in Colaba. Nothing fancy, but liveable; after all, you only need to spend the night. Plus, he will also provide dinner and breakfast. Of course, you would be free to venture out for dinner, but it isn’t advisable.”
“Two weeks in the harsh Delhi sun will make your skin colour like any of the Bombay girls. Don’t worry, you’ll fit in. In any case, you’re on a domestic flight and there shouldn’t be unnecessary questions.”
It was time, now, to carry out the plan. As everyone retired to their rooms, Dunya and Varinka, as agreed, sneaked into their leader’s room for the final orders.
‘Shhhh…’ Magdalena put her index finger to her lips to quieten the giggling girls. ‘Be quiet. We don’t want everyone to know we’re up to something.’
Both nodded and sat on the bed. Magdalena, who was also the tallest, towered over the other two with final orders.
‘Be confident tomorrow. Remember, we have nothing to do with the Soviet delegation flying back, so we need to detach ourselves from the group as soon as we get to the airport.
We are Anglo-Indian girls who came to see the Games, stayed with our friends and are now returning home to Bombay.’
‘Where would the three of us hide?’ It was Dunya.
‘We won’t hide together, nor would we go to the check-in desks together. Three of us together might attract attention from authorities; alone, no one should care.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Once we land in Bombay, we’ll meet in the baggage area. We have three hours between arriving at the airport and boarding the Moscow flight. By the time the rest of the team notices, we would already be on the flight to Bombay. If for some reason you are unable to pass through check-in, please do not, in any event, sink the ship. If you get caught, let others go. It is the same for me as for you. But, I am certain we’ll have no problems. Now, here’s some colour…make yourself look a shade darker.’
The hotel coach dropped the Soviet teams, garbed in official team uniform, at the terminal. The hosts had arranged for a farewell committee to ensure a smooth transit for them. Dunya arrived at the airport in the first coach. She rushed ahead of everyone with her little tote and disappeared into the Ladies. Locking herself in one of the cubicles, she quickly changed from her team attire into a white T-shirt and jeans, and sat comfortably. From under the door, she could see other women coming in and out. She recognised a few tracksuit bottoms. It was quiet and, after a while, she lost track of time sitting alone in silence. Suddenly, there was some activity and some other group of passengers wandered in. Strangers. She looked at her watch. Thirty minutes had elapsed. It was safe to venture out.
Varinka walked out alone, but a chatty teammate caught up with her.
‘Hi.’
Varinka smiled in response and carried on. She was on a mission, and in no mind to get pulled into an irrelevant, unexciting conversation.
'Are you okay?'
'Of course.'
The two walked into the nearest toilet. As soon as the other girl latched her cubicle, Varinka bolted. She came out of the Ladies, mingled with the crowd and walked briskly.
Thirty steps later, the sign for the next Ladies was in sight and she loosened up. She got into the toilet, changed out of her tracksuit and checked her Irish passport, yet again. Viviane Casey. She did her dress rehearsal for Heathrow: Born in Cork. 1966.
Some considered Varinka skinny, others thought of her as a petite model figure. Hair very dark chestnut blond, almost auburn, tall for her age — five feet four — long legs, hazel eyes, and a mouth that displayed a permanent smile even though she was a worrier by nature. Would her father miss her? He had become an alcoholic since her mother had passed away five years ago. He didn't care if she came home late from school or practised gymnastics. Why should he care if she didn't return from India?
Magdalena avoided all company and transformed herself from a visiting Soviet athlete into a svelte beauty, and waited for the USSR delegates to transit. Thirty minutes later, she was at the check-in desk in khaki-coloured trousers and a chocolate Poncho top with low décolletage. The Indian Airlines check-in officer looked at her, at her ticket, then at her low neckline, and waved her through security. She, too, joined the security queue.
Standing in another queue, Varinka saw her two friends walking past the check-in counters. Hysteria showed on her face as she gingerly walked to the desk after having done three dry runs in the toilet.
'Where are you flying to, Miss Casey?' the officer asked without looking at her ticket.
‘B…Bombay.'
The officer flipped through the ticket booklet. 'Alone?’
She looked at him, uttered nothing.
‘Any identification?’
Was he just being frivolous or did he figure out she was a Soviet who had split from the group? She wanted to turn around and run, but that was out of question. She couldn't, just this minute, pull out her Russian passport and join the rest of the team on the flight to Moscow. That would convey she wasn’t meant to travel locally, and if they examined things meticulously, she was done for.
'Do you have any identification, Miss Casey?'
She nodded without intending to. Her brain was as though detached from her body. 'I see. Do you have any friends, family here?'
'My friend is there.' She pointed towards the door through which the other two had gone in.
He turned around, but seeing no one, he reckoned the girl meant to point to a friend who had already checked in for the flight. In his opinion, a sixteen-year-old travelling with her friend wasn’t unnatural. He asked her to move ahead. 'Have a good flight.'
As soon as she was out of sight of the check-in counter, Varinka ran to the security queue and straight into Magdalena’s arms before breaking down.
'It's okay, Varinka. We're safe now. Let's be calm and go through the security. Let’s get out of here as soon as we can.'
Doors closed. The flight was on time. The three friends, as decided, did not park themselves together in the plane either, but were in sight of each other. Magdalena, a year older than Varinka, was five feet six, bustier, her hair a tone darker than Varinka’s; so dark she could be classified as a brunette when she had a wet head. Eyes, again a shade darker than Varinka’s. If one saw the two together, it was easy to mistake the two for sisters. Not far from reality, as they were cousins, twice removed, and Magdalena always mothered her younger cousin.
The middle-aged guy sitting next to Dunya tried engaging her in a chat in Hindi, but she yawned him away and went into a slumber. Dunya was pleasant, not beautiful like the other two. She was heavier than Varinka and despite the same height, looked plump.
Santa Cruz Airport, Mumbai, India
10 a.m.
The flight was a few minutes ahead of schedule. The girls appeared in fine fettle. The tanned skin tone, the only slightly light hair did not evoke any suspicion in Bombay. With a few other flights arriving concurrently, the girls looked like many other tanned tourists breaking journey in Bombay after a vacation in Goa. Once in the lounge, they hugged each other, walked out and hailed the first cab.
They had won the first round. Like the autumn leaves, they were finally unbound, detached from the tree trussing them, stymieing their flight. Unfortunately, sometimes, shackles are a sanctuary; severe elements of weather can be unforgiving.
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TWO
2007
Mumbai, India
Like an unsure adolescent who cannot decide if she's a girl or a woman, the third hour after midnight — most people would concur — cannot decide if it's night or day. It is one of those agonising hours of the twenty-four hour period that should never have been put on the clock by its inventor. And, as though it wasn't already taxing enough, some clown had got himself murdered at that zany hour. Okay, he was murdered a little earlier in the night; the body, however, was discovered at three.
When she had gone to bed the night before, Deputy
Commissioner of Police Rita Ferreira had no premonition she would beat her alarm clock to the wake-up race. Her official, ex-directory, phone rang — piercing the night or day — like a bagpipe blowing straight into her ear to wake her. To make matters worse, her ex-boyfriend Karan’s fiancée, Sheila, had come in to collect his stuff from Rita’s residence and left only at midnight. Karan had moved to New York after breaking up four years ago; he was only getting married now. After Sheila had left, Rita drank Jim Beam till midnight reminiscing old times till she had snoozed off.
The ominous ring was strident at three and roused Rita out of bed; tired and groggy, she picked up the receiver and arduously muttered, 'DCP Ferreira.'
Homicide. Male. Dead for at least a few hours. Further details weren't required; the who and how would hardly have stopped Rita saying goodbye to the warm bed. She envied her alarm clock that had the luxury of another few hours’ sleep.
Rita wasn't drunk, but she did not trust her driving skills, especially after the night before; it would also mean breaking the law. Her official driver being unavailable at this hour, she asked for a patrol car to pick her up in twenty minutes.
Rita was not beautiful, not in her eyes, nor in the eyes of any beholder. Her tawny- coloured body, however, was toned in fantastic shape. Not an ounce of fat. Narrow waist. Not well-endowed, but curvaceous nevertheless; as curvaceous as one could be on a size eight frame. And a zillion-dollar arse. The body was remarkable enough for a third or fourth glance. If one were to describe Rita in a word, the word would be “sensual”. As she showered, she looked at herself: still only thirty-something, attractive. Tall by Indian standards: five feet six. She flexed her little biceps that Karan had adored. Suddenly, like someone had turned the page, her thoughts moved to the corpse. Dead for a few hours: the body wasn't going anywhere, and the soul — if everyone had a soul and the fable had any truth in it — had already departed for the next world, so what was the rush?
Rita put on her trusted Smith & Wesson .38 in the holster. It had finally stopped raining after twelve hours, but the asphalt was still sodden when she came out of her apartment block in Bandra, a strong black coffee — a wake-up demitasse, as she called it — and a couple of aspirins later. The patrol car – a Maruti Suzuki Gypsy — was waiting with the reticent PC driver who doffed his cap and seeing her into the nearside seat, put the car in gear.