No, The Dhananjoy Story isn’t here

In the middle of a full-throated monsoon, under the dripping trees, the community has moved in as one and thrown a protective cover around the parents and brother of Hetal Parekh—the schoolgirl who was 14 when she was killed 14 years ago.

The Parekhs live on a lane in Santa Cruz identified in all of western India with healing, courtesy the Yoga Institute. Bankers and young professionals with prematurely aching spines, doctors and the aged who have given up on drugs and gyms, flock here for deliverance.

Their flat, in which they have been living for 14 years, is in a neat apartment block down a deep tree-lined driveway. A couple of the mostly Gujarati neighbours knew back then, when they moved in, because Hetal’s mother Vashomatiben Parekh was in such a bad shape.

There was none of the gossip. One close family associate did not even discuss it with the spouse. It was simple: There was no need and when one person talks, the word spreads. The family was clear that they wanted closure.

In the meantime, as the wound grew older, the family got bigger. Hetal’s brother got married. There are children in the house.

Last month, after Dhananjoy’s family grabbed the national conscience and the hangman milked every moment, their cocoon was pierced. The media landed in droves. Most neighbours, who didn’t know, were taken aback.

One walked up to the family and asked them what they wanted. The Parekhs were unequivocal, they wanted silence. The neighbour advised, why don’t you release a statement, it will get the media off your back. Another firm no. And the community slammed the door on the world.

The guards were told to keep the media out; one was fired last month for letting in a TV crew. So far, they have been successful. The guard will tell all strangers that most families in the building are out on vacation.

A young mother walks down the driveway in the afternoon, with her uniformed children skipping in the puddles. Her eyes go round when you ask her about the Parekhs. She smiles and says she doesn’t know them.

As the cars of the residents return home later in the night, the aroma of rotis cooked on an open fire by the guards fills the air. He says the Parekhs have been gone to their gaon (village) for a month, it’s the month of adhikmaas, end of conversation.

This is the night Dhananjoy will hang. Walk out of the apartment complex, onto the main lane and Mumbai doesn’t know. Not the ageing fruitwallah, a pushover while bargaining, who must have sold to the Parekhs for all these years; nor the rakhiseller that a girl who was called Hetal never got to buy from.

The day after, this morning, hours after the hanging, the media returns. Every hour or so, vans loaded with cameras and reporters with mikes cruise in. They hop out, the guard deals with them firmly, and in less than a minute, the vans take a U-turn. ‘‘I have told them so many times. Why don’t they get it?’’ the guard wonders.