Well written, of 2013. Shines a bright light on the police system in India.
Roland Francis Toronto > > Four-and-a-half years, one state police force, two federal investigative > teams, two sets of suspects, five arrests and countless fumbles later, the > murder remains unsolved. > > By Shree Paradkar Staff Reporter. > > Toronto Star > > NEW DELHI, INDIA—The game of cricket, a passion for money, dreams, > earthquakes and religious riots: Aarushi Talwar, 13, was lost in the world of > the novel The 3 Mistakes of My Life . It was the night of May 15, 2008. > > The next morning, this only child of two dentists was found dead on her bed > in the New Delhi suburb of Noida, her body covered with her white flannel > blanket. There was blood on the pillow, blood on the walls, blood on the > floor. A camouflage-print school bag on her face covered cuts on her head, > inflicted by three blows. Her throat had been slit. > > Nov. 25, 2013 update: A family reels from the impact of the guilty verdict > > One week later, my family and I in Toronto turned on our television and, > along with millions in India, watched a packed press conference where police > declared Aarushi’s father, Rajesh Talwar, then 44, a murderer. > > The facts, as presented by Inspector-General Gurdarshan Singh, were these: > > Rajesh was having an affair with another dentist. “His extramarital affair > was known to both the girl and Hemraj (the family’s 45-year-old cook). The > two used to discuss this and had become close. Dr. Rajesh could not tolerate > this even though his character was not good . . . > > “He killed her in a fit of rage even though his character was just as poor as > his daughter’s (for her relationship with Hemraj).” > > Sex. Illicit affairs. Murder. Indian media, which combines British tabloid > sensibility with U.S. cable’s cutthroat competitiveness, snapped it up and > fed it to a gossip-hungry audience, catapulting the crime to the top of the > news cycle and making Aarushi a household name. > > > “ India’s JonBenet Ramsey case? ” asked a Time magazine headline. > > Four-and-a-half years, one state police force, two federal investigative > teams, two sets of suspects, five arrests and countless fumbles later, > Aarushi’s murder remains unsolved. > > Both her parents have been charged with murder and conspiracy. Her father is > also charged with destruction of evidence. They are free on bail, facing > trial. > > Aarushi’s mother Nupur, now 47, is bewildered but defiant. “They (people) > want a soap-opera situation,” she tells me. “I can’t stop anyone’s mouth. > They’re free to think what they wish to think. But that doesn’t change the > truth.” > > Nupur is my cousin. > > For a long time, I could not comprehend what was happening. My family’s > account of Aarushi’s death and the investigation diverged from the media > coverage so thoroughly that it was as if they were different cases. > > But after my cousin was jailed last spring, I knew I had to go to Delhi. I > had grown up in India and had worked there as a journalist before moving to > Canada. It was painful to watch Rajesh and Nupur being ripped from their > sheltered, middle-class cocoon and flung down a rabbit hole that is India’s > justice system. > > This is not a story of grief or loss, although a child was murdered. It is > not a story of conspiracy, although “facts” have repeatedly changed. It is > not a story of helplessness, although it pits one family against their > country. > > It is a story of two people on trial for murder with a questionable motive, > no proven murder weapon and evidence that even investigators admit has holes. > Two people who lost their daughter, lost their happiness and lost their naive > illusions about their homeland. > > “I never expected what has happened to us to happen in India,” says Rajesh. > > This is a story of betrayal. > > May 15 was the second-last day of classes at Delhi Public School before it > closed for the summer. Aarushi and her friends were discussing her birthday > sleepover that weekend, prank calls and boys. She was in the middle of a > break-up with a boyfriend of one month, a boy she had met for lunch and > movies. Her parents knew about him and some of her friends envied the family > openness. > > She was a huge fan of Bollywood actor Shahrukh Khan. When she saw him in a > commercial, she would say to her friends, “I wish I could just jump into the > TV and marry him right now.” > > She was shy, but there was one secret desire she confided in friends. “I want > to become famous.” > > That evening, Hemraj Banjade, the Talwars’ live-in Nepali cook, prepared > okra, lentils and rotis. He took a phone call at 8 on his cell phone. Dinner > was at 9:30. Afterward, Aarushi went to her room. Her parents followed with > an early birthday surprise: a Sony 10-megapixel camera that was much better > than the model she had asked for. Click, click, click, the last one taken at > 10:10 just before her parents retired to their bedroom. One of those photos > would identify Nupur’s clothes as the ones she wore in the evening and in the > morning, before and after the murder. > > It was typically hot for May, around 45C. Air conditioners were on in both > bedrooms. > > At 11, Aarushi was reading her novel when Nupur came into Aarushi’s room to > turn on the Internet router. A police report would later note Rajesh sent an > email to the American Academy of Implant Dentistry at 11:37:54 p.m. and that > he was on the computer until 11:45. > > UNIMPLEMENTED COMPONENT - article-related > > The doorbell woke Nupur and Rajesh at about 6 a.m. Hemraj usually let in the > maid but a groggy Nupur had to answer the front door. > > Where was Hemraj? > > Nupur tried his cell phone. No one answered and the ringing stopped abruptly. > When she called again, the phone had been switched off. > > Rajesh came into the living room. He was surprised to see a near-empty whisky > bottle on the dining table. Surprise turned to alarm. “Check on Aarushi,” he > said to Nupur. > > They rushed into her bedroom. There she lay in her blue pyjamas, covered by a > sheet, the schoolbag on her face. Underneath, her head turned to one side, a > necklace of blood. > > “Rajesh started shouting and screaming,” Nupur says. “I was inanimate. I > couldn’t shout or scream.” > > The maid came in, saw what had happened and called neighbours. Those first > few days are a blur for Rajesh and Nupur. But the memory of Aarushi’s > bloodied body haunts them. They die a little every day. > > By 6:50 a.m. , the police arrived. The media gathered by 8, drawn to a story > about murder in an affluent neighbourhood. > > “An open-and-shut case” a senior police officer told the Talwars. Hemraj, > still missing, was the prime suspect. The media reported police saying he had > consumed whisky, broken into Aarushi’s bedroom, assaulted her, hit her with > the blunt edge of a kukri — a Nepali knife — and cut her with its sharp > blade. Police announced a 20,000 rupee ($400) reward for tips leading to his > capture. > > Police did not cordon off the crime scene. At least 100 people — friends, > family, journalists and the curious — traipsed in and out of the Talwars’ > home. > > Blood was not only in Aarushi’s room but also upstairs on the handles of the > locked door to the roof terrace. A neighbour testified later that he had > pointed out the blood to a policeman, who mused about the door being an > escape route. The key could not be found and police did not break open the > door. > > A post-mortem was conducted by noon. It lasted a little more than an hour and > established the cause of death as “shock due to hypovolumia (sic)” or > excessive bleeding. It determined the time since death as “1 to 1 1/2 day > (sic).” > > The report observed three wounds to Aarushi’s head, and measured the incision > on her neck at 14 centimetres by six centimeters. It also noted the presence > of “whitish discharge” at her vagina and wrote that the genital area was > “NAD” — nothing abnormal detected. > > Dinesh Talwar, Rajesh’s brother, asked the post-mortem doctor if Aarushi had > been raped. The doctor said there was no sign of it, but that the vaginal > discharge would be tested. > > The body was brought home and laid on ice slabs in the living room. > > “Nupur had turned to stone,” says our cousin Smita Patil. “She just sat > there, expressionless, biting her lip, stroking Aarushi’s hair, running her > fingers on her face like you would with a sleeping child.” > > The body was decomposing on the fast-melting ice. Police allowed Aarushi’s > room to be cleaned. A large piece of the mattress had been cut out and sent > to a forensics lab along with the pillow, bedsheet and clothes. When cleaners > took the mattress to the terrace, it dripped blood on the stairs. The terrace > door was still locked, so they threw the mattress on the neighbour’s terrace. > > Family elders pushed for cremation, saying it would give the parents closure. > Dinesh reconfirmed that police did not need the body for further examination. > Aarushi was cremated around 5 p.m. The wood pyre burned through the night. > The ashes would be collected the next day in a hand-stitched cloth bag and > immersed in the holy Ganges River. > > Nupur’s mother , Lata Chitnis, 72, is the second of my mother’s two older > sisters. She was a small-town girl with aristocratic roots from India’s > western state of Maharashtra; my most illustrious maternal ancestors were > trusted diwans or chief advisers to a revered 17th-century king named Shivaji. > > My aunt and my uncle had, through travel, broadened their outlook and > embraced cosmopolitan values. > > Nupur was my cool cousin who spent the first few years of her life in > England, where her father, an Indian Air Force officer, was posted at the > High Commission in London. I call her Nupur didi — a respectful address for > an older sister. > > Nupur was shy but academically brilliant. In the mid-1980s, when she brought > home fellow dental school student Rajesh Talwar, a Punjabi, there was no hue > and cry at home. > > As with cross-racial partnerships in Canada, marrying outside the community > is still rare in India. But Nupur had not been exposed to orthodoxy. She had > never been expected to serve elders and men in the family before feeding > herself. Indeed, she didn’t know how to cook. > > Rajesh and Nupur were married in 1989. > > Aarushi’s birth in 1994 gave my Aunt Lata deep joy, and she would regale us > with tales of every development in her first grandchild’s life. Nupur moved > from Delhi to suburban Noida so her parents could help with the baby. While > Nupur was busy building her career, her mother fed Aarushi, soothed her, > played with her, taught her. And when Aarushi was older, she stayed with her > grandparents after school, until her parents were done with their patients. > Aarushi was a picky eater, my aunt, a fabulous cook. > > My aunt is a gentle soul, given to putting family ahead of herself, fretting > and feeding everyone. When she talks, it is with a smile playing about her > lips. > > That smile is all but gone. “I hate cooking,” she says flatly. > > When we’re going through photos for this story, my aunt gazes at forgotten > images, transported to happier times. > > “Look at this one,” she says in Marathi — our mother tongue — pointing to a > photo of toddler Aarushi sitting in a vegetable basket. “Such an imp, my > baby.” > > And then, softly: “She was still little, you know. She wouldn’t even have > comprehended these people were killing her.” Tears. “It must have happened so > quickly, she wouldn’t have felt any pain. Right?” > > Where was Hemraj? > > A day after Aarushi’s body was found, visitors continued to arrive with > condolences, some of whom barely knew the family. Among them was retired > police officer K.K. Gautam. > > “My police instincts took over,” he was quoted as saying in the media. “I > checked Hemraj’s room and the bathroom and then noticed the bloodstains on > the stairs leading to the terrace. . . . > > “I broke open the door and found Hemraj’s body lying in a pool of blood on > the floor. He had a slit mark on his throat and many injury marks on his > body. His body was severely decomposed.” > > Rajesh told police the bloating was so bad he couldn’t be sure it was Hemraj > — a statement that would later be taken as evidence he was obstructing the > investigation. > > There was a bloody palm print on the stucco wall next to Hemraj’s body. A > chunk of the wall was removed and sent to a forensics lab. Police > photographed a bloody shoe print on the terrace. > > An autopsy, hastily conducted that night, recorded injuries similar to > Aarushi’s. It also noted abrasions to his elbows. And it determined the time > since death as “1 1/2 to 2 days.” > > The “Noida double murders,” as they became known, spawned millions of > armchair detectives duking it out on Internet forums and in living rooms. > Every development, every twist, was covered by the media. National talk shows > dissected the case. Police were usually anonymously quoted. TV networks hired > private investigators. > > The media hammered away with questions. How could the parents have slept > through the murders? Why did they rush to cremate Aarushi? Why did they clean > the crime scene so quickly? > > The house was rich with evidence. > > But police missed the dead body on the roof. They were unable to identify > fingerprints on the whisky bottle, which had been found with the blood of > Aarushi and Hemraj. The palm print was made with Hemraj’s blood, but the > fingerprints could not be identified. The sample had been “exhausted,” police > said in their report. > > On May 18, when the Talwars heard that police had said the murder weapon was > not a Nepali knife but a “surgical” tool, they thought investigators were > trying to make the real killer complacent. > > But the tone of investigation changed. > > “Why was Aarushi reading this book?” police asked. “What mistakes had she > made?” > > “What’s a sleepover? Did it involve adults?” > > “No,” said Nupur. “They didn’t want adults around.” > > “Ha. Why not? Why would she not want you there?” > > A week after the murders, Rajesh was arrested. TV networks repeatedly showed > him being dragged and pushed into a police car, shouting “Dinesh, they’re > framing me.” > > Next came the inspector-general’s press conference. After he accused Rajesh > of an extra-marital affair, Gurdarshan Singh said that Rajesh had gone out at > around 9:30. “And when he came home at around 11:30, he found Aarushi and > Hemraj in an objectionable, though not compromising, position. > > “Talwar was enraged and took Hemraj to the terrace and hit him on the head > with a heavy weapon and then slit his throat. He then came down to kill > Aarushi after having whisky, locked the terrace and slit his daughter’s > throat.” > > What was unclear was where such a detailed narrative came from. No evidence > was presented. > > Journalists tell me the inspector-general — the third in command in the state > police force — took charge at the last minute when he saw the large gathering > of media, and that he did not even know the details of the case or even > Aarushi’s name. > > The character assassination of Aarushi sparked outrage. Her schoolmates > rallied at a candlelit protest in Delhi. > > Says her classmate Rajeshwari: “I would associate this sort of behaviour (the > alleged relationship with the much-older Hemraj) with someone who does not > get enough attention maybe in the school or in their life. She had a > beautiful relationship with her parents. She had lots of friends. She had no > reason to look for affection elsewhere.” > > “A 13-year-old,” Nupur tells me. “They talk about her as if she was 30 years > old. The child is not even there to defend herself. I hope God forgives them > for what they’re saying about her.” > > Renuka Chowdhury, then federal minister for women and child development, > demanded the inspector-general be suspended. > > A month later, the inspector-general was transferred. Two months after that, > he was transferred back. > > Three years later, he was promoted to additional director-general. > > The day after Rajesh’s arrest, Nupur was interviewed by NDTV, a premier news > network. It would have been Aarushi’s 14th birthday. She remembers sitting at > a studio but not much else. “I was like a zombie,” she says. “I was > completely stunned, didn’t know what had struck us.” > > In Bollywood films, when someone dies, a woman invariably lets out a > piercing, heart-wrenching scream. Nupur did not. She spoke coherently and was > devoid of emotion. To viewers, her stony face was damning evidence of guilt. > > Aarushi had been dead 10 days and Rajesh arrested for three when Nupur broke > out of her emotional paralysis. > > Our cousin Smita, a meditation trainer at a spiritual group called the Art of > Living , helped unlock her feelings. > > “Nupur wasn’t even halfway through the session when the tears came,” Smita > tells me. “She didn’t cry. She howled. It was a tremendous outpouring of pain > and grief and lasted 45 minutes before it subsided into normal tears. I just > let her be.” > > Rajesh is still grappling with the loss. "It cannot get worse than this," he > says. "It's not like losing your parents. Even if you lose your parents > early, it is something you can accept. > > “This is something I will not accept till I die.” > > Nupur’s father , Group Captain B.G. Chitnis, 80, is a decorated war veteran > of the Indian Air Force. > > When Nupur was born, my uncle was away fighting the India-Pakistan War of > 1965. He recalls rolling into Punjab on the way to Pakistan and the soldiers > being hailed as heroes, being plied with rotis and other food. “There was a > sense of nationalism and national pride. We had hopes of a country that would > be united and strong.” > > He stands tall, in a black-and-white photo, receiving the Distinguished > Service Medal, or a VSM, in 1980. > > Today, my uncle is a shell of his former self, his strong voice the only clue > to his once-arresting persona. He and my aunt attend every court proceeding. > > He draws strength from his near-death experiences in war. “When you see death > is approaching you . . . that calmness is there. That gives courage to a > person, ultimately.” > > But he feels betrayed. > > “Absolutely betrayed. I wish I was not born in this country.” > > When it seemed things could not get worse, they did. > > For months, media feasted on leaks from unnamed police sources. They were > scandalous, accusing the Talwars of extra-marital affairs, incest, swinger > parties, wife-swapping and an “honour” killing. As the whispers grew louder, > the well-to-do professionals morphed into extravagantly wealthy deviants who, > if allowed, would buy their way out of murder. > > A prime-time television drama added a plot twist, featuring the murder of a > rebellious 16-year-old girl whose kohl-rimmed eyes were just like Aarushi’s. > The murderer, of course, was the father. > > But in all the wild reports then, and in the prosecutors’ case today, one > claim was common. That Aarushi and Hemraj had been in her bedroom that night. > > There was no evidence of a relationship. There had never been a rumour in the > neighbourhood. Who planted the idea? > > Krishna Thadarai did. He was an assistant at the Talwars’ dental clinic. A > man in his early 20s. He lived in the same housing complex and was Hemraj’s > friend. Only weeks before the murder, Rajesh had offered to pay for Krishna’s > education. “You study,” Rajesh had said. “I’ll get you work.” > > But one day before the murders, Rajesh remembers sharply reprimanding Krishna > for ordering an incorrect dental cast. > > India’s Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI ) was established in 1963. Its > initial mandate to investigate federal government corruption expanded to > include murders, kidnappings and terrorism. A special crimes division was set > up in 1987. Today it is the national investigative agency. > > On May 31, a week after Rajesh’s arrest and at Nupur’s request, the case was > transferred to the CBI, under Joint-Director Arun Kumar. > > Kumar was no stranger to high-profile cases. In 1998, he had been involved in > a shootout in Calcutta that ended with four gangsters killed. In 2005, he led > the investigation of businessman Abdul Karim Telgi in a $3.6-billion > counterfeiting scandal. > > The crime scene at the Talwars’ home had been so compromised that forensic > evidence seemed a dead end. So Kumar turned to polygraph (lie-detector) and > brain-mapping tests and narco-analysis — administering the so-called truth > serum. > > These tests analyze people in three states — conscious, semi-conscious and > unconscious. Two years later, the Supreme Court of India would rule them > unconstitutional but it would let investigators use these tests for leads. > > Rajesh and Nupur took two lie-detector and one brain-mapping tests. None > showed evidence of deception. > > An expert team recreated sounds in the Talwars’ home with the air > conditioners on. Nothing could be heard in their bedroom. > > The CBI found no evidence that Hemraj had been killed in the house. His blood > was not in Aarushi’s room or on the Talwars’ clothes. > > The agency turned its attention to Krishna. > > He was the only one who had told state police Rajesh was having an > extra-marital affair and that Hemraj and Aarushi were somehow involved. As > well, after Nupur tried calling Hemraj on the morning after the murder, > tracking technology showed the phone had been in the cluster of flats where > the Talwars lived. Krishna lived there, too. > > The CBI gave Krishna polygraph and brain-mapping tests. Investigators > searched his house and took a pillow cover, a blood-stained kukri and > trousers. The pillow cover would later prove to be crucial evidence. > > Rajesh was still in jail on July 11, when Arun Kumar held a press conference . > > “There was no evidence against (Rajesh) as per the case diaries of (state) > police,” he said. The CBI had found no evidence either. > > What he said next was explosive. After being administered truth serum, > Krishna had confessed to the crime and had incriminated two other men — Raj > Kumar, a servant, and Vijay Mandal (a.k.a. Shambhu), a driver in the > neighbourhood. > > According to Arun Kumar, Krishna had told investigators he arrived at > Hemraj’s room late at night and began drinking. The other two joined them. > “They consumed alcohol and discussed Aarushi and entered her room. > > “She got up and tried to scream. She was gagged. She was first hit by a hard, > blunt object. They tried to sexually abuse her. That led to a scuffle. They > went to a terrace, and on the terrace after a lot of struggle, Hemraj was > killed. They locked down the terrace, and came down in the room of Aarushi > and then slit her neck.” > > All three were arrested. But this drug-induced confession was not enough to > charge the men. The agency was going to pursue other evidence, Kumar said. > Rajesh was released on bail after 50 days in prison. > > In September, the three men were also released. The bail order said > polygraph, lie-detector and narco-analysis tests showed they were involved in > the killings, but police could find no hard evidence. > > One year later, Kumar was removed from the case. The state government simply > said his tenure at the CBI had ended. News reports said a new CBI team would > take a “fresh look” at the case. > > Within weeks , the fresh look led to a fresh story. > > It started with changes to Aarushi’s post-mortem report . First, the > suggestion that her virginity had been long lost. “Hymen was ruptured and > healed (old),” wrote Sunil Dohare, the same doctor who had conducted the > post-mortem 16 months earlier. “On external examination, the vaginal opening > was found prominently wide open.” He did not clarify what this implied. > > The doctor said he omitted these facts in his original report because “the > findings were non-specific and were very strange.” The original report had > said “NAD” — nothing abnormal detected. > > A crime-scene analysis done for the CBI a month later, in October 2009, > concluded the doctor’s revised post-mortem report indicated the possibility > of an honour killing. (In India, honour killing is a stereotype of the north, > including Punjab. Talwar is a Punjabi surname.) > > Dohare retroactively backed this analysis by making another material addition > months later. The wideness of the vaginal opening, he wrote, “indicates > possible cleaning of the vaginal canal.” In other words, an attempt to > eliminate any trace of sexual activity. > > The CBI analysis also changed the murder weapon that delivered the blunt > force. It was now identified as a golf club, not a kukri , because of the > “triangular-shaped head injury.” > > This analysis was based on photographs of the crime scene, not the actual > crime scene. But it became the basis for CBI’s final report, which was > released in December 2010 and leaked to Indian media. > > The final report was supposed to provide definitive answers. It did not. It > suggested both Nupur and Rajesh were involved in the murders, yet it also > sought to close the case. > > The report first cleared Krishna and other two servants on such grounds as, > “No servants will have the guts to assemble in a house when the owners are > sleeping.” It also said Krishna’s family provided him an alibi for the night. > > As for the Talwars, it said, “A number of circumstances indicate the > involvement of the parents in the crime and the cover up.” It, too, hinted at > an honour killing and mentioned the “surgical cuts” were “the work of > professionally trained experts” and suggested one of Rajesh’s golf clubs had > delivered the deadly blows. > > But the CBI admitted the circumstantial evidence had “critical and > substantial gaps.” > > That Hemraj’s blood was not detected on Rajesh and Nupur’s clothes was one. > “The absence of a clear-cut motive” and “non-recovery of one weapon of > offence” — the “surgical” tool — were others. > > Citing a lack of evidence, investigators sought to close the case. > > Had the Talwars not challenged the report, they would be free. > > In reviving the theory first floated by Singh — he of the original press > conference — the final CBI report would have saved face, and perhaps careers. > > The Talwars, like most Indians, believed the CBI was independent of state > police. It is not. It consists of officers drawn from state police forces > across the country. It turned out that all the CBI officers in the Talwars’ > case were colleagues of the state police who originally botched the > investigation. > > In seeking to close the case, the CBI appeared to tempt the Talwars to escape > the arduous justice system. > > Instead, the Talwars argued the case should not be closed and appealed to a > court set up exclusively for cases investigated by the CBI. > > The court was in nearby Ghaziabad, situated amid dirt alleyways, heaps of > garbage and decrepit offices with crumbling walls. > > As Rajesh left the courtroom and walked past a throng of television cameras > after a hearing in January 2011, a man lunged at him and slashed his face > with a meat cleaver, slicing an artery and a nerve. When Rajesh held up his > hands, the cleaver tore into them, cutting tendons and breaking one finger. > > The vigilante, who was overpowered, said he was upset at the slow pace of the > case. > > As for Rajesh’s appeal, the CBI court disagreed with both him and the CBI. It > ruled there was enough in the report to charge the Talwars with murder. > > With the Talwars standing trial, defence lawyers now had access to all the > evidence. They came upon a forensics report dated Nov. 6, 2008, two months > after Krishna and the other two suspects had been released. > > It analyzed the items taken from Krishna’s room by the first CBI team, and > concluded that the blood on the kukri was from an unidentified animal. The > blood on the pillow cover was Hemraj’s. > > Here was evidence that directly tied one of the victims to a man the CBI had > originally named a suspect. > > The Talwars rushed this document to the High Court. How did the CBI explain > it? It said the lab had made a “typographical error” in identifying the > origin of the pillow cover; it came from Hemraj’s room, not Krishna’s. There > were no documents to back this assertion. > > The High Court accepted the CBI explanation. That was on March 18, 2011. > > The CBI next released a letter from the lab that acknowledged the typo and > regretted “the inconvenience caused.” It was dated March 24, 2011. > > The Talwars appealed the CBI court’s order to stand trial at the High Court > and lost. They took it to the Supreme Court. > > There, the defence argued that the CBI was relying on flawed evidence to > prosecute them. They wanted the huge palm print found on the Talwars’ terrace > and the whisky bottle tested by the Touch DNA test . This test extracts DNA > from cells of the outermost layer of skin left behind after touching a > surface. > > The Supreme Court rejected the Talwars’ appeal, refusing to order further > investigation. > > Dinesh Talwar, 51, is an ophthalmologist of repute, but he may as well be a > lawyer. For the past 4 ½ years, he has been a thorn in the prosecution’s > side, an aggravating, detail-oriented engine for the defence, constantly > pushing the Talwars’ lawyers to do more, to demand more, to expect more. He > has read each word in every case document — there are thousands of pages — > and has at his fingertips document numbers, dates and details. > > He is the brother you want if you’re in trouble. > > He has drastically cut his own clinic hours and his income has been halved. > But he is driven by a vow made in 2002 to his dying father. “I promised I’d > take care of my little brother,” says Dinesh. > > Dinesh’s role is the most visible in the family. > > Others in the family are trying to drive social media support. The Facebook > group Justice for Aarushi Talwar has 4,000 supporters. The nascent > @justice4aarushi handle on Twitter has 300. Friends have started an online > petition for the Talwars to be given a fair trial. > > Nupur’s brother, Samir, cut short his own fine life overseas and returned to > India, contributing money for expenses even if it means his own young family > has not had a vacation since 2008. There are monthly expenses, bail money, > fees for lawyers at the CBI court and High Court. > > Many of the Talwars’ patients have remained loyal even though their > appointments are frequently rescheduled to accommodate court dates. The > clinic’s assistant, the maid and the driver have all stayed by their side. > > “If I thought (Rajesh) was guilty, why would I stay?” asks driver Umesh in > Hindi. “If a man can kill his daughter, what could he do to me?” For his > loyalty, Umesh was beaten so severely by a senior CBI investigator that it > tore his ear drum. > > And yet, the lifelong struggle is for the Talwars alone. > > It had been 14 years since I last saw Nupur. When I left India 12 years ago > in search of adventure, Nupur was balancing a career with mothering a > 5-year-old. Not in our wildest imaginations did we foresee the circumstances > of our next meeting on Sept 16, 2012. > > A murder charge in India usually means a drawn-out battle for bail. Rajesh > has been free since 2008, but after the CBI charged them both with murder, > Nupur was arrested. That was last April. > > I arrived at Dasna Jail armed with two books for Nupur, a notebook, a pen and > a few questions. Rajesh came with bags of snacks and fresh fruit. A friend of > theirs — the woman Rajesh was accused of having an affair with — sent a Bible > for a group prayer that a Christian jail guard had organized for Nupur. Her > bail hearing was to be held at the Supreme Court the next day. > > The jail was built in 1996 for 720 men and women. Its superintendent, Viresh > Raj Sharma, tells me it has 4,200 inmates. Of these, he says, 360 are > convicts. That means more than 90 per cent of them are awaiting bail or > trial, some for years. A majority of the women are accused of killing their > daughters-in-law for not bringing sufficient dowry, he says. > > We waited half an hour, swatting mosquitoes. The whirring fans circulated hot > air and the smell of sweat and body odour. The walls had peeling plaster and > dark red stains from the spit of chewed betel leaves and tobacco. > > We were fingerprinted and frisked and led into the meeting room. “Hello, > doctor sahib ,” the policemen greeted Rajesh. The Talwars are Dasna Jail’s > most famous inmates. > > Two layers of metal grill separate inmates and visitors and we watched as a > dozen prisoners streamed in. The last one stopped in front of us. > > It took me several seconds to reconcile this fragile woman to my memory of > Nupur. We raised our hands to touch fingers through the two square inches of > metal. She looked at me, began to smile, faltered and burst into tears. True > to form, she quickly recovered. > > It’s a lonely place, she told me. “The physical discomforts one learns to > live with. It’s the lack of moral support, of emotional support, not having > your family or loved ones around you, not having anyone to talk to that is > difficult. Time really stops. That’s hell. Completely.” > > The Supreme Court of India sits on nine hectares in central Delhi. The > towering domed building, made of red and white sandstone, spreads its wings > on either side to represent the scales of justice. Proceedings are held in > English. Transcripts are available online. > > Case No. 85, Nupur Talwar vs. CBI, pitted some of country’s finest legal > minds against each other over her bail application. > > For the CBI, senior advocate Siddharth Luthra, a specialist in criminal law, > white-collar crime, extradition and technology. He gave up his private > practice to become additional solicitor-general of India in July. > > For Nupur, a battery of lawyers including Harish Salve, a master strategist > who was once solicitor-general. He is considered India’s top defence lawyer. > Mukul Rohatgi, a tireless workhorse, an aggressive defender. These defence > lawyers reportedly charge about $55,000 for a full day in court, unaffordable > for the Talwars. They are working pro bono. > > Key for the defence is the indomitable Rebecca John, also working pro bono, > who has been with the Talwars since Day 1. Her commitment has withstood > personal tragedy; within a week of her own mother’s unrelated murder in 2011, > she was in court for the Talwars. > > “I have gone the extra mile because I believe if you allow the investigating > agencies this kind of power, then none of us are safe in this country,” says > John. “None of us.” > > Only two family members are allowed in the court gallery. Rajesh’s cousin > Bobby and I were selected. Rajesh was near Dasna Jail to relay the outcome to > Nupur. Her parents stayed home after extracting many promises from me to call > after the hearing. > > The Supreme Court had heard Nupur’s bail application previously. CBI > prosecutors had argued then that she could tamper with 13 testimonies, (from > a total of 141 witnesses). The court had directed the CBI to examine those 13 > witnesses on priority. > > The prosecutor opened by saying the CBI court trial would end in December. > What was the harm in keeping Nupur in prison for a few more months? (It is > nowhere close to completion today.) > > The defence team said it could take two years to finish examining witnesses > in the CBI hearing, given the current pace. Was it fair to imprison her that > long when there was no evidence of witness tampering — the reason prosecutors > wanted her held without bail? > > Luthra said two key witnesses were missing, “which we find suspicious.” > > Who were these two witnesses? One was a security guard at the housing complex > where the Talwars lived. The other was a domestic help, one of India’s > faceless migratory millions, who left her job at Nupur’s mother’s house three > years ago. > > The judge wrapped it up. Bail is granted, he said. > > I called Nupur's parents. > > When I tell my cousin's story to non-Indians, the reaction is usually shock > and puzzlement. How can a country have democracy and anarchy in equal > measure? How can an IT powerhouse accept outdated forensics and investigative > techniques? > > The answer is simple. There are many Indias. > > I grew up in one of them. I lived in the same cocoon as Nupur, Rajesh and > about 350 million middle-class Indians — a third of the country. Members of > that group enjoy varying degrees of luxury; we had maids, cooks and drivers. > Human rights, sciences and the arts are discussed within this cocoon. > > The police operate outside of it. I knew they were not like Law & Order SVU . > I did not expect yellow tape around a crime scene. I did expect police to > protect it by at least shutting doors. It came as a shock an investigative > system could fail so badly. > > It has been sobering. The birth of my two children in the past five years has > made me consider what I value about where I live. Before Aarushi’s murder, > India was a magical place for me, despite its flaws. Since then, it has > become intimidating. I once cherished my pride in the country. I now grieve > the loss of that pride. > > For the couple in the epicentre of this tragedy, life has been intolerable. > Robbed of a chance to grieve their daughter’s death, Nupur and Rajesh are > despondent and bewildered. > > “Even a thing like going to the temple is difficult,” says Rajesh. “People > stare, point, talk among themselves.” > > The social judgment has made them defensive, withdrawn and inward-looking. > Rajesh was once garrulous. He can now sit quietly for hours, looking blank. > > “I just keep wondering, why has it happened to us?” Rajesh says. “What did we > do wrong? I didn’t harm anybody, not even meant any harm to anybody. > > “We have just no answers. We’ve gone from Hinduism to spiritualism to Islam > to Christianity to everything . . . we’ve met gurus. Why are we facing this? > The only answer we get is it must be your karmas (deeds from past births that > you pay for now).” > > The CBI declined to speak with me for this story because the trial is > underway. Hearings have been held twice a week since November. Even under > this “fast-track” process, the defence still expects the case to last at > least two years — before any appeals. > > Nupur’s father, the old soldier, still has fight in him. “We’ve got to > strategize, Nupa,” he tells her, a day after she was released from jail. > “Rest up. We’ll fight them.” > > Nupur squares her shoulders. “I feel a little stronger now. I never thought > I’d say that five months ago when I entered (jail). I think our child is > giving me the strength. The grief will always be there. But I’m not going to > sit back until I get justice for her and for us. > > “Society has really treated her badly, treated us badly. Somewhere this has > to end for all of us. It’s not a matter of us getting vindicated and us > sitting back. > > “The criminals still roam free. How can we let that happen?” > > Indian media reports that Krishna is back in Nepal. > > Shree Paradkar grew up in Bangalore, India. She has been a journalist in > India, Singapore and Canada and is a Home Page Editor at www.thestar.com . > [email protected] > >
