Hush a Bye Baby: Read an excerpt from Deepanjana Pal's thriller about a high-profile doctor with a secret

Editor’s note: Dr Nandita Rai is a gynaecologist straight out of a brochure — she’s a feminist, she speaks about women’s issues, and she’s the doctor every woman wants to go to. But behind this sheen seems to be a well-guarded secret; the Mumbai Police receives a complaint alleging that she performs sex-selective abortions.

Journalist and author Deepanjana Pal’s thriller tells the story of how the police force tries to piece together evidence in a case that seems impossible to crack, until Sub-inspector Reshma Gabuji discovers Dr Rai’s online presence.

Hush a Bye Baby is published by Juggernaut Books.

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‘This is not a case where we want to get embarrassed,’ the Commissioner said finally. He looked up. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Hadpude?’

‘Yes sir,’ Hadpude said dutifully.

‘Even if it isn’t really a serious case, it’s the kind that will make the media go crazy. Famous person, scandalous charges…’ He flipped a few pages. ‘What I mean by not serious is – it’s not like this is a murder charge.’

‘No sir,’ agreed Hadpude.

‘We still need to treat this seriously and discreetly.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Dr Rai is something of a celebrity in this city, so if we make the slightest mistake, the media is going to drag us over the coals on this one.’

‘Yes sir.’

The Commissioner exchanged a look with Salve. Hadpude studiously looked at the Commissioner’s second shirt button – a hovering midpoint which communicated that you’re not so bold as to look your superior in the eye but neither are you disrespecting him by looking away. Or so Hadpude hoped. He could feel the other men assessing him. That wasn’t a problem. Hadpude knew what they’d see: a regular, unremarkable policeman. His uniform was clean and fit him. His moustache was neat. There was precisely nothing about him that would stand out, which was a relief. He just hoped they didn’t pick up on how desperately he wanted this meeting to end. That probably wouldn’t go down very well.

‘Do you have a woman sub-inspector on your team?’ the Commissioner asked.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Who is she?’ Perreira asked.

‘Reshma Gabuji, sir. She was part of the Cyber Cell and recently got transferred,’ said Hadpude.

‘Why was she transferred?’ There was a faint hint of suspicion in Perreira’s voice.

‘She opted for it, sir.’

‘She did?’

Hadpude decided to ignore the shock in Perreira’s voice and not spend too much time thinking about what it said about Mumbai Police when a DCP was taken aback at the idea of someone wanting to work for the main police force. Hadpude only said, ‘She wanted to do actual police work. She’s very good with computers.’

‘Gabuji, you said?’ asked the Commissioner.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Related to the Gabujis who own Helan Pharma?’

‘Daughter, sir.’

The Commissioner raised his eyebrows. Hadpude’s expression remained unchanged in its blankness.

‘Okay. What’s the Health Ministry saying?’ the Commissioner asked.

‘They’re going through the clinic’s paperwork to see if everything is in order,’ Hadpude replied.

The Commissioner muttered something. Hadpude caught the word ‘witch-hunt’. He subtly turned to Salve to find the ACP staring at him. Hadpude redirected his gaze to the Commissioner’s second button.

‘Sir, how would you like me to proceed?’ Hadpude asked.

‘You’re asking me this now? After barging into that damned clinic and taking Dr Rai in for questioning in broad daylight?’

Hadpude wondered for a moment if he should point out that with the clinic closing at 6 pm, the chances of bringing Dr Rai in when it wasn’t daylight were very slim.

‘Unfortunately sir, we had no choice in the timing,’ said Hadpude. ‘We only went after the call came on the helpline.’

‘Inspector Hadpude.’ Perreira spoke in that voice of his that always reminded Hadpude of an old-fashioned wooden rocking chair for some reason. ‘Can you recap the case for us once more?’

‘Yes sir,’ Hadpude replied. It was the second time he’d be doing it. ‘Right from the first call, sir? Or the call that came in today, sir?’

‘From the top, Hadpude,’ said Perreira.

‘Yes sir. Sir, between May and September of this year, the Mamta Helpline run by the NGO Parivar, on behalf of the Health Ministry, received four calls, from different numbers, saying Hope Fertility Clinic conducts sex-selective abortions. In each of these cases, the calls came after the pregnancies had been terminated so there were insufficient grounds to launch an investigation, according to Health Ministry officials. On 16 September, there was a call on the helpline that claimed irregularities at Hope Fertility Clinic, but the caller hung up abruptly. The same number called again, one week later, that is on 23 September, and this time left a complete message, in which the caller said she had been scheduled to have a procedure at Hope Fertility Clinic that she feared would terminate her pregnancy. The caller was Mrs Seema Punjabi, housewife and patient of Dr Nandita Rai.’

Salve opened the file and brought out Seema Punjabi’s photograph. He placed it on the table.

Hadpude paused, in case anyone wanted to add anything. Then he continued. ‘Mrs Punjabi says her in-laws had asked Dr Rai to carry out an abortion because Mrs Punjabi is pregnant with a girl child.’

‘This is only an allegation, just so we’re clear,’ said the Commissioner.