“Please, madam,” said Sergeant Kesar, “will you open it now?”
“If I refuse?”
“Then I would have to break the lock,” he said sorrowfully.
“And what will happen after I open it?”
“The flat will be emptied out,” he murmured, shame making his words indistinct.
“What?”
“Emptied out,” he repeated a little louder. “Your flat will be emptied out.”
“Thrown out on the pavement? Why? Why do they behave like animals? At least give me a day or two so I can make arrangements.”
“Actually speaking, madam, that’s up to the landlord.”
“Time has run out,” said the bald goonda. “As the landlord’s agents, we cannot allow any delaying tactics.”
Sergeant Kesar turned to Dina. “Don’t worry, madam, your furniture will be safe. I will make sure they treat everything carefully. My constable will guard it. If you like, I can send him to hire a truck for you.”
She found the key in her purse and unlocked the door. The goondas tried to rush in, as though it might spring shut again, but were foiled by Sergeant Kesar’s arm. Like a traffic policeman, he held it up to block them.
“After you, madam,” he bowed, following behind.
The first things they saw were the tailors’ cardboard cartons stacked in a corner of the verandah. The goondas started to take them out.
“Those are not my boxes, I don’t want them,” Dina burst out, directing her anger at the absent ones — they had abandoned her, they had left her to face this alone.
“Not yours? Good, then we’ll take the boxes.”
She put away clothes and knickknacks into drawers and cupboards, trying to stay a few steps ahead of the goondas as they began to carry the furniture outside. Sergeant Kesar waddled about after her, anxious to help. “Have you decided where to transport everything, madam?”
“I’ll go to Vishram and phone my brother. He will be able to send his office truck.”
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye on those two. Anything else I can do while you are gone, madam?”
“Are you allowed to help a criminal?”
He shook his head sadly. “Actually speaking, madam, the criminals are those two, and the landlord.”
“And yet I am being thrown out.”
“That’s the crazy world we live in. If I did not have a family to feed, you think I would do this job? Especially after the ulcers it has given me? Since the Emergency began, my ulcers began. At first I thought it was just stomach acidity. But doctor has confirmed the diagnosis, I have to be operated soon.”
“I am very sorry to hear that.” She found the screwdriver on the kitchen shelf and handed it to him. “If you like, you can remove the nameplate for me from the front door.”
He seized the tool with joy. “Oh, most certainly. I will be happy to, madam.” He went off, his guilt a tiny bit assuaged, and was soon huffing and puffing over the tarnished brass plate, sweating as he wrestled with the screws.
“What?” screamed Nusswan through the telephone. “Evicted? You call me after the furniture is on the pavement? Digging a well when the house is on fire?”
“It happened suddenly. Can you send your truck or not?”
“What choice do I have? It’s my duty. Who else will help you if I don’t?”
The men had almost finished when she returned to the flat. Pots and pans and the stove from the kitchen were the last to be carried out. The constable stood guard over all of it on the footpath. Her household, stacked in this manner, did not seem like very much, she thought, did not seem capable of filling the three rooms, or the twenty-one years of her life spent in them.
Sergeant Kesar was relieved that rescue was on the way. “You are so fortunate, madam, at least you have somewhere to go. Daily I see cases where people end up making the pavement their home. Lying there exhausted, lost, defeated. The amazing thing is how quickly they learn to use cardboard and plastic and newspaper.”
He requested Dina to inspect the rooms before handing over custody of the flat. “Are you sure you don’t want the stuff on the verandah?” he whispered.
“It’s not mine — garbage, as far as I care.”
“You see, madam, whatever is left here automatically becomes the property of the landlord.”
“That’s us,” said the goondas, grabbing the boxes. They shut the front door and slipped a fresh padlock on the hasp. Sergeant Kesar completed the formalities; cyclostyled documents were signed in triplicate.
Then the two goondas turned their attention to the boxes, eager to examine their unexpected bonus. “Wait a second,” said the bald one, lifting out a handful of black tresses. “What rubbish is this?”
“Why rubbish?” laughed his partner. “Hair is just what you need.”
The bald one was not amused. “See what’s in the other box.”
Sergeant Kesar watched them for a minute, then hitched his thumbs in his belt. He was ready for action. He remembered the murders of the two beggars — the infamous Case of the Hair-Hungry Homicide. Here was the chance he was waiting for. He unbuttoned the flap of his holster, just in case, and whispered instructions to the constable.
“Excuse me,” he said politely to the goondas. “You are both under arrest for murder.”
They laughed. “Heh-heh, Sergeant Kesar is becoming a joker.” When their wrists were smartly handcuffed by the constable, they protested that the joke had gone too far. “What are you talking about? We haven’t murdered anybody!”
“Actually speaking, you have: two old beggars. This is a perfect prima facie case. The murdered beggars’ hair was chopped off and stolen. Now the hair is in your possession. It tells the whole story.”
“But we just found it here! You saw us open the box!”
“Actually speaking, I didn’t see anything.”
“You have no evidence of murder! How do you know it’s the same hair?”
“Don’t worry about that. As you were saying earlier, silly things like evidence are not necessary anymore. Nowadays, we have nice things like the Emergency and MISA.”
“What’s MISA?” asked Dina.
“Maintenance of Internal Security Act, madam. Very convenient. Allows detention without trial, up to two years. Extensions also available on request.” He smiled sweetly and turned to the goondas again. “I almost forgot to tell you — you have the right to remain silent, but if you do, my boys at the station will process your bones to help you confess.”
The two were made to squat with their handcuffed hands draped over their heads. Sergeant Kesar was not yet ready to take them in. He stuffed the hair back in the box. “Exhibit A,” he said to Dina. “Don’t worry, madam, I’m waiting here till your truck comes. Who knows how many of your possessions will vanish if I leave. Once you are safely on your way, I’ll take these dogs to the station.”
“Thank you very much,” said Dina.
“No, thank you. You have made my day.” He checked if his holster flap was secure. “You like Clint Eastwood films, madam? Dirty Harry?”
“I’ve never seen them. Are they good?”
“Very thrilling. Highly action-packed dramas.” He added with a wistful smile, “Dirty Harry is a top-notch detective. He delivers justice even when the law makes it impossible.” Lowering to a whisper, he asked, “By the way, madam, how did the hair come to your verandah?”
“I’m not sure exactly. There were two tailors working for me, and they had a friend, a hair-collector, and — I’m not sure, they’ve all disappeared.”
“Lots of people have disappeared in the Emergency,” he said, shaking his head. “But you know, you may have been unknowingly mixed up with homicidal maniacs. Thank your stars, madam, that you escaped unharmed.”