Chapter 14: Galat Ghar (The Wrong House)

2003

Samaira Apte was fifty-one years old and she had been looking for Lata Jadhav for twenty-five years and the looking had become the thing that Samaira was, the way breathing was the thing that lungs were — not a choice but a function, the function that defined the organ.

The office on Lamington Road was still the office on Lamington Road. The transistor-radio shop had become a mobile-phone shop (the evolution of Indian retail compressed into a single storefront: transistors to televisions to VCRs to mobile phones, the compression being the particular Indian technology-leap that skipped the intermediate stages and went straight from analogue to digital, the leaping producing a population that had never had landlines and that was now texting). The twelve-station hum had been replaced by the particular cacophony of mobile phone ringtones — the polyphonic ringtones that played snatches of Hindi film songs and that were, Samaira reflected, a worse noise than the transistor hum because the transistor hum was constant and the ringtones were unpredictable and the unpredictability was the aggravation.

The ACTIVE drawer still held the Jadhav file. The file that was no longer a single manila folder but a manila folder inside a cardboard box, the box being necessary because twenty-five years of investigation had produced twenty-five years of notes and the notes had exceeded the folder's capacity. The box was labelled, in Samaira's handwriting: JADHAV, LATA. NETWORK. 1978-PRESENT.

The word "NETWORK" was the addition. The addition that represented Samaira's understanding — the understanding that had grown over twenty-five years of investigation, the understanding that said: Lata Jadhav was taken by a network. The network extracts children from violent homes. The network is run by a woman. The network is based somewhere in central India. The network has operatives in multiple cities. The network is — the network is, in its way, doing the thing that the system should do and does not do.

The understanding that was — the understanding was complicated. Because Samaira was an investigator. Samaira's job was to find. The finding was not the judging — the finding was the locating, the identifying, the producing of answers to the question "where?" The judging was someone else's job (the courts, the law, the system that Samaira operated within even as she operated alongside its failures). But twenty-five years of investigation had produced, alongside the finding, the understanding. The understanding that the network's kidnappings were not malicious. The understanding that the network's kidnappings were — Samaira resisted the word "justified" because "justified" was a moral judgment and moral judgments were not the investigator's business — the understanding that the network's kidnappings were motivated by rescue.

The rescue-motive did not change the investigation. The investigation continued. The investigation continued because Samaira was an investigator and the investigation was the thing and the thing did not stop because the thing's target was sympathetic. The thing stopped when the thing was complete — when the finding was done, when the answers were found, when the file could be moved from ACTIVE to CLOSED. And the file was not closed. The file was not closed because Samaira had not found Lata.

*

The wrong house was in Nashik. The wrong house that was — in the twenty-five years of investigation, there had been many wrong houses. The wrong houses were the leads that did not lead, the connections that did not connect, the particular dead ends that investigation produced and that the investigator walked down and turned around from and walked down the next one. The wrong houses were: a house in Aurangabad that belonged to a woman who was connected to a women's shelter that was connected to a network but that was not Bharati's network (the other networks existed — Bharati's was not the only one, the existence of multiple networks being the particular evidence that the problem was systemic and that the system's failure had produced not one but many responses). A house in Bhopal that had been a safe house in the 1980s but that had been abandoned when the network changed (the Deshpande-era changing that Leela had triggered). A house in Pune that was — the Pune house was close. The Pune house was Kaveri's shelter in Kothrud.

Samaira had found Kaveri's shelter. In 2001 — the year that Haldhar arrived and the world changed and Samaira's investigation, which had been slow and methodical for twenty-three years, suddenly accelerated. The acceleration caused by: a tip. The tip from Pradhan in Nagpur (Pradhan who was now retired-retired, the retired from the retired-from-police, the man who was seventy-three and who still maintained his contacts and who still, after twenty-five years, cared about the Jadhav case because the Jadhav case was the case that had defined his career's final chapter and the defining was the thing that old investigators did not let go).

Pradhan's tip: "Ek mahila hai Pune mein. Kaveri naam hai. Retired teacher. Woh women ko shelter deti hai. Vandana Jadhav — Lata ki maa — shayad wahan thi. Kaafi saal pehle." There's a woman in Pune. Name is Kaveri. Retired teacher. She shelters women. Vandana Jadhav — Lata's mother — may have been there. Many years ago.

Samaira went to Pune. To Kothrud. To the house that was — the house that was still Kaveri's. Kaveri who was now seventy-eight and who was still operating the shelter and who was still, after thirty years, the Pune node of Bharati's network.

Samaira knocked. The knocking that was — Samaira knocked on doors differently now than she had knocked twenty-five years ago. The twenty-five-year-ago knock was the investigator's knock: assertive, professional, the knock that said "I have questions." The now-knock was the experienced knock: gentle, patient, the knock that said "I have been doing this for a long time and I know that the person behind this door may not want to talk and the not-wanting is information too."

Kaveri opened the door. Kaveri who was — Kaveri was old. The oldness that was not frailty but compression, the body compressed by time into a smaller version of itself, the smaller version retaining the essential: the eyes (the teacher's eyes, the eyes that assessed), the posture (the teacher's posture, straight, the straightness being the particular discipline that thirty-five years of standing in front of classrooms had installed), and the voice (the teacher's voice, the voice that carried).

"Haan?" Yes?

"Kaveri-tai, mera naam Samaira Apte hai. Main Mumbai se hoon. Private investigator. Mujhe Vandana Jadhav ke baare mein baat karni hai." Kaveri-tai, my name is Samaira Apte. I'm from Mumbai. Private investigator. I need to talk about Vandana Jadhav.

Kaveri's face did not change. The not-changing that was — the not-changing was information. The not-changing said: this woman has heard the name before and the hearing did not surprise her and the not-surprising said: Kaveri was prepared for this question, Kaveri had been prepared for this question for years, the preparation being the network's training — the training that said: one day, someone will come asking. When they come: nothing. Give nothing. Say nothing. The nothing is the protection.

"Vandana kaun?" Kaveri said. Vandana who?

"Vandana Jadhav. Nagpur. 1978. Uski beti Lata gayab hui thi. Vandana ko yahan laaya gaya tha — aapke shelter mein." Vandana Jadhav. Nagpur. 1978. Her daughter Lata went missing. Vandana was brought here — to your shelter.

"Mujhe nahi pata," Kaveri said. I don't know. The sentence that was the wall. The wall that Kaveri had built and that Kaveri maintained and that was, Samaira could see, immovable — the wall of a woman who had been protecting people for thirty years and whose protecting was not going to be breached by an investigator's questions.

Samaira did not push. The not-pushing was the experience — the experience that said: pushing produces walls, the walls being higher than the original walls, the higher walls being the response to pressure and the response being: less access, not more. The experience said: retreat, return, try again. The retreat being: "Dhanyavaad, Kaveri-tai. Maaf kijiye." Thank you. I'm sorry to bother you.

Samaira left. But Samaira did not leave Pune. Samaira stayed. Samaira watched. The watching that was — the watching was the investigator's weapon, the weapon that was patience, the patience that said: I will watch and the watching will produce the thing that the asking did not produce.

Three days of watching produced: Vandana.

Not inside the shelter — outside. Vandana leaving the shelter. At 6 AM. The morning — the morning that was Vandana's. Vandana who was now — Samaira calculated — fifty-nine. Vandana who had been thirty-four when her daughter was taken and who was now fifty-nine and who walked out of Kaveri's shelter at 6 AM and went to the market and bought — Samaira followed at a distance, the distance being the skill — and bought: flattened rice. Peanuts. Green chillies. Fresh coriander. Lemons. Coconut.

The ingredients that Samaira did not recognise as significant because Samaira did not know about the pohe. The ingredients that were — to Samaira — groceries. To Vandana — the ingredients were the prayer. The ingredients were the daughter. The ingredients were the four-minute soak and the mustard seeds and the popping and the morning that was the only morning that mattered.

Samaira photographed Vandana. From a distance. The photograph that was — the photograph was the evidence. The evidence that Vandana Jadhav was alive and was in Pune and was in Kaveri's shelter and was, therefore, connected to the network that had taken Lata.

"Vandana Jadhav, Pune mein hai," Samaira reported to Pradhan. "Kaveri ke shelter mein. Woh twenty-five saal se wahan hai — ya intermittently wahan rahi hai. Matlab — network ne usse yahan rakha hai. Network real hai. Network active hai." Vandana Jadhav is in Pune. In Kaveri's shelter. She's been there for twenty-five years — or has stayed there intermittently. Meaning — the network placed her here. The network is real. The network is active.

"Toh Lata?" Pradhan asked. So Lata?

"Lata bhi network ke saath hogi. Kahin. Agar main Vandana se baat kar sakoon — agar woh mujhe bataaye ki network ne Lata ko kahan rakha —" Lata must be with the network too. Somewhere. If I can talk to Vandana — if she tells me where the network placed Lata —

"Woh nahi bataayegi." She won't tell you.

"Shayad. Lekin main poochungi." Maybe. But I'll ask.

*

Samaira approached Vandana. Not at the shelter — at the market. The market that was Vandana's morning space, the space where the shopping happened and the shopping was the routine and the routine was the thing that Samaira could enter without entering the shelter, the entering-the-shelter being the thing that would trigger Kaveri's protection and the protection being the wall.

"Vandana-tai?" Samaira said. At the vegetable stall. The stall where Vandana was selecting coriander — the selection that was careful, the coriander examined leaf by leaf, the examination that was the cook's examination, the examination that said: this coriander is not good enough, this coriander is good enough, the good-enough being the standard that twenty-five years of cooking had established.

Vandana looked up. The looking that was — the looking was not Kaveri's looking (the teacher's assessment, the wall). Vandana's looking was — the looking was the mother's looking. The looking that was tired and that was alert and that was, beneath the tiredness and the alertness, the particular looking of a woman who had spent twenty-five years waiting and whose waiting had not ended and whose not-ending was visible in the eyes, the eyes that were still looking, still searching, the searching being the permanent state.

"Haan? Tumhi kon?" Yes? Who are you?

"Maza naam Samaira Apte aahe. Mi private investigator aahe. Mumbai-hun. Mi — mi tumchya mulichi shodh ghetey. Lata chi." My name is Samaira Apte. I'm a private investigator. From Mumbai. I — I've been looking for your daughter. Lata.

Vandana's face. The face that changed — not the wall-change (Kaveri's change, the not-change that was the protection). The real change. The change that was: hope. The hope that flashed and that was immediately suppressed, the suppression being the survival-skill that twenty-five years had installed, the skill that said: do not hope, the hoping hurts, the hurting is what happens when the hope does not produce the thing hoped for.

"Lata?" The word. The word that Vandana said and that the word's saying produced the crack, the crack in the twenty-five-year wall, the crack being: the mother's name for the daughter spoken aloud in a market in Pune and the speaking being the thing that the wall could not contain.

"Haan. Mi pacchis varsha shodhtey." Yes. I've been searching for twenty-five years.

"Pacchis varsha?" Twenty-five years?

"Haan. Tumchya mulichi case — mi sodli nahi. Kadhi sodli nahi." Yes. Your daughter's case — I never let go. Never.

Vandana's eyes. The eyes that were — the eyes were filling. Not with tears (tears were the simple thing; Vandana's eyes were filling with the complex thing, the thing that was twenty-five years of suppressed hope being unsuppressed by a stranger in a market who said "I never let go" and whose saying was the thing that Vandana had not heard from anyone — not from the police, not from the courts, not from anyone — the saying being: someone else cares, someone else has been looking, the looking is not mine alone).

"Aapan bolu shakto ka? Kaay maahit aahe tumhala?" Can we talk? What do you know?

The talking. In a chai stall near the market. The chai that was Pune chai (milky, mild — Vandana's twenty-five-year disappointment) and that was the medium through which the two women exchanged the things they knew.

Vandana knew: Lata was alive. The network's messages — "safe hai," two words, delivered through channels that Vandana did not fully understand — the messages had continued. Not frequently (the messages came once every six months, sometimes once a year, the frequency having decreased as the years passed and the decreasing being the particular cruelty that Vandana had learned to live with). Vandana knew: Lata had a new name (the network had informed Vandana, once, that Lata had been renamed, the renaming being the protection and the protection being the necessity and the necessity being the thing that Vandana accepted because the acceptance was the only option). Vandana did not know the new name.

Samaira knew: the network existed. The network had operatives in multiple cities. The network was run by a woman (the woman near the van that Mrs. Kulkarni had described twenty-five years ago — the woman who was "not tall, not short, in a hurry"). The network had a medical connection (Sunita at KEM). The network had safe houses.

Together, the two women knew more than either knew alone. The together-knowing being the particular alchemy of investigation: the data points that, separately, are fragments, become, together, a picture. The picture was not complete — the picture was missing the centre, the centre being: where is Lata now?

"Mi tila shodhin," Samaira said. I'll find her.

"Promise?" Vandana said. The word in English — the English word that carried, in Vandana's Marathi-accented pronunciation, the particular weight of a mother's request, the request that was not professional (the professional promise was the investigator's stock-in-trade) but personal, the personal being: find my daughter. The personal being: twenty-five years. The personal being: I make pohe for her every morning and she does not eat it. Find her.

"Promise," Samaira said.