'I kept photographs of everyone. Because I was working for them.' 'Madam, Saab...' Shyamvar Rai, the approver in the case, said in a tone that tried to suggest that that would be a routine practice for a driver.
Indrani looked cheerful and upbeat and announced she had quite recovered from her wounds...
'How much fashion she used to do.' 'Now all gone in the water!' 'All good things have to come to an end.' 'And all bad things have come to an end.'
If Pasbola seemed like he was testing Rai on his high school physics, Rai on the other hand, had relocated himself to a classroom of philosophy, offering beautifully inexact answers, arrived at after deep thinking.
Ever since Mekhail had first entered the courtroom, he had, it would seem, never once looked at his mother, though they were a few metres away from each other. Curiosity, residual regard, memories, anger, none of it, could make him even look at the woman who gave birth to him. Was his hatred so overpowering?
Without a moment of hesitation, Rai jumped up on his rickety wooden stool in the witness box. He then drew his legs close to his body and wrapped his arms around his knees and finally tucked his head into his knees demonstrating the fetal position.
Seeing Indrani in court with her perpetually sunny demeanour and beaming face is sometimes as unreal an experience as making sense of court delays.
The attempts to unearth the document started getting more and more frantic. The clerks began to flip pages of files full of documents, some hand written, some bearing thick seals or multiple stamps, some in Hindi, some in Marathi. Several junior lawyers joined in, perusing different files and dockets. But in spite of the best of efforts the document was not to be found.
'Indrani gave a mirthless laugh on spying The Suitcase, from the accused enclosure and, in sign language, gestured the impossibility of anyone fitting in such a small bag.'
The Mukerjeas' former driver could remember every detail of Sheena Bora's alleged murder five years ago, including on what day he took Indrani to the beauty parlour, and the brands of liquor he bought, but was unable to recall anything subsequently or more recently...
'If I have to write a letter I will give it to the media. They will put it out.'
The question being silently telegraphed around the court room was: When did this happen? Wasn't this trial about Indrani murdering her daughter to prevent her from marrying Rahul Mukerjea, her husband Peter Mukerjea's son from his first marriage?
'It is perhaps kind of easy to see why Peter and the police clash.' 'The obvious air of entitlement that emanates from him, maybe unknowingly, probably gets the goat of the policemen.'
Back to Sheena Bora's grave, via e-time travel
Mekhail hopped off the bench in a hurry and turning his back to Indrani, stood at the window. Indrani ignored him too. Mekhail is getting married later this year. His mother will, of course, not be in attendance. Nor, of course, would he want her to be there, if she could.
'Who is the right Mekhail? Mekhail I or Mekhail II?'
Finally to end the dispute, Sharma threatened to show her shoes. Pasbola declared regally that he would like to forgo that particular honour. Sharma ignored him. Instead, she bent down, took off her shoe and triumphantly held her prize aloft, and said delightedly, "Yeh dekhiye! (Have a look!)"
Indrani chose at that moment to wave a folded chit from the accused enclosure. It distracted Bharti, who looked at her sharply for a split second before turning back to Pasbola. The chit was collected from Indrani and her lawyer Gunjan Mangla slipped it to Pasbola. He looked at it, quietly laughed in disbelief and continued with his cross examination.
'I have strong reasons to believe that Accused number 4 (A4) Pratim Mukerjea with the assistance of other persons, including Accused no 3 (A3) turned approver Shyamwar Pinturam Rai may have conspired and abducted my daughter Sheena in 2012 and made her untraceable and subsequently destroyed evidence.'
In walked the scruffy band of pirates, without any swagger. Mostly tall or burly men, with weather beaten, resigned faces, the majority were dressed in track pants and tees; a few had skull caps. Some of their T-shirts had messages like 'I'm not in danger, I'm danger' or 'Long Beach California Surfer'.
'I'm not withdrawing any allegations. I want those CDRs (Peter's call data records).' 'Those are my feelings.'
One couldn't help feeling a certain melancholy viewing these now vagrant documents and photographs that would never be rightfully cherished. The pictures spoke to you. They offered slices of extinguished lives. They breathed sadness too, for what could have been and will never be. The sweet promises that Life made and insolently, arrogantly never kept.
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