Living Hell
VIVAAN SHAH
LIVING HELL
PENGUIN BOOKS
CONTENTS
Prologue: Flat No. 502
Flat No 303
Nadeem Chipkali
Makhija
Forensic Lab Inspection
Malad (West) Police Chowki
The Widow in White
The Lizard
The Little Guy
Midnight Summons
The Naked Dawn
Investigation at the Building
Dr Vengsarkar
Irshaad Batla
Harbour Line
Home Invasion
Down with the Sickness
DMART
Café Coffee Day
Hospital
Interrogation Room
The Mac
Saved by the Bell
Questioning
Diagnosis
The Kiss-off
Visitors
All Hell Breaks Loose
Getting Even
Rendezvous with the Voice of Reason
Uncertain Confession
The Nether Regions
Back from the Dead
Departure from Duty
Living Hell
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
LIVING HELL
Vivaan Shah is a theatre and film actor. He made his Bollywood debut with Saat Khoon Maaf, which was based on a short story by Ruskin Bond.
He has been doing plays since childhood, movies since he was twenty years old and writing since early adolescence. An amateur film historian, he has also directed a play, A Comedy of Horrors, featuring the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
Prologue
Flat No. 502
The exact time on the wall clock hanging over the kitchen mantelpiece in flat no. 502 was 2.31 p.m. Each and every switch in the house had been left on, even the ones next to empty plug points, and the ones Scotch-taped with markings saying ‘Do Not Touch’, even the lone double switch that lay dangling in a corner from a disconnected table lamp. Thankfully, the gas had not been turned on, as there was no one to attend to or enjoy the facilities and amenities of this abode. The empty glass plate in the microwave kept rotating without any apparent purpose—the timer had been set to half an hour and fifteen seconds and as the twentieth minute approached, the mechanism itself seemed baffled at what it was supposed to have been doing.
The knob of the fan regulator had been left at ‘2’, a speed that made more noise than doing any good. The television kept trying to peddle a variety of wares to an audience of inanimate objects that seemed least interested in what it had to offer. One advertisement was followed by the next in descending order of utility. An ad that promised to cure blisters on the soles of calloused feet with the able assistance of a crack cream was televised with as much zest and vigour as an Indian armed forces commercial enticing potential prospects to get recruited in the navy.
Over all the more menial sounds insidiously inhabiting the kitchen and living room, there chirped a silent dripping from the toilet, as if in background to the restless recital of the household. It came like the whisper of a wind chime, discreet yet glaringly apparent, and impossible to not take notice of. Even though there wasn’t anyone to take note of anything, each drop that fell into the bucket landed quick, with one clean swoop, echoing all about the four corners that surrounded it, its friendly reverberations hinting at a latent malice . . . a malice that lay distilled in the objects of everyday life, which one normally accustoms oneself to if one intends to enjoy the comforts and splendour of easy living. Every article in the flat, every furnishing, every gadget, every piece of technology, every object, every function, every service, every purpose in the house was devoted solely to the welfare of its inhabitant who lay in the lowest place of all, bereft of all support, helpless and dispensable. Locked in the bathroom, still as a stopcock, his legs spread out wide on the damp floor, his arms hanging from the shoulders, his neck tilting backwards and his eyes widening in anticipation of rigor mortis. Death itself seemed disappointed at how unceremoniously its latest seat had been usurped. As if to die all alone was the greatest sin. And to go on living by oneself the only answer.
Flat No. 303
He sat slouched in front of the television with one arm resting on the cushion and the other hand wrapped firmly around the remote control. He was ready to use it at a moment’s notice—the second his attention would begin to waver. His eyelids were threatening to close shut any minute and his feet began to slowly drift apart as the ceiling fan above him rotated like a windmill, contributing to the stagnant ventilation that made his forehead involuntarily wrinkle in irritation. He was gradually dozing off and there wasn’t a thing in the world he could do about it. He lay suspended in mid-air, swaying left and right . . . Nadeem Chipkali, the lizard . . . hovering halfway between consciousness and slumber, not quite sure himself whether he was awake or asleep.
His flatmate lay passed out on the couch beside him, the palm of his right hand vacant yet pointing in the direction of the television, as if it were still clutching the remote. The remote control had been an object of much contention between the two, and he who enjoyed possession over it certainly had the upper hand in the household, at least as far as recreational activities were concerned. After all, there wasn’t much else to do. The music system wasn’t working, the computer had conked out, and the newspapers and magazines that lay scattered on the floor were of more use for mopping up spilt water than actually for reading. His mobile phone, too, lay incapacitated in a corner of the room, like another disenfranchised member of the household whose silence spoke more than the commotion creeping in through the open windows, reminding him time and time again that there was nothing much to look forward to, and certainly nothing to wake up for. He would spend hours by its side like a devoted friend and confidant, waiting for it to ring, for a message even from Vodafone to appear, for any signal from the outside world to rescue him from the sloth he had slowly sunk into.
‘If you receive calls from any of these numbers,’ declared a sombre voice on the television amidst an array of phone numbers on display, ‘asking for credit card details, bank account number, CVV code, PAN card number, GST number, Aadhaar card number, please refrain from doing so and report immediately to 0884532160, or simply dial 0125, that’s 0125, for QUANTRA Tele-Com & Cyber Security Notification Centre.’
The intercom attached to the kitchen wall began to ring in its high-pitched burglar alarm blare, tearing through the stillness with a stirring sense of purpose, suggesting that it was a matter that demanded urgent attention. Nadeem had one eye half open as it pierced through the living room. He knew it was the landlord and was not in the mood to address the situation he was presently incapable of finding a solution to. He knew the landlord would give up after three or four tries unless he took the effort to land up at their doorstep—a predicament he was hoping to avoid. But it persisted longer than he would have liked, with each interval in between the rings bearing the promise of silence, but each successive outcry growing shriller and more obtrusive. With it came the beeping of his alarm clock, which was set to go off at 2.45 p.m. for no particular reason other than to drag him to his feet and think about how to spend the day.
‘Any offers proposing schemes for real estate, investment, insurance and currency exchange are fraud,’ the telecaster carried on in so insistent a tone that it seemed there was something fraudulent about what he was saying. ‘Please beware and report at once to 0884532160, or simply dial 0125, that’s 0125, for QUANTRA Tele-Com and Cyber Security Notification Centre. 24x7 service. Two outlets in Cyber Hub, one in the MTNL building, Reclamation, two in the India Bulls Building, Lower Parel, one in Jog
eshwari (East), three in BKC and another in Navi Mumbai.’
The faint sound of a burglar alarm from a distant vehicle could be heard blaring away.
‘Also, any offers on automobiles, discounts, servicing, repair work, purchase and sale, please notify at once to 0228428735 Auto Cell Unit IV.’
None of these warnings managed to arouse his alarm in the slightest. The doorbell rang. He didn’t even consider lifting a finger to open it. The only thing that did manage to get him to budge was the sound of the caller tune that went off abruptly, breaking the dull monotony of the various household noises as if an eagerly anticipated visitor had arrived at their humble abode. He scrambled to his feet to check his phone, only to wipe his eyes at the dismal realization that the call was not for him. He checked his flatmate’s phone, which lay on a small wooden side table at the other end of the couch with a lamp and pocketknife to give it company. The call may have arrived on his flatmate’s phone, but it certainly was for him. The letters on the touchscreen spoke loud and clear. It was The Pipsqueak—the little guy, someone he had been avoiding for a while now. He knew the day of reckoning was at hand and wondered how much longer he would manage to ignore him before having to confront the matter. Procrastination was his motto: Do later what one can do now.
‘Please call 0125 . . .’
The glistening image before him on the television, reminding him of the harmonious world outside, suddenly burst into static. The cable had evidently gone and the scrambled fuzzy sound emanating from the television grew louder and more disconcerting as he stared blankly into it. The intercom was still ringing away, harmonizing uneasily with the beeping of the alarm clock. The bell rang rhythmically at equal intervals, the sound of the burglar alarm was consistently growing louder and the caller tune from his flatmate’s mobile phone still insisted that it be answered.
He arose from the couch sullenly and sauntered over to the washbasin, splashing his face with water until he felt that he was equipped with the alertness required of him. What would it be first?
None of the options seemed even halfway agreeable in the vagary of the passing moment. Answering the door was without doubt the most immediate concern, but what if it meant having to deal with the electricity bill, or the gas bill, or worse still, the pending monthly bill from the neighbourhood department store? He opened his wallet to see how much he had on him and glanced through his driver’s licence and various other forms of identification, hoping to be revived with the cheerful prospect of seeing his face all those years ago when the passport-sized photograph had been taken. He didn’t look any happier, perhaps a little younger, but certainly about as glum and purposeless as he always did.
‘Nadeem Sayed Khatib,’ it read. The smile he had tried on for size, at the insistence of the photographer, while posing for the photograph, now appeared unmistakably phoney in the glare of the afternoon sun. He didn’t like how he looked, his hairstyle, or how he had held his face together like a stuffed fish for the amusement of all those assembled at the photo studio. He didn’t even like his name. The passport-sized photo was an embarrassment. He didn’t want anyone seeing him in that state. It was taken during the year of the recession and his hair never quite grew back just as thick. He was of average height, thin, in his mid-twenties, had a frame that could slither through any doorway with the ease of an alley cat, and a face with neither a birthmark nor a beauty spot to distinguish him from all the millions of mugshots of lowlifes and losers with a police record.
He tossed the wallet aside and breezily unlatched the door, yanking it open, fully confident that he could deal with whatever inconvenience came his way. It was the kid from the fourth floor, 403 to be exact, the flat right above 303 and identical in layout. He claimed that some of his laundry had fallen into their balcony. Nadeem gallantly guided him over to the balcony, past the clatter of the plates, spoons and forks lying on the floor. The kid nearly tripped over the beanbag, admiring the contents of the dishevelled living room, his mouth curling up into an ‘Ugh!’
The intercom was still ringing, the alarm clock had snoozed and wailed every five minutes, the burglar alarm had grown somewhat softer in anticipation of its owner and the mobile phone on the side table still refused to shut up. Nadeem had learnt to ignore such minor disturbances.
Outside in the balcony, water was dripping all over the clip strings that ran alongside the railings. As fate would have it, all their laundry had been soiled with the refuse from the drainpipe above. Nadeem looked at the kid morosely, letting out an empty exhalation.
‘How many times have I told you all about shutting that pipe!’ he said. ‘It’s right above my balcony. Water falls every day on the clothes. What’s the point of drying the clothes out here if you can’t keep them from getting wet?’
‘That isn’t from ours,’ the kid said.
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘We haven’t had water in days.’ He was right. There had indeed been a water shortage a couple of days earlier which was still continuing in those flats that were known to be more liberal in their usage.
Nadeem’s head craned up in an instant. He ran the palm of his hand gently along the railings, looking up, squinting through the sunlight overhead and trying to trace the trajectory of the fall. The water was coming from the drainpipe protruding out from the parapet of the fifth floor, the one right above 403, flat no. 502.
‘That’s that Makhija,’ Nadeem grumbled, tilting his head all the way back to get a better look.
‘I know,’ the kid smiled. ‘I took water from his tank once.’
‘Now you listen . . .’ Nadeem began. ‘If you ever steal water from my tank, you’ve had it.’
The kid picked up his fluorescent yellow Nike nylon shorts from the floor and sprinted back into the flat. Luckily, the drain water had spared it. It was completely dry. Nadeem ran after him, tumbling over the leg rest between the couch and the television, falling face first into the shoe rack. The kid got away, slamming the front door shut right on Nadeem’s face as he tried to crawl towards it. He kicked the ground in irritation, nearly chipping a tile, and hauled himself up, throwing his slippers aside. One of them nearly hit his flatmate who had failed to be stirred by all the commotion. Nadeem smacked the alarm clock, sending it somersaulting into the wall. It tumbled open—the glass detaching itself from the circular frame and the seconds hand spinning about indiscriminately as a small circuit board slipped out from beneath the battery case. It kept beeping even though it had been practically dismembered. He kicked the side table on which the mobile phone had been resting, turning it over and injuring one of its legs severely. The phone hit the tiles, bounced off a corner, did a cartwheel and landed on the rug unscathed, thanks to its protective case. Punching the wall with the side of his fist, he charged towards the intercom and pulled the receiver out from the holder with such force that it nearly dismantled the entire contraption. By now, it had stopped and the person who had for so long been trying to get in touch with him would do better to stay away. He punched down on the three digits—502. First, the engaged tone, then a ring. It rang three times before he started to get fidgety. He waited for someone to pick up, but after the fifth ring, it became painfully evident that the supposed vacancy of the household was just as likely a possibility as an outright ignorance to his plight. It was afternoon, perhaps the occupant was in the midst of a nap. Was it an urgent enough matter to address in person even if it meant risking all civility and neighbourly goodwill? Perhaps it was a matter for the society of the building and ought to be put in writing as a formal complaint to the secretary, Mrs Juliet Miranda, a doddering old woman who occupied the first floor and made quite a big deal about it, sitting on watch all day at her window like a pirate trying to sight land from a telescope.
He rang her up and made a big fuss about it, practically waking up everyone in the entire building from their afternoon naps, hollering about how he was going to make sure that the occupant of 502, Mr Makhija, personally washed his clothes for him
.
‘SHUT UP!’ she barked, sealing Nadeem’s trap quicker than a blow to the head. ‘Now, you listen to me . . . I don’t care if the drainpipe from 502 is pissing all over your clothes. It’s not my problem. I’m the secretary, not the plumber.’
‘But . . .’
‘If I ever hear a peep out of your big mouth, I’m going to see to it that you are never allowed in this building again. Am I clear?’
‘Uhh . . . huhh . . .’ Nadeem mumbled, cut off midstride.
‘I don’t hear you.’
‘Uhh . . . huh . . . ya.’
‘First, pay your rent to your poor old landlord . . .’
‘Poor old . . . ya, right!’
‘You listen to me here now!’ she spoke with more severity than before, ‘First, you pay your rent, then you talk!’
She also informed him that if he ever spoke to her in such a tone again, she would personally kick him out on his ass and make sure that he spent the night kissing the pavement. She always knew that having a Muslim tenant in the building meant trouble, but she knew how to handle his type.
Nadeem cut the call, shocked at his inadequacy at being assertive, and that too with an ignorant old lady like Mrs Miranda. Circumstances had slowly reduced him to the rank of a pushover. Whatever little spine was left had been bent out of shape sitting in front of the television all day long. Compared to the kind of people he had dealt with, she was a cakewalk, but the notion of being homeless was not an enticing prospect, so he put it to rest. He could dry his clothes elsewhere. The four walls that surrounded him and the roof over his head were the only sanctuary he enjoyed from the uncertainty of the outside world. He had mortgaged his car and somehow managed to scrape together enough money for an advance and security deposit on a one-BHK with a living room, a kitchen and a balcony, which was the highlight. He had managed to procure it thanks to one of his flatmate’s cousins, Howard, who lived in the area and owned a flat in the building, which he had given out on rent. Nadeem had got the kitchen done up, changed the furniture, made it look more like a home and less like a bargain basement deal, which is what it was for twelve-three-seventy-five a month, including a deposit till their lease got over.