The Three-Act Façade of Raima Sinha

Detective Indranil Sengupta found himself drinking tea with Raima Sinha, but not for the reasons he would have hoped. She was an acclaimed Bengali actress. And acting was a profession which came with its own perks, one of which was being at the receiving end of adoration from bachelors and married men alike. Detective Sengupta fell into the former category, but he found this evening to be neither the time nor the place to express his personal affection towards a prospective client. “I’m quite sorry for your loss,” he said in a somber tone instead. It was the right thing to do, after all.

He picked up the cup of coffee and took a sip from it. Raima glanced at his right hand for just a moment, to confirm the fact that he did not wear any rings on it - he was neither married nor superstitious, then. Thus the kind of detective she would like to pursue this case with. Over the years, she had realised that unmarried men seemed to have the the most time - especially for women like her, who could make an impression on the opposite sex even before indulging in conversation with them. And detectives shouldn’t wear gemstones either. She wore a couple herself, but unlike Indranil, her job description didn’t need her to be logical.

“I’m quite aggrieved,” she said, picking up her glance towards the eyes of the Detective. They were keen, almost humorous in their outlook. She wondered if he had noticed her split-second observation of what he wore on his hands. If he was any good, he would have.

“It’s natural, of course. Your husband was a well-respected member of the film fraternity. Fate knocked on his door too soon.” Rajnath Sinha was the man they were referring to - till his death, also the richest and most prolific producer in the city.

“I loved him very much.” Raima looked like she was holding back her tears, which was a sign of grace even in the face of loss. At the same time, the Detective reminded himself, she was the best Bengali actress of her generation. She wasn’t the last person you would approach to feign grief.

The Detective picked up his cup of tea, and took a sip from it again. Raima took this opportunity to decide how she felt about his moustache. It was in the same vein as the rest of his outfit. It defied trends and genres, but somehow seemed to fit him better than it would have fit anyone else.

“I have a suspicion, Mr Sengupta, that this was not a work of fate, but the work of a woman in his life.” And with that, the publicised nature of his personal life was confirmed. The most powerful man in the industry indeed had more than one woman in his life, like people of his stature often did.

“My sources in the police department tell me a post-mortem has already been conducted. They found no foul play in his death.”

“But that, Detective, is only because they were asked not to look too closely.”

The Detective leaned back on hearing this, placing the arm which held his cup of coffee on the armrest of his chair. He was well-acquainted with many clients of her kind. There always was a lingering doubt in their minds over the circumstances of the death of a loved one, especially if they were less than saintly while still alive. And thus, if there remained expendable resources they could use to hire private investigators, they would do so for their peace of mind.

“And how would you know so, if I may ask?”

“I’ve got my own sources in the police.”

The Detective did not want to question the veracity of her sources, even though his source was usually quite reliable. No, confronting a prospective client before receiving your first paycheck from them was never the smartest move.

“And who exactly do you think would have enough sway over the police to negate a murder investigation?”

“The woman in his life.”

“Ah?”

“Yes, Detective. I know that expression on your face - I’ve been a keen student of expressions throughout my acting life, if nothing else. And your expression is one of distrust. Distrust in what I say.”

“You would allow me to mention, then, that I’m quite sure of my own sources.”

“I know you are. That’s why your name was the one everyone kept referring to me. But I talk to people you don’t - and I’ve heard things you haven’t.”

“Ah.”

“As it is, Mr Sengupta, I aim to employ you in a bid to find out exactly how true these allegations are.”

“If that’s the case, ma’am, I hope you can elaborate on your theories a bit more.”

“Do you know Kareena Khanna?”

“A Marwari producer with an affinity for Bengali cinema.”

“A Marwari producer with an affinity for crass cinema.”

“You’re not the biggest fan of hers, I gather.”

“Never have been. She doesn’t speak the language - but she’s still the second-biggest producer in the region. I guess money speaks no dialect.”

“Money and lust are the only two universal dialect, aren’t they?”

Raima gave the faintest of smiles at this comment. Khanna Productions was known for its films which served the sole purpose of titillating the lowest common denominators of the population. She continued, “I suppose you would sympathise with my condition if I told you I was not the most pleased wife when I came to know that my husband’s latest mistress was Kareena Khanna.”

“And … you’re sure about that?”

“I’m sure enough.”

 Indranil was not acquainted with the gossip of the film industry, not even the news made the front pages of the tabloids. He preferred to see movie stars on the screen rather than following their foibles in real life. But the affair, he realised nonetheless, was quite an explosive one.

 “I guess there would be some professional repercussions if the news came out.”

“The two production houses they ran were the biggest ones in the industry. With the news of my husband dying, his company’s going to go through a torrid patch.”

“And Khanna’s is going to become the frontrunner in the industry.”

“Money, after all, is the only language she speaks.”

The Detective was always careful during this phase of an investigation. His clients, more often than not, had their own ideas about how a crime might have taken place - if it had taken place at all. It was up to him to absorb the results of their amateur deductions, and then use it as a reference for his own theories rather than being overtly influenced by them. Without this precaution, he realised early into his career, he would be lead into imagining links and leads when there were none.

He put down the half-finished tea on the table in front of him, which was filled up with what must have been piles of her scripts and magazines she was featured on. He did not think much about what could be read as a sign of narcissism. She was a superstar, after all. “But you say the two of them were involved in an affair,” he pointed out instead.

“They were. She even came to our house one time while I was out on a shoot. I thought it was a business meeting when I first heard about it on the morning of, maybe an attempt at a behind-the-scenes truce like these banners often tend to have amongst themselves. But she left behind … traces. In the bedroom. I recovered an unopened packet of tampons which were not mine fallen under the bed. And my husband was not the most enthusiastic man when it came to having the conversation which followed, for the umpteenth time in our relationship.”

“Why would she kill him, then?”

“I do not know. I simply don’t. Maybe it was a crime of passion. Or maybe it was cold-blooded murder. But there was a poisoning, with a rare specimen you won’t find during a post-mortem. And I know for a fact that the two of them had met that evening in a hotel.”

“That is quite an … interesting theory, shall we say. It doesn’t truly link her to the crime, however. Also, how would you know about the poison if the police don’t?”

“They do. They just didn’t write it down in the post-mortem.”

“That’s quite a damning accusation.”

Indranil looked down at the table, and the half-empty cup of tea. He was in no hurry to finish it - this conversation would take a long time to conclude, he knew. “I shall need time to investigate.”

“Your remuneration will be significant too.”

“I’ll do the best I can, then.”

“Oh, and another thing, Mr Sengupta.”

“Yes?”

“Over the course of your investigations, I have just the one condition for you.”

“Ah, go ahead.” His moustache twitched, and his eyes sparkled with the same sense of humour.

“I would require you to ignore any evidence you might find of my involvement in the murder.”

Indranil leaned forward almost instinctively. “Why would you set that condition for me, ma’am?”

“While it’s a fact that my husband was having an affair with his biggest business rival, and that he slept with her the night he died, evidence might turn up which links me with the poisoning.”

Indranil was not sure he followed. Yet, he remained silent.

“Your job is not to find explicit proof of the murder, but to build up a convincing enough context for people to believe she was the one who killed him. Gather evidence, as much as you can, which helps you out in this investigation - and helps anonymous sources in convincing the press to run this story.”

“I don’t think I follow,” he said now.

“Detective, I have spelled out your job for you. You now know where to look. You also know where not to look. You help me build up this avalanche of proof with the methods you’re known for, and you’ll be the richest private investigator in the city by the time you’re done working for me.” She had pulled out a file which was previously tucked away in a corner of the table, buried underneath her pile of scripts. She pushed it towards Indranil, which made him look up for a moment in suspicion. He then flipped through the file. Inside it lay screenshots of messages, and photographs of the two of them being more intimate than one would expect public rivals to be.

“There’s something I would like you to look at beneath all the proof I’ve already gathered.”

He flipped through the remaining pile of papers - which were photocopies of the same kind of evidence - before stumbling upon a paycheck at the very end. It had his full name written on it, and carried all the particulars of Raima’s account as well. The sum of money written on top of the cheque was scarcely believable. Conversely, one could say it made the proposition made to him scarcely unacceptable.

Indranil put out his right hand for Raima. She bent forward, and the two of them shook hands. He would investigate the case and learn about all the details of the murder which would never see the light of day, whereas the actress would put up a performance like no other while he undertook this procedure. In the end, though, both would work very differently towards the same objective - helping her convince the public that a murder had taken place, and that Kareena Khanna had committed it.

Raima had a smile on her face which would linger on for a long time to come, disappearing only when she made her many public appearances in the weeks and months which followed. At first, she acted act like a bereaved spouse. Then, once Indranil helped her complete her hefty document of evidence, she took up the role of a woman seeking justice for the dead love of her life. Press from all over the country latched on to the sensational evidence sent to them from the same anonymous source, after all. She appeared on televised interviews - in her mother tongue, then Hindi, then English - to make emotional pleas which would end with monologues about how Khanna deserved to be behind bars. And finally, she could afford to wear the same smile out in the streets and the front covers of magazines too.

The time for bereavement was long over by then. She had become the biggest stakeholder in her former husband’s company, as ordained by the will of the late producer, even if its wishes were tragically carried out much before the right time had come. And thus, the company Raima was now the face for became a monopoly - the biggest production banner in the film industry. Its competitor, Khanna Productions, faded into oblivion. Soon after the conviction of Kareena Khanna in the Rajnath Sinha murder case, achieving any sort of positive PR turned out to be an impossible task for even the best who could be hired for the job.

Raima would readily confess to herself during her moments of private reflection how pleasing her plan’s execution had been - amassing a fortune at the expense of murdering an unfaithful husband, and putting the woman she despised the most behind bars. And it all came together because of the three-act façade of hers. In the time which followed, Raima Sinha would come to regard this as the best performance of her career.