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Get Columbo

T. SHER SINGH

Where’s Lt Columbo, now that we really need him?

Shashi Tharoor, India’s Minister for Human Resource Development, has been telling us stories … and has himself been the subject of gossip columns … for years.

However, things suddenly took a turn for the worse, a few days ago.

To begin with, his wife of three years -- his third -- discovered tweets on his phone, revealing that he may have been fooling around with another woman. [The fact that the latter is a Pakistani journalist and accused of spying for India’s arch enemy, is another story.]

The wife, no shrinking violet herself, went public -- on national media -- by re-posting all of her husband’s sordid correspondence, and then discussing it freely on the country’s talk shows.

Well, guess what.

Poor wife suddenly found herself dead yesterday -- at the end of a long day of TV interviews -- in a hotel room.

But, before I go any further, let me tell you another story.

*   *   *   *   *

Years ago, when I was practising law, I was approached by a desi fellow, originally from Uttar Pradesh, India, who insisted that I take on his case. He was desperate that somebody who understood his cultural background represent him, he said, because his wife had gone AWOL on him and now he had no access to his children.

Melted by his tears, I reluctantly agreed to help him.

But discovered before long that his wife was actually in hiding in a women’s shelter, having fled with the children to escape repeated violent abuse by him. There was a restraining order against him.

Being a lawyer -- an “officer of the Court” -- and through my connections, I was disclosed her whereabouts so that I could help in a possible resolution, but on the express condition that I do not disclose her address to my client.

I was able to schedule a private meeting with her -- she did not have a lawyer.

I advised my client of the upcoming appointment and sought his instructions.

He turned up at my office, excited by the progress I had made.

“Wonderful, Mr Singh,” he gushed. “Now, if only you can get her to come home, I’ll be eternally indebted to you.”

“But why? And how?” I asked. “Are you denying the abuse? Is she lying? Or are you going to acknowledge your actions and prove to the court that you have joined some rehab programs (anger management, marriage counselling, etc.) to prevent a repeat?“

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I’ll do anything you say. Just get her home, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“No,” I said, “you need to deal with first things first.” And I began to list the programs I wanted him to enrol in.

In a few minutes, he shot out of his chair, frustrated by the spectre of all that he would have to do to earn society’s and his wife’s trust again.

“Oh, but Mr. Singh,” he exclaimed, “all I want you to do is get her home, that’s all. The rest I can take care of, on my own.”

“How?” I asked.

He sat down, leaned over and whispered to me across the table, as if we were conspirators.

“As soon as she’s home, we’ll head off to India, all of us … and everything will be taken care of back home. Neatly. Quickly. No problem.”

“What do you mean?“ I asked again.

He looked down at his hands and smiled.

“You know how things are back home? You’re from there. I’m well connected, you know … very well connected. My brother is an MLA (Member of the Legislative Assembly, a politician). I can get things done. Anything. In a jiffy.”

I looked at him. He stared back at me and grinned.

And twitched one side of his mouth upwards and clicked his tongue.

I recognized the gesture. In India, it has the same universal meaning as the silent slide of the forefinger around the throat we have in the West.

“Dead!”

I continued staring at him, soaking in the full import of what he’d told me. His eyes flickered back and forth between his hands and me, as he continued to giggle. Now, a bit pleadingly.

I nodded. And told him I’d get back to him after meeting his wife that afternoon.

I knew my hands were somewhat tied by my obligation to confidentiality. And I also knew what I had to do.

Soon as he left, I drafted a letter to him informing him that I could no longer act for him for personal reasons, and that I was sending him back his retainer by registered mail. I faxed him the letter to his workplace.

I met the wife, as scheduled. I informed her that I no longer acted for her husband and could not be involved in the matter any further.

And I told her: “Here’s something I want to tell you and I need you to take it most seriously. Under no circumstances must you, no matter what you decide vis-à-vis your husband, agree to go back to India in the near future. If you do, your life will be in extreme danger.”

Her eyes clouded with tears.

"Do you fully understand what I am telling you?" I implored.

She nodded. And hurriedly left.

My client -- former client, by then -- stormed into my office later that afternoon, demanding an explanation for my withdrawal. I simply said that I had too much on my plate and could not handle his case.

Seeing that I was absolutely serious -- he offered me more money and I said no -- he then did something that reminded me of “back home”. He dropped on all fours, grabbed my feet, touched the shoes with his forehead, all the while mumbling: “Sardar ji, you are my maa-ee baap (father and mother). Please, please help me. You are the only one I have who can help me.”

I shrank back in horror.

And sent him home. Sobbing, angry … and abusive.       

*   *   *   *   *

I have no idea what happened after that in that story. But it haunts me and sometimes invades my sleep.  

Just as the now unfolding saga of Mr Tharoor in New Delhi, India.

Will we ever know the truth? After all, if Mr Tharoor has anything, he has ’connections’.

Where’s Lt Columbo, now that we really need him?
 
Yesterday, right after the news broke about the death, the Indian police jumped the gun, in deference to political power I suppose, and proclaimed that she ’may’ have died of an overdose, a suicide.

While the country’s pliant media regurgitated the apologia with nary a question, an enterprising reporter for The Times of London -- Robin Pagnamenta, its South Asia Correspondent based in India -- being free of the perennial Indian need to “look the other way,” discovered differently.

While the Indian media continued to tell the world it may be a suicide by overdose by a distraught jilted wife, Mr Pagnamenta’s report steadfastly held on to his own findings.

The Times, to its infinite credit, simply stuck to the headline, “Wife who unmasked Indian MP’s affair Found Hanged”. [The emphasis is mine.]

Found Hanged.

Not ‘hanging’. But ‘hanged’. British journalists, you and I know well, tend to me more careful in their wordsmithing than their counterparts elsewhere.

This morning, doctors who have conducted the autopsy have come out and silenced the Indian police and media apologists -- one can only hope -- by declaring their own clinical findings.

They say it was a case of "sudden, unnatural death."

They have ruled out poisoning.

And, they found injury marks on the body of the 52-year-old wife of the India’s Minister of Human Resource Development who, I might add, was the one who ’discovered’ his wife ’sleeping peacefully’.

He was also, mysteriously, despite being the prime suspect, allowed to accompany the body in the ambulance to the hospital and stay with it in the hospital through the procedures, breathing down the necks of the doctors.

That’s why, I say, we need Lt Columbo.

*   *   *   *   *

If you’re wondering why this sad saga is, or should be, of interest to the readers of sikhchic.com -- nay, to the world -- it’s because this man, Shashi Tharoor, is one of the same handful who constantly label Sikhs as ’terrorists’ as part of India's manufactured propaganda and describe the genocide of the 1980 and 90s as mere ’riots’.

The world needs to understand the crooked nature of our unscrupulous detractors.

And one more thing: Shashi Tharoor is the ‘most refined‘ of the whole bunch of scoundrels. The rest, all of them, get only worse from here -- on both sides of India’s political divide.

Tharoor cuts a smart picture with his faux English accent, and has, until now, touted himself unabashedly as being owed a world leadership position. Not too long ago, he came a hair’s breadth away from being elected Secretary General of the United Nations!

Thank God for small mercies.        

         
January 18, 2014

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