Murder in Bollywood Read online

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen, welcome to Gulistan Studio. I am Israr Khatri, the manager of this place,’ he said with a friendly handshake.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Khatri. I am Inspector Khan and this is my associate, Sub-inspector Zagde. Thank you for aiding in our investigation at such short notice. But honestly, I am a little surprised to find someone from the studio staff present on the property, as I was told that the place has been shut down,’ Khan replied.

  ‘Oh, we have not been operating for a few months now, in anticipation of the studio’s sale. But ever since Kapoor saheb’s death on our property, the construction company that was going to buy this place isn’t too keen on going through with the deal, so it looks like we’ll be renting out the studio again very soon. That’s why I have to be here in the office, every day,’ Israr explained.

  ‘But by the look of it, Mr Khatri, you don’t appear too cut up about the studio’s sale falling through. In fact, you almost sound pleased,’ Zagde remarked.

  ‘Oh no, not at all. There is no question of me being happy at the Hamrahi family’s misfortune, considering I have been in their employment for the last forty years. It’s just that when they struck the deal for the sale of the studio last year, my services were terminated overnight, without the slightest warning. When I approached Torab Hamrahi, the eldest of Gulistan saheb’s children, and asked him what I had done to deserve this treatment, he calmly showed me his right hand and said, “Kya karein, Israr mian, hamare haathon ki lakeerein kah rahi hain ke hum bade paise wale banne wale hain. Abhi humein apki koi zaroorat nahi” (What to do, Israr mian, the lines on my palms say that I am going to become very rich. Now we don’t need you any more). But a few months later, when the deal fell through, there he was at my doorstep, begging me to return to my old job, because neither he nor anyone else from his family knew anything about running a studio. And at that point, I couldn’t help but remark, “Torab saheb, haathon ki lakeeron par itna yakeen mat keejeeye. Kya Khuda unki kismet nahin likhta jinke haath nahin hote?” (Torab saheb, do not believe too much in the lines on your palms. Doesn’t God write the fate of those who do not have hands?) And all he could do was lower his head and look around uncomfortably. I was just thinking of that incident while talking to you. Perhaps that’s why I sounded happy,’ Israr said.

  ‘That’s fine, Mr Khatri. But what I don’t get is, how come you agreed to come back on board so easily after the humiliation heaped upon you by Mr Hamrahi?’ Hoshiyar queried.

  ‘It’s because I love the studio very much, Inspector saheb. I’ve been a part of this place since I was a young man of twenty-four, and after all these years, this place feels like a part of me. You cannot imagine the pain I felt when Torab saheb told me they were selling the studio to some construction company that would be tearing it down and putting up a residential complex in its place. You wouldn’t believe I was so upset that I would come down here every evening after sunset, park my scooter across the road from the main gate, stare at this place for hours and hours on end and cry every minute of that time. Just the sight of the studio so desolate and neglected would fill me with grief that bordered on rage, and night after night, I would return home and lie in my bed dreaming of ways by which I could exact some sort of terrifying revenge on all those who turned my beloved Gulistan Studio into an unloved, unwanted child. But my desires were like the images in my mind, angry fantasies, which I lacked the courage and the means to turn into reality. Then one fine day, Kapoor saheb was found dead on Stage 7, and before you knew it, the deal had fallen through. And that’s when I realized without doubt that this grand old dame of a studio wasn’t ready to retire from show business just yet,’ Israr smiled and said.

  ‘And what about you, Mr Khatri? Did you have your retirement plans in place? Or just like this place, even you were not ready to call it a day? Because the way I see it, someone bitter and angry at being thrown out of his job, who would hover about the studio at night, thinking of ways and means to exact revenge on the people who destroyed his life, one day thought to himself, what better way to derail the studio deal than to kill someone famous on its premises. And for this, there was no better candidate than Nikhil Kapoor, who that person would see enter the deserted studio night after night all by himself, to work on his new film script at his favourite Stage 7. Now, having worked here for forty years, Mr Khatri, I am sure you’d know many different ways of entering the studio besides the front gate, so it wouldn’t have been difficult for you to sneak in without being seen by the lone security guard, then make your way to Stage 7 and kill an unsuspecting Nikhil Kapoor, making his murder look like an accident. As a matter of fact, I quite like the sound of this theory, Mr Khatri. What about you?’ Zagde inquired with a cold, hard stare.

  ‘Hmm,’ Israr said, as if in the throes of intense deliberation, ‘it’s a very plausible theory, Inspector, except for one minor detail. The night Kapoor saheb died, I was in Hyderabad attending my nephew’s wedding. If you had just asked me where I was on that fateful night, it would have saved your little grey cells a whole lot of effort. But on hindsight, I am so glad you didn’t, otherwise we would have never discovered your wonderful talent for fiction,’ Israr, said, smirking sarcastically, as Zagde looked away feeling rather stupid.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Khatri, apart from Stage 7, what else is there on this side of the property?’ Hoshiyar intervened.

  “Well, about a hundred yards straight ahead, we have stage numbers five and six standing side by side, and right next to them is the prop room, where we store all the props and costumes from the half a dozen films produced by the late Gulistan saheb, all of which, unfortunately, were box office disasters. When the sale of the studio was announced and the owners stopped renting out the property, nothing on the lot, including the stages and the prop room, was put under lock and key. I guess the Hamrahi family figured that since the whole place was going to be torn down, why bother locking it up. But after Kapoor saheb’s death, everything is nicely locked up at all times, primarily to keep out nosy reporters and fans,’ Israr revealed.

  ‘And what about the security guard who found the body that night? Any idea what time he’ll be available, because it’s essential that we have a word with him as well,’ Hoshiyar said.

  ‘I am sorry, Inspector saheb, but that security guard doesn’t work here any more. Torab saheb had me fire him a few days after the incident. The Hamrahi family believed him to be inauspicious. But that’s generally the mindset of the people in the film industry. They believe a lot in luck and ill luck, so if they come across anyone who they feel has been unlucky for their business, they get rid of that person immediately. But I believe that after the studio deal fell through, the Hamrahis needed to release their nawabi anger somewhere and that unfortunate security guard was the most convenient punching bag. Raju, I believe, was his name. But, tell me Inspector saheb, why is the police investigating Kapoor saheb’s death all over again? Surely, what happened to him was an accident, wasn’t it?’ Israr inquired with concern.

  ‘Yes, I am pretty sure that it was. But after the tragic death of his secretary, Mr Tiwari, we just want to be certain that there are no loose ends,’ Hoshiyar informed, and then requested Israr to unlock the door to Stage 7. As the smaller of the two metal doors swung open, the first thing that greeted the officers as they entered the stage was its stale, musty air, coupled with the smell of electricity that had burnt through human skin and flesh, which since that night had seeped into every inch of that place and simply refused to leave. As Israr flipped a makeshift light switch, illuminating the stage, the first thing that Hoshiyar noticed in the corner to his right was the switchboard and the light switch from which Nikhil was electrocuted, placed on a wall five feet off the ground and charred to a hue a few shades darker than the colour of night.