There is a massive traffic jam on Ring Road as a result of all the security checks, and the bus takes two hours just to reach National Highway 24. My paranoid tension abates only when we successfully exit the municipal limits of Delhi.
The rest of the journey is a blur of off-key songs, lewd jokes, constant chatter and the juvenile boisterousness of college students on a road trip. I watch everyone, observe everything, but do not utter a word. The students also leave me alone. They are too engrossed in their own carefree world to realise that they are travelling with India’s most wanted woman.
The luxurious air conditioning, the steady drone of the motor and the gentle rocking motion of the bus soon lull me to sleep. When I open my eyes, warm sunshine is peeking through the gaps in the curtain. I gaze out of the window to discover that the brown, flat landscape of the dusty plains has given way to the lush, green, undulating Himalayan foothills. That first sight of the shadowy distant mountains, wreathed in mist, mesmerises me.
The route is now more challenging, twisting and winding through narrow hairpin bends. We stop in Haldwani for breakfast at a local dhaba. The food is delicious and the cool, crisp air invigorating. The restaurant also has a small shop selling various knick-knacks and I pick up an oversized pair of dark glasses. I observe myself in the mirror and note with satisfaction that the sunglasses cover a good part of my face. But then I happen to glance at the wall-mounted TV and learn the devastating news that Shalini Grover has been arrested by the police for aiding and abetting a fugitive. A wave of sadness washes over me, making me slink into the bus before anyone notices my distraught expression.
The remaining forty kilometres go by in a haze of tears. And at seven o’clock I am back in the city of my childhood and youth.
* * *
In the early-morning light of peak summer, Nainital looks like an overcrowded train station. Mall Road is flush with gaudy honeymooners and noisy Punjabis. Cycle rickshaws lurch through the bazaar, tinkling their bells at those in their path to give way.
The lake gleams in front of me, full and inviting. A slow, sensuous roll of water shrugs like a shoulder against the Boat House Club. The seven proud hills surrounding the lake lend a mystic feel to the setting, providing a majestic contrast to the shallow, manufactured prettiness of Delhi. As I take in the full sweep of the panorama in front of me – Flats, Naina Devi Temple, Capitol Cinema, Thandi Road – everything about my old life comes rushing back to me.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I shrink back in alarm only to discover a South Indian family staring at me – father, mother and two young girls. The father, dressed in spotless white linen, with a yellow caste mark on his forehead, approaches me again. ‘Excuse me, madam, could you please be directing us to Rosy Guest House?’ He has the hesitant air of a tourist, unsure of a new place, his fingers twisted around the handle of a battered black trunk.
‘I’m sorry,’ I reply, pushing the large sunglasses further up my face. ‘I’m new here myself.’
Turning away from him, I fix my gaze on the Grand Hotel at the opposite end of the lake, the Mallital side. It is a low, colonial-style building with long, open verandahs. Slowly, my gaze travels upwards, tracing a point on the hill behind the hotel, covered in low clouds. That is where the Windsor Academy used to be located.
Almost propelled by an invisible hand, I begin hiking in the direction of the school. The gently winding road takes me past the tacky souvenir shops and the cut-price tour operators, past the Methodist Church and the Inter College. By the time I reach the entrance of the Academy I am wheezing with exertion.
The wrought-iron gate with the blue-and-white school logo invites me. The school must already be closed for the summer holidays, as there is no entry check. I go in through the pedestrian entrance and walk up the paved path bordered by mighty deodars. It forks at the top of the hill, one branch of it going to the principal’s office and the main building, the other to the staff residences.
I take the left fork, towards what we used to call the Teachers’ Colony. It consists of a grid of whitewashed bungalows laid out in neat rows and separated by wide, cobbled paths. Alka found the housing campus creepy in its extreme orderliness. I always thought of it as a haven, an antidote to the madness wreaked by the disorderly tourists outside.
The colony is eerily quiet. There is not a soul in sight, the residents probably still enjoying their weekend nap. As I pass by the numbered houses, names enter my head automatically. No. 12, Mr Emmanuel; No. 13, Mrs Da Costa; No. 14, Mr Pant; No. 15, Mr Siddiqui; No. 16, Mrs Edwards; and, before I know it, I have come up to my old house.
I stand in front of No. 17 and stare in shock. The house doesn’t look like a house at all. It resembles a neglected pigsty. The magnificent lawn, which I had diligently watered, is a wilderness of weeds, rank grass and overgrown bushes. The walls are tinged green and covered with mildew. The front porch, which we used to decorate with diyas on Diwali, is strewn with windblown trash. The corbelled chimney, jutting out of the low-pitched roof like a turret, now flaunts a bird’s nest.
I feel a rush of anger at the current residents who have brought No. 17 to this pitiful state. This was the house I spent my childhood in, the house where I learnt the hard truths of adulthood. The fondest memories of my life were attached to it, memories of Dussehri mangoes and fireside stories, of the happy family that used to live here before tragedy overtook it.
As I continue to gaze at the house I find those memories coming back. Any minute now Neha will step out of the kitchen door practising a raga taught by that cranky old master-ji. I can see Papa sitting in the wicker chair, laying down his newspaper to regard me with stern affection, and Alka, dear sweet Alka, darting out from behind that ancient oak tree in the rear garden, screaming ‘Kamaal ho gaya, didi!’
With every nostalgic recollection comes a wave of unsettling emotions. Familiar voices echo inside my head. It feels as if some fibres in my body are still connected to this house, to this city. I reflect on the balance sheet of my life, what has been gained and lost in the transition to Delhi.
The trilling of a bell brings me out of my reverie. I turn around to find a little boy on a tricycle asking me to give way. He gazes at me with the unabashed curiosity of a four year old.
‘Can you tell me who lives in this house?’ I smile at him.
‘Bhoot. Ghost,’ he replies laconically.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No one lives here, only the ghost of that girl who died here. Don’t stay here too long otherwise she will suck your blood. That’s what my mother says,’ he says in the exaggerated manner of a child sharing a secret. Then he gives me a brief wave and pedals away on his tricycle.
I realise that the house is empty. It has probably remained empty ever since we moved out. Alka’s death tarred it with the taint of scandal and suicide. And now no one wants it.
I pick my way through the weeds to the rear of the house and discover the same rotten detritus that mars the front. The back garden has become a dumping ground for neighbours’ trash, giving off the fetid stench of a cesspool. A jumble of discarded furniture and broken equipment is piled up right in front of the rear kitchen door. I step around an upturned toilet cistern and peer through the door’s glass panels. The feeble light filtering through the dusty, grimy glass bathes the kitchen in a spooky aura, giving it the abandoned look of a ghost ship.
I notice that one of the glass panels on the door is cracked. A little push and it splinters into pieces on the floor. With my right hand I reach inside and undo the latch.
The dark and foreboding house matches my mood as I step inside it. The musty smell of mould and damp assails my senses, making me sneeze. I stumble through to the dining room and open the blinds. A shaft of light pierces the gloom, refracting off the dust molecules dancing in the air. In that soft, ambient glow I see a room coated in a thin layer of grey dust. Cobwebs hang from the high ceiling like stalactites. Rat droppings litter the hardwood floor. But for my sense of familiarity with the place,
it would seem positively spectral, straight out of a horror film.
As I venture deeper into the house, whispers of the past overcome me. With every room I step into, memories and recollections flood my mind. The living room, where we used to watch TV while munching on peanuts; the study, where Alka made her final mutiny; the master bedroom, with that little alcove that Ma had converted into her own private shrine; the bay window in Neha’s room, from where we used to spy into No. 18; and finally my bedroom, where, propped up against the pillow, I used to scribble in my secret diary and fantasise about becoming a writer one day. Alka’s bedroom is the only room I am unable to gather the courage to enter.
Everything about the place looks different now. This isn’t the house of my dreams any more. The vast, empty, furniture-less rooms seem like empty shells without souls. Suddenly I feel like a trespasser in an alien house.
Some memories, I realise, should be allowed to remain memories, lying undisturbed in some deep, dark corner of the mind. Bring them into contact with the open light of reality and they instantly combust, turn to dust.
* * *
Having surveyed the entire house, I decide to make it my temporary abode. Its notoriety as a haunted site will keep out the peeping Toms. And holing out here for a few days will enable me to recharge my batteries before going after AK. But first I need to do something about my appearance.
Shalini’s emergency kit comes in handy once again, as it contains a pair of scissors. I enter my former bathroom and look at myself in the old, cracked mirror, still splattered with my toothpaste stains. Just the memory of standing before this mirror every morning and brushing my teeth overwhelms me, brings tears to my eyes. I know those halcyon days will never return again.
The thought also makes me inexplicably angry. What have I done to deserve this fate, this life of a hunted animal? Seething with an almost atavistic fury, I attack my hair with the scissors, chopping off a lock.
Every cracked mirror, every shuttered window, every cobweb in these rooms speaks to me of the past. And with every flash of memory I cry some more and snap the scissor blades.
Within a couple of minutes my long locks are gone, to be replaced by a super-short bob. Once my tears subside, I also get rid of the smelly salvar suit and put on the skin-hugging jeans and black T-shirt contained in Shalini’s brown bag.
When I put on the sunglasses and observe myself in the mirror again, I see a fashionable stranger staring back at me. Somehow the new look feels appropriate. For this is what I have become: a stranger in my own house.
Fortunately, the water still runs from the taps, and the gas cylinder in the kitchen still contains some gas. So I spend the rest of the day thoroughly cleaning the house, and getting the kitchen ready. I remove the dust from my bedroom, the dirt from my bathroom, and the thin film of grime that has settled over the kitchen counter like moss. This spell of uncustomary domesticity is just what I need to distract me from the increasingly depressing turn my thoughts are taking.
* * *
With the first stirrings of darkness comes the confidence to venture out of the campus. Sticking largely to the shadows, I make my way to Thapa’s Provision Store situated just outside the school gate.
Thapa, the proprietor, is a wizened old Nepali with close-cropped hair and a smile ruined by bad teeth. He peers at me with his muddy eyes. ‘I’ve never seen you before. Would you be Miss Nancy, the new biology teacher at the school?’
‘No,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral, casual. ‘I’m Mrs Nisha, from Nagpur.’
For more than ten years I bought groceries from Thapa, yet he was unable to recognise me tonight. I chalk it up as a small victory and go on a buying spree.
Half an hour later, when I surreptitiously return to No. 17, I have enough provisions to last me a week. There is tea, milk, sugar and a loaf for my mornings; matchboxes and candles to illuminate my evenings; noodles and ready-to-eat meals for instant lunches and dinners; and sufficient toiletries to stay clean.
After a hasty, unappetising dinner, I wander out of the back door. The night air is chilly, and, even with my kameez draped over my T-shirt, I feel a little shiver.
I sit down by the oak tree, silently watching the lake. Under the star-studded sky, the rippling dark waters are alive with a kaleidoscope of swirling patterns formed by the bright lights of the Boat Club merging with the shimmering neon of downtown Nainital. It looks so beautiful, it is almost melancholic.
My thoughts move seamlessly towards my family and friends. I wonder how Neha is doing, how Ma is coping. I want desperately to speak to Shalini, and I want to believe that Karan is on his way to India. It is heart-breaking to be cut off from the people who matter to me the most.
Finally, exhausted from my own thoughts, I return to the house, lie down on the cold floor of my old bedroom, and go off to sleep.
* * *
In Rohini I used to wake up to the high-pitched klaxons of trucks rumbling past the LIG Colony. On the Windsor campus I am woken up by the sound of bird-song. I look out of my bedroom window to find a blue-capped redstart perched on a convenient pine branch. The air is clear as glass and I can see for ever, even to the far horizon, where jagged, snow-covered peaks are staking a bold claim on the nascent sky. Delicate pink clouds float across the hills, looking like balls of candyfloss in the first light of dawn. A gentle breeze whispers through the wild sunflowers, still wet with sparkling dew. I feel blessed, comforted by the aloof, serene grandeur of Nainital. To return to the mountains is to return to a world of softness and colour, after the grey, concrete harshness of the city.
I also notice a rolled-up copy of today’s newspaper lying in the porch of No. 16. The newspaper boy must have delivered it quite early. An irresistible urge to check the news makes me creep into my neighbours’ front yard and steal their newspaper.
It turns out to be a mistake. The newspaper is full of depressing bits of information about me. The police are calling it the biggest manhunt since the terror attacks of 26/11 and have announced a reward of ₹200,000 for information leading to my arrest. Even though I no longer have the revolver, I am being described as ‘armed and dangerous’. There are attempts being made to implicate me in Rana’s death as well. The only pieces of good news are that Constable Pushpa Thanvi has been suspended and Shalini Grover has got bail.
I also learn from the business pages that the board of the ABC Group has approved the acquisition of the company by Premier Industries. There’s a picture of Ajay Krishna Acharya grinning in front of Kyoko Chambers. With each passing day, the mastermind behind Acharya’s murder is strengthening his position, and I am still a suspect on the run.
I tear out the picture and begin gouging out AK’s eyes, slashing at his mouth, shredding him into tiny pieces, venting all my fears and frustrations on that bit of cheap newsprint.
* * *
Time passes between tedium and terror. My waking hours are spent in paranoid anticipation of a police raid. My sleeping hours are a swirling phantasmagoria of dreams, flashbacks and nightmares. Cooped up in the dark, cold house, I am going stir-crazy. Have I exchanged one prison for another? I wonder.
Every night I make a new plan to unmask AK, only to dismiss it in the cold light of day as impractical, pointless, or just plain dumb. I don’t even know where AK lives. And, without a gun, without a partner and without the element of surprise, collaring the industrialist seems as impossible as trying to scale Mount Everest in rubber slippers.
By the end of the fourth day, a paralysing lassitude descends upon me. I don’t feel like eating, I don’t feel like sleeping and, most of all, I don’t feel like thinking.
Karan is my only hope now. Only he can do the miraculous, locate some clinching piece of evidence that will unravel AK’s sinister plot and get me back my freedom.
* * *
It is 8 p.m. now and I am sitting in the dining room. A single candle anchored with melted wax on the hardwood floor provides the only light in the room. In its gentle glo
w I try to psych myself up for the battle with AK. I scour my mind for a new plan, any plan. But, no matter how hard I try, I keep drawing a blank.
Simply to divert myself, I take out my remaining cash and begin counting it. After my grocery shopping, I am left with only ₹1,420. I upturn Shalini’s bag to see if I have missed anything, and a five-rupee coin tumbles out. Like a loose hubcap, it goes rolling along the wooden floor. I follow it with my eyes as it briskly traverses the smooth floorboards, but then it curves to the right, and keeps going across the short hallway till it slips under the door of Alka’s room and disappears from view.
With a frustrated groan I stand up and pluck the candle from its waxy nest. Then I pad softly out of the dining room.
I hesitate for a moment in front of Alka’s door, as though it still contained a malignant spirit that must not be allowed to escape. I think I can hear strange, whispery voices calling out from the room, speaking in an indecipherable tongue. I dismiss them as figments of my imagination from seeing too many ghost movies. But then I detect a low scrabbling sound, as if someone or something is moving across the hardwood floor inside the room. It makes me shrink back in sheer horror.
For a few moments the only sound ringing in my ears is my own shallow breaths and the thudding of my racing heart as I summon the courage to face my demons, both imaginary and real. Taking a deep breath and emptying my mind of all thought, I boldly grab the handle and push the door open. A small rat scurries out with a squeak, making my stomach knot in disgust.
The whispery voices become louder as I step into Alka’s room. The flickering candle casts grotesque shadows on the wall, making the surroundings seem even more eerie. The room is completely bare, but in my mind’s eye I can see Alka’s wooden bed. Almost involuntarily my eyes roam upwards, to the ceiling, and Alka’s dead body flashes upon me, like a dark scene lit up for an instant by a sudden crack of lightning. I can see her face clearly as she dangles from the fan, her head hanging to one side, a yellow dupatta knotted around her neck. That grisly memory floods my senses completely, so real that I gasp.