‘Nothing is more important to me than you,’ he says, cutting me off. ‘I had just started a new job here, but it can wait. First I have to get you out of this mess.’
‘There’s nothing you can do, Karan.’
‘I’m already doing my bit from here, Sapna. I got my friends in Indus to pass me details of Rana’s most recent call record. Guess who Rana has been speaking to every day since Acharya’s death.’
‘Who?’
‘Ajay Krishna Acharya. I’m convinced Acharya’s murder was a conspiracy cooked up between Rana and AK. AK looks and speaks just like his brother. What if he was somehow inside Prarthana that evening?’
‘My God!’ I whisper. ‘I never thought about this possibility.’
‘I’ll blow the lid off this whole thing. You just wait, Sapna. I’m coming,’ he says before another burst of static disconnects the call.
* * *
I return to my cage infused with new courage and renewed hope. Karan may be gay and a world away, but he is still my rock, and, with him by my side, I might yet be able to prove my innocence.
At the same time I am seized with the sudden, irresistible conviction that I need to take matters into my own hands, get out of this suffocating lockup.
I keep pacing the cell for the next two hours, racking my brains for an escape plan, when the queasiness in my stomach starts up again. Punishing spasms ripple across my abdomen, making me cry out in pain. I drag myself to the cell door and call out to the guard dozing on a chair. ‘I need to go to the toilet. Please call Pushpa.’
A few minutes later Pushpa appears, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘Even a witch does not stay awake this late at night,’ she mutters darkly as she unlocks the cell. ‘Oh, the grief you’ve given me.’
The courtyard is silent as a tomb. I can even hear snores coming from a few rooms. Pushpa shoves me inside the ladies’ toilet with a grunt. ‘I’ll take just a few minutes,’ I mumble.
‘You can rot here the whole night for all I care,’ she responds, fumbling inside her pockets for the toilet key. Not finding it only adds to her irritation. ‘Where the hell is it?’ she mutters, digging a hand inside her trouser pocket. ‘Sarla has already lost hers. Is some bastard now stealing our toilet keys?’
She eventually succeeds in extracting it from her breast pocket. ‘Found it!’ she says triumphantly, holding it up like some ancient artefact discovered from an archaeological dig. I gaze at it, mesmerised.
‘Now shit all you want. I’m giving you thirty minutes. But you dare not disturb me again tonight after then, you hear me?’ She gives me a death glare as she slams shut the door and locks it securely from the outside.
* * *
I insert a hand inside my shirt pocket and withdraw the key Nirmala Ben had given me. It looks exactly like the one with Pushpa.
In a sudden flash of clarity I understand the purpose of the key. It unlocks the women’s toilet. There are five woman constables in the station and each of them has a key to the toilet. Nirmala Ben must have filched it from one of them.
I begin to tremble at the possibilities that have suddenly opened up. I have with me not just the key to the toilet, but the key to my freedom. An impulsive, wild idea takes hold of me, one that makes me throw all caution to the wind. I wait till I hear the echo of Pushpa’s footsteps moving away from the door. Then I count to two hundred, and insert the key into the slot. It fits perfectly. I say a quick prayer and twist it as gently as possible. The sound I hear next is the sweetest a prisoner can ever hear: the click of a door unlocking.
I creep out of the toilet, lock it again, and take a quick look around. There’s no sign of Pushpa Thanvi and not a squeak coming out of the Women’s Resting Room. The courtyard still looks deserted and silence reigns over the night.
With furtive steps I pad into the western corridor. I have just passed the Wireless Room, when I hear a door slam behind me. It startles me so badly, I almost lose my balance. Somehow I retain enough presence of mind to duck behind a pillar. Peeking backwards, I see a man stumble out of the Investigating Officer’s Room, dressed only in a vest and striped underpants. For a moment he stands in sleepy-eyed confusion before letting out a loud fart. Then, scratching his hairy backside, he veers left, undoubtedly heading towards the men’s toilet.
I have barely recovered from this shock when another sound drifts across the corridor. It is a soft tapping, like someone hitting a stick against the floor. It can only be the night guard, doing his rounds. I freeze like a thief caught red-handed, certain that he has spotted me. But, miraculously, he pauses, having probably encountered the man in the striped underwear. I hear the muffled sounds of conversation followed by amused laughter. This is my only chance, I realise, and dart inside the partially open door of the Investigating Officer’s Room.
I crouch in the semidarkness, waiting for the guard to pass. He walks at the leisurely pace of a man who has all the time in the world. As his footsteps come closer and closer, sweat begins to pour off my forehead. And then he stops, almost directly in front of the door. My breath is caught in my lungs. There’s a ceiling fan going full blast inside the room, but the only sound in my ears is the dull, thudding rush of blood surging through my veins. I hear the guard clear his throat and spit something out. Then he walks past me down the corridor, his boots creaking on the stone floor like rusted hinges.
I feel relief flooding through me like morning sunlight. By now my vision has adjusted to the gloom inside the small, dingy room. I notice a table, a cot and a nightstand with a covered water pitcher. Quite clearly the room is being used as a bedroom by one of the sub-inspectors. Just as I am about to sneak out of the door, my attention is drawn to two items. One is a uniform hanging from a bent hanger tacked to the wall behind the bed. And the other is a leather holster lying on the table.
Another audacious idea germinates in my head, one that brings the blood rushing back to my ears. Standing on my toes, I reach out for that hanger.
* * *
I step out of the Investigating Officer’s Room looking like someone headed for a fancy-dress party. The shirt is two sizes too big for me. The trousers are too long, pooling around my shoes like baggy stockings. But I tell myself that it is preferable to look like a joker than an escaped convict.
I go to the end of the corridor, glancing at each door, but, instead of turning left towards the female lockup and risking an encounter with the guard, I turn right, where the front offices join the courtyard. ACP Khan’s room is locked, but there are a bunch of constables on night duty in the Reporting Room. They are so engrossed in playing cards they barely notice me as I walk past the open window, heading for the outer gate. ‘Hey, Pushpa!’ one of them shouts out. ‘Is that chhori still giving you sleepless nights?’ The others laugh raucously.
Every nerve in my body is like a coiled spring as I make my way to the front gate. I am terrified that someone will recognise that I am wearing an ill-fitting man’s uniform on top of my lady’s salvar suit and raise the alarm. Any second now I expect a siren to be sounded and to be grabbed from behind. But I am not challenged; I am not stopped as I shuffle out of the metal gate.
The police station is a stone’s throw from the Priya complex in Vasant Vihar, famous for its cluster of bars and restaurants, and that is where I proceed. I pinch myself from time to time to make sure this is not just a hallucination. It is difficult to believe that I am finally free. My destiny is now in my own hands.
Even at this late hour the complex is buzzing with life. Revellers are still pub-crawling and there is traffic on the streets. I discover an auto-rickshaw disgorging a young couple and clamber into it instantly. ‘Take me to Vasant Kunj, Sector C, quickly,’ I tell the driver.
‘First pay up one hundred fifty,’ he responds without even bothering to see who the customer is.
‘Since when have drivers started asking for advance?’ I bark at him.
He turns his head around and I see a dark face pitted with smallpox scars. It is only no
w that he notices my uniform, and his entire demeanour changes. ‘Sorry, madam. Give according to the meter,’ he says meekly and switches on the digital fare display. I smirk with the satisfaction of having achieved that rarest of triumphs: putting a Delhi auto driver in his place.
We have just come onto Nelson Mandela Marg when a police siren sounds, piercing the stillness of the night like a scream. It perks up the driver. ‘Looks like some thief has escaped,’ he observes.
‘Yes.’ I nod gravely. ‘That appears to be the case. Wonder who could it be.’
Nelson Mandela Marg is empty and desolate as we chug towards Vasant Kunj. This eight-lane highway is the artery that links Vasant Vihar with Vasant Kunj. It hosts a five-star hotel, some top educational institutions and two of the biggest malls in Delhi. But it is also infamous for being one of the most unsafe stretches in the capital after dark, thanks to poor patrolling, inadequate lighting and thick foliage with no habitation on either side, all of which suits me just fine.
The first signs of trouble emerge when we are at the section that straddles the ridge near Jawaharlal Nehru University. In the distance I see metal barricades being moved to the middle of the road, a checkpoint being set up. A pang of fear spasms through me. I didn’t imagine news of my escape would get flashed to all police units in the city so quickly.
‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ I yank the driver’s collar. ‘I’ll get down here.’
‘Here?’ He does a double take. ‘But there’s nothing and no one around for miles.’
‘You see that?’ I point out an abandoned tin shack by the side of the road that probably once served as a teashop. ‘I’ve been sent to investigate it.’
‘As you wish.’ He shrugs and stops the engine. ‘That will be fifty-two rupees, madam,’ he says, reading off a printed chart, basically the meter fare plus 25 per cent night charge.
I step down from the auto and rummage through the pockets of the uniform, hoping to find some cash, but no such luck. ‘You are asking money from a police officer on duty?’ I demand, trying my best to imitate a policeman’s gruff swagger.
‘Where does it say police people don’t need to pay fares?’ he challenges me. ‘Last month an inspector tried the same thing and our union went direct to the Commissioner, threatening to go on an instant strike.’
‘I can’t give you money.’ I shake my head. ‘But I can give you a bullet in your head.’ Simultaneously, I withdraw the revolver from the trouser pocket and aim it in his face with the theatrical flair of a Bollywood villain.
His eyes dilate with horror and a flash of sudden terror and recognition passes through them. ‘Arrey baap re! You’re that girl I saw on TV, that killer.’
The revolver feels heavy and awkward in my hand as I wave it at him. ‘Yes. And I’ll have no compunction in killing you too.’
‘No … no. Please spare my life. I have a wife and three daughters. They’ll die without me.’
‘Then leave immediately. Go back the same way you came. And don’t utter a word to anyone.’
‘I won’t, I promise. I’m going … I’m going.’ He trembles as he cranks the engine. Reversing the vehicle, he points it in the direction of Vasant Vihar and presses the accelerator all the way down.
I watch the auto till it becomes a speck in the distance. Then I lope to the tin shack and slump down behind it, my body aching with fatigue and insomnia. I need a little rest, time to figure out my next move. Below me the forest looms, dark and forbidding. It is actually the spur of the ancient Aravalli range known as the South-Central Ridge.
I have been sitting for less than ten minutes when the air begins to resonate with the wails of multiple police sirens. I peek out from behind the tin shack to discover half a dozen police vehicles coming towards me from the direction of Vasant Vihar, their top lights flashing like signals to a UFO. I swivel around to find an equal number of cruisers approaching from the direction of Vasant Kunj. They all seem to be converging upon the shack.
The auto driver has blabbed, I realise, and now the police have arrived to capture me. Staying on the road is no longer an option for me. So I turn to my only possible sanctuary: the forest.
I stare down the steep slope in front of me, leading to the ravine below. It looks fearfully precipitous and rocky, but desperate times demand desperate measures. Hitching up my stolen trousers, I begin the perilous descent. Twigs and thorns dig into my ankles, loose dirt falls into my shoes, and sharp, jagged stones indent my knees, but I continue to descend with slow, deliberate movements, till I suddenly lose my footing and hurtle headlong down the rocky slope. Pain shoots through me as I graze my knee. Then my head hits a boulder, causing a momentary blackout.
When I come to, I find myself sprawled on the ground like a rag doll with all limbs splayed akimbo. There’s dirt in my mouth and leaves in my hair. I groan, stand up and survey my surroundings.
There are tall trees all around me, forming a dense canopy. The ground is full of thorny scrubs, briars and brambles, all covering a jumble of broken sandstone. The primeval forest is alive with the sounds of its nocturnal dwellers. Owls hoot, insects chirp. Something slithers off to my left and I jump back in alarm, hoping it is not a snake.
And then I hear something that chills me: the shrill barking of dogs, coming from somewhere above me. Pressing myself up against a large tree, I raise my head and stare blindly upwards. I see beams of light probing the sky. The police have not come alone. They have brought searchlights and sniffer dogs.
Now, for the first time, the reality of being a fugitive from justice hits me like a slow bullet. Images of those fierce Dobermans in Acharya’s residence fill my mind, and I take flight.
Overhanging branches hit my face like whips; thorny brambles try to trip me up like barbed wire; leathery leaves lash my cheeks like a thousand needles, as I crash blindly through the wild woods. I have no idea where I am headed, but I know I need to keep ahead of the dogs.
I trip and fall a few times, my shirt gets all ripped up and there are numerous cuts and bruises on my face and arms, but I keep running. Every one of my pores is filled with sweat, my muscles stiffen, my breath comes in gasping, ragged sobs every few gulps, my heart pounds wildly in its cage, but I do not slow down. All I am aware of is the crisp scent of the woods, the twigs snapping beneath my feet, and the wind rustling through the leaves. More than panic, more than instinct, it is pure will. There is a voice somewhere in my head impelling me on, giving me that raw determination to ignore all bodily requirements for sleep, food and water and to just carry on. Tonight I am running for my freedom and nothing is going to stop me.
* * *
After three hours of intermittent running, the darkness begins to thin, as also do the trees around me. The first rays of dawn pierce the forest canopy like spears, pushing out the gloom. Birds are beginning to chirp and I can hear the soft gurgling of a stream. But overlaying these sounds is another: the discordant din of traffic rushing by on a nearby thoroughfare.
I follow the sound of the road for another few hundred metres and abruptly come to a halt. I have reached the edge of the woods and come out into the open. Instead of verdant forest, I find myself at a gravel pit. Massive concrete pipes are strewn about the ground, doubtless in preparation for the construction of yet another five-star hotel or glitzy mall. Slowly but surely, the green lung of the Ridge is being sacrificed on the altar of commercial development.
Far in the distance I can see the rear end of some kind of complex crowned with a glittering dome, which looks very familiar. I jog my memory and remember having seen it at the DLF Emporio Mall. Which means I have arrived in Vasant Kunj.
This is an area whose geography I know rather well, mainly because Papa taught briefly at Ryan International School in Sector C.
The horizon becomes a mystical magnet, pulling me in. The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins. My legs are so numb, the pain and fatigue don’t even register.
I strip off the police uniform, which is already in tatters
, and dump it inside a pipe. I heft the revolver in my hands, before inserting it into the inside pocket of my kameez. I smooth down my salvar suit, scrub my face and tug my hair back with both fists. Then I take in deep gulps of air and begin running for one last time.
I am heading for the road, for Sector C-1, for Rana.
* * *
Sector C is the first sector on entering Vasant Kunj from the side of Vasant Vihar. Pocket 1 is bang on the main road and the cacophony of traffic on Abdul Gaffar Khan Marg is a reassuring sign that news of my escape has not yet disrupted the rhythm of the day.
The colony is still waking up when I approach the entry gate. It is manned by a young-looking security guard who glares at me suspiciously. ‘Nayi aayi kya? Are you new here?’ He speaks to me in a casual, offhand tone, as though addressing someone of inferior status.
At first I don’t understand him. And then I realise he thinks I’m a new maid.
I don’t blame him. I am nondescript, featureless. There is nothing in my face that stands out. Plus, with the dust in my hair and the grime on my clothes, he could only think of me as a servant girl. I could be Bela or Champa, Phoolmati or Dharamwati, or any of the thousands of maids who stream through the houses and streets of Delhi every day.
‘Yes.’ I nod eagerly. ‘I’m starting today in the colony.’
‘Where?’
‘Rana sahib, in 4245.’
‘But doesn’t he already have Putli working for him?’
‘She left yesterday, for her village,’ I ad lib. ‘That is why I am here. To do Putli’s work till she returns.’
‘Oh, so you are the temporary help. Did you get your police verification done?’
‘No. What’s that?’
‘Ask Rana-babu. That’s a compulsory requirement introduced by the Residents Association for all domestic helps.’
‘You mean I can’t work till I get it?’
‘Of course you can. We have to help each other, don’t we?’ He winks and waves me inside the half-opened gate. ‘By the way, you didn’t tell me your name.’