Murder in Mumbai by K. D. Calamur Page B

day.
    â€œ
Chottu, do chai lana
,” Khan shouted to an invisible subordinate.
    â€œHow’s business, man?” Jay asked.
    â€œUsual,
yaar
. You know how it is. Sometimes up. Sometimes down. Sometimes it can be tough even in Chor Bazaar.” He laughed.
    Jay could not help but notice the changes in his boyhood friend. Shakil had been a star athlete and student, one of a legion of Indian boys destined for a career in medicine or engineering. Instead, after his father’s sudden death, he took over the family business right after graduating with a degree in mechanical engineering. Now, he sat behind the counter for at least twelve hours a day, much like his father had. His hair had turned prematurely gray; his stomach was prosperously protruding. It was hard to believe they were the same age.
    â€œSo tell me,” Shah said, “what brings you here? Can’t be the
kheema
.” (Mincemeat.)
    â€œActually, I need some information.”
    â€œWhat kind?”
    â€œI’m looking into some thefts.”
    â€œThefts? Leave that stuff to the police,
yaar
. Why do you want to get involved?”
    Before Jay could say anything, a little boy came with two shot glasses of tea. Each man took one, blew into it to cool it down, and took a sip.
    â€œSo, how are your parents?” Shah asked.
    â€œGood,
yaar
. They ask about you. And how’s the missus and the kids?”
    â€œGood. Good. Mariam is going to be in the seventh standard. Don’t know where time goes.”
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    â€œOK, bhai, I know you’re a busy man. Tell me what you want to know.”
    â€œI’m looking for stolen electronics.”
    Khan laughed. “You’ve come to the right place.” The area’s reputation preceded itself. “What would you like? iPads? I know a guy with fresh stock.”
    Jay ignored his question. “I’m looking for goods sold on these particular dates.” Jay handed him a note, which Shakil examined from atop his black plastic-rimmed glasses. “Can you also check your store in Lamington Road?”
    â€œI’ll see what I can do.”
    â€œI appreciate it, and I’ll owe you one.”
    He drained the chai, made small talk with his old friend and looked at his watch. It was almost time for his interview with Khurana.
    * * *
    Jay headed back to the newsroom where he was supposed to meet Janet and head to the old Khurana family home for the promised interview. Kabir Khurana preferred to conduct his few interviews there instead of the apartment building where he lived. Jay had been to the family home before, many years earlier, to talk to Khurana’s father, the revered independence-era leader Khulbushan Khurana, for the newspaper.
    The elder Khurana was known for his loyalty to Gandhi and had immersed himself in the freedom struggle against the British. The old man had been dying and Jay, then a trainee journalist, was sent to interview him for an upcoming Independence Day special supplement. Jay had been nervous. It was his first big interview. He did not want to disappoint—yet he felt intimidated. He was meeting someone he had read about in history books, whose name adorned roads and buildings. He was so old in fact that most people assumed he was dead, a relic of the past that the new India had no time for. Khurana lived in the old family house near Chowpatty, in a street long forgotten by developers, adorned by Laburnum trees that lined both sides. It seemed incongruous in Mumbai’s dizzying pace and dearth of space.
    Jay did not know what to expect when he rang the bell. Usually, when he went to interview someone famous, he would be ushered in by a servant who’d then be dispatched to produce a cup of tea or, if it was hot, as it often was, a Thums Up—the Indian cola—or a Limca. But in this case, no one came to the door. He tried the bell again.
    â€œComing.” He could barely discern the