'Do I have to marry every woman I sleep with?' : What Nanavati's wife's lover said to him
CM Trivedi bears down on him, asking again why he took the gun up to the flat, if, as he keeps claiming, it was not his intention to shoot Ahuja. The accused holds his ground, saying that "the locking arrangements of the car which I was driving that day were faulty . . . [Also] if Ahuja had, by any chance, attempted to use his own revolver, if he had one, against me, then I would have used this revolver for my own protection."
Judge Mehta repeats prosecution’s standpoint by asking point-blank, "Did you go to Prem Ahuja’s flat with the intention of killing him?"
The question unwittingly helps build Khandalavala’s case.
In the tone that never falters, Nanavati denies this, saying that, as he had told the court, he was skilled "in shooting at moving targets", and would have riddled him with bullets at the very start if he had gone there with intent to kill. He asserts that "the shots went off accidentally" in the scuffle that followed as "Ahuja tried to get hold of the revolver".
Then, prompted by his defence counsel, Nanavati reiterates The Fatal Encounter at Jeevan Jyot which has become part of our mental hard drive – and which keeps luring our finger to the refresh button.
There are no cell phones to be smuggled in, no surreptitious tweeting, no Instagram. The privileged who have managed to get inside, like young Zenobia, hang on to every word as much because they will have to regurgitate every tantalising morsel for their hungry family and friends.
It’s mind-boggling to think of what television would do with this made-for-TRPs story, but since print was the only media then, the rest of the world has to depend on the eveningers to know what transpired in the court before their deadline, then await the morning dailies for the whole enchilada. And, on Saturdays, for the weekly Blitz, which would serve it fully loaded with Tabasco, mustard, jalapeno, onion and pickle.
The accused recounts the defence’s meticulously crafted story of a man who remained honourable even in the face of shattering betrayal. What Nanavati says in effect is, "I was shocked and stunned and angry, when my wife confessed her infidelity. It was the end of my world, so I saw no other course than ending my own life."
He recounts what we’ve already heard about requisitioning the revolver, and his "sudden overwhelming desire to go and see Ahuja face-to-face". He "did not think there were any circumstances which would justify seduction. But I felt that if my wife wanted to leave me and go away with him, I would give him the opportunity to act in an honourable manner. And that I would let her go. And shoot myself."
Nanavati narrates how he had entered Ahuja’s bedroom and seen him standing in front of the dressing table mirror, with only a towel around his torso. He says, "I shouted, 'You are a filthy swine!' Composing myself, I asked him, “Are you prepared to marry my wife and look after my children?” Ahuja retorted, “Do I have to marry every woman I sleep with? Get out before I have you thrown out.”’ This single sentence will elevate the Nanavati trial to salacious immortality.
The accused describes his next moves. "I put the envelope containing the revolver on the cabinet and said, 'By God I am going to thrash you for this.' I had my hands up to fight him. But, Ahuja made a move towards the packet. When I saw him doing this, I grabbed it myself, preventing him from getting it. I then whipped out the revolver and warned him, 'Get back!' He was very close to me and suddenly gripped my hand and tried to twist it and take the revolver."
The courtroom is gripped as tightly. It listens, mouth agape like villagers to a Ramayana katha, like children to a bedtime story of the Big Bad Wolf. Clerks drop their bland expressions to hear it all up close and personal. Every detail tops up the clear and present adulation for the accused.
"Blitzman" Homi Mistry’s also out-of-print booklet on the case would tart up Nanavati’s words thus:
"I banged him towards the door of the bathroom, but he did not let go of his grip and tried to hit me with his knee in the groin; I managed to push him into the bathroom, all the while I was trying desperately to free my hand that held the gun by jerking it. He had a very strong grip and he did not let go. During the struggle I think about two shots went off. One went off first, and within a few seconds the other. At the first shot, Ahuja just kept hanging on to my hand, but suddenly he let go, and slumped down. I immediately left the bathroom and walked out to report to the police. I consider it wrong for an aggrieved husband to kill his wife’s lover. I regarded it so even on the day when I went to Ahuja."
The prosecutor, not to be taken in by either the drama or the moral epilogue, interjects bluntly, "You acted like a man who came to kill and having killed, you left."
(Excerpted with permission of Juggernaut Books from In Hot Blood: The Nanavati Case That Shook India by Bachi Karkaria, available in book stores and on www.juggernaut.in.)