The doctor was clearly surprised at being asked a question in English by a woman in a burqa. 'Yes. He is making a good recovery. But we need to monitor him closely for the next three days.'
'Please give him the best care possible. Money is no object.'
I felt funny saying this, because money clearly is an object. I am neck deep in debt without a penny in the bank. But when you are grappling with something as elemental as murder, concerns about money begin to seem inconsequential.
As soon as the doctor left, I caught hold of Sapna's hand. 'Babuji will be fine. Now take me to Sarai Meer. To the house where that man took you.'
She wrenched her hand away. 'No, didi. I cannot bear to return to that place.'
'But you have to, Sapna,' I implored her. 'I have to remove all evidence of your visit to that house.'
'I cannot see that man again, not even his dead body.'
'I promise you, I will take just ten minutes.'
After much cajoling, Sapna agreed to take me to Sarai Meer. As our auto-rickshaw passed the familiar landmarks of my childhood and youth, memories of another age came flooding back to me. I remembered stolen afternoons spent sucking sweetened crushed ice from the hawker in front of the Inter College, bunking from school to see Hum Aapke Hain Kaun at the Delight Cinema, window-shopping expeditions to Asif Ganj, the spicy chaat of Nathu Sweets on MG Road.
Sapna asked the driver to stop outside the main market in Sarai Meer. From there we proceeded to our destination on foot.
This was a predominantly Muslim area, but there weren't many burqa-clad women walking about. Most of the houses were run-down shanties. Clothes fluttered from rickety balconies and cable-TV wires looped from every roof. I peered into the cavernous grocery shops and the bright pharmacies, the tiny video-rental shops and the PCOs that had sprouted in the locality like a crop of mushrooms. The aroma of freshly cooked meat drifted from smoky food stalls.
Sapna clung to me like a drowning girl holding on to a wooden plank. I could sense her desperation from the way her nails gouged my skin and I knew that my little sister had lost her innocence. For her, the familiar world of Azamgarh had suddenly become foreign and evil, and I was her only refuge.
What Bhola had done to me was nothing compared to what had happened to her. I had paid the price of fame, but she had paid the price of puberty, of simply being a woman in a town full of lecherous men.
As Ma said, no girl was safe in this city. Even a threeyear- old could be raped and mutilated by the perverts who roamed the streets with abandon. I railed against these bastards who had denied my sister even the feminine happiness of visiting a market.
Sapna stopped at the mouth of a long alley framing the green dome and lone minaret of a mosque in the far distance, and glanced furtively left and right. The piercing cry of an azaan suddenly rent the air, calling the faithful to prayer, and a flock of pigeons rose into the grey sky from their perch on the minaret's railing. A stream of bearded worshippers began making their way towards the mosque.
We waited till the crowd had thinned; then Sapna led me along the cobbled alley to a single-storey house with a nondescript door. The door was unlocked and we entered into a courtyard with a dying guava tree in the centre. Crossing the courtyard, we came to another door with a metal latch. Sapna covered her face with her hands as I gently pushed it open. A swarm of flies and the stench of rotting flesh assailed me.
I stepped into a small room which contained a ceiling fan, a wooden four-poster bed with a green cover, a desk, on which rested an earthen pot for water and an unopened bottle of Triple X rum, and a wooden cupboard. There were no calendars on the bare walls, no photographs or personal belongings of any kind. It was a room without memory, an impersonal place of assignation.
The man lay face-down on the stone floor, dressed in white kurta pyjamas. He was tall and heavy set and very dead. Next to his body was a pistol in a matt-black finish.
Seeing a dead body up close can be quite unnerving, especially one that has begun to rot. I flipped open my veil, clenched my nose and picked up the gun. It was a Beretta 3032 Tomcat, compact and lightweight. 'Is this the gun you shot him with?'
Sapna nodded and shivered. 'He said he knew I was your sister. He kept saying, "No one can get Shabnam, but at least I can say I got Shabnam's sister." A sob escaped her lips and I grasped her hand once again. I, too, was guilty by association, complicit in the bastard's crime.
'I need to see his face,' I said.
'I don't,' wailed Sapna.
'Come on, help me.' I grabbed the man by his waist and tried to turn him over. He was like a large, inert boulder and I had to pin my leg against his hip and push with all my might before I succeeded in tipping him over on to his back.
Bile filled my mouth as soon as I saw his bloated body. The stomach had distended like a helium balloon and his hands and feet were as stiff as cement. Some kind of fluid had leaked from his mouth, nose, eyes and ears and congealed into a sticky mucous-like substance. His skin had turned a waxy greenish-blue. His face was almost unrecognizable because of the grotesque bloating and the eyes had sunk into the skull. All I could make out was that he had a large, clean-shaven face, disfigured with numerous pockmarks, perhaps the residuum of a childhood disease. His left ear had a deep cut, as though someone had slashed it with a knife. And in the middle of his forehead was a small disc-like hole where the bullet had gone in. There was surprisingly little blood.
'Any idea who this fellow is?' I asked Sapna, breathing through my mouth.
'No, didi. I'd never seen him before. He just grabbed me from behind as I was walking out of college and pushed me into a taxi. At least twenty students must have seen me being abducted, but no one dared to raise an alarm.'
'Did anyone see you when he brought you here?'
'I don't know. He bound and gagged me. I think I must have been unconscious when he brought me to this house.'
'Was there a . . . struggle?'
'Yes. He asked me to undress. When I refused he lunged at me, caught hold of my kameez and tore it in half. That's when I glimpsed his gun lying underneath the pillow and grabbed it. He charged at me like a mad bull and the gun went off. I swear, didi, I didn't mean to kill him. I only wanted to get away from him.'
'Didn't neighbours hear the gun shot?'
'They must have, but gun shots are so common in Sarai Meer, nobody pays any attention to them.'
'Then how did you go home in a torn kameez?'
'I took one of his kurtas from the cupboard, ran to the main road and took an auto-rickshaw home.'
I pictured the scene in my mind, then went to the cupboard and opened it. It contained a couple of shirts and pairs of trousers on thin metal hangers. All the shelves were empty, but when I peered deeper, I discovered a black canvas bag stuffed into the inner recesses of the bottom shelf. I pulled it out and unzipped it. It was full of stacks of crisp new hundred-rupee notes.
Sapna's eyes widened on seeing the cash. 'Oh didi, how much do you think there is?'
'I don't know. But at least seven or eight lakhs,' I said. 'Let's find out who this bastard is.' I rummaged through the dead man's kurta pockets and came up with a tattered black leather wallet and a clunky blue Nokia mobile. The wallet contained 3,325 rupees and a few coins, but not a scrap of paper which could identify him. I turned to the mobile. It was dead too. It probably needed recharging.
'OK, let me start removing evidence of our visit,' I said, and for the next half-hour proceeded to wipe every inch of the room with a handkerchief to make sure no fingerprints were left anywhere. I cleaned the pistol as well and put it into the canvas bag. When I lifted the bag, I found it was really quite heavy.
'What are you doing, didi?' Sapna cried. 'You are stealing money.'
'We need it more than he does,' I said, dropping the dead man's wallet into the bag.
We closed the door to the room as before, wiped the metal latch clean, crossed the courtyard and stepped into the alley once again. No sooner had I s
tepped into the street than a bearded man in a grey pathan suit pointed his grubby finger at me. 'Isn't she Shabnam Saxena?' he asked his similarly dressed companion, who gaped at me with his mouth open.
'Yes. It is Shabnam. SHABNAM IS HERE!' he screamed at the top of his voice.
'Shit!' I swore softly as I realized that I had forgotten to pull down the veil over my face. People were beginning to stare at me, even with my face now covered. I grabbed Sapna's arm and half ran, half walked to the mouth of the alley, lugging the heavy bag with me. Luckily an empty auto-rickshaw was passing by and I jumped into it, pulling Sapna in as the startled driver almost overturned. 'Take us to Kurmitola. Quick. I'll pay you five hundred rupees.'
The driver did another double-take and gunned his glorified scooter as though it was a James Bond vehicle.
We counted the money this evening. It is ten lakh rupees. I handed over the loot to Ma. She needs it more than I do. But Sapna was still inconsolable. 'Now I have got you involved as well, didi. The police will catch you,' she wailed. She clung to me like a daughter as we slept in Babuji's bedroom, but when I got up later to get a glass of water I found her missing. I discovered her in the bathroom, sitting on the wet floor, trying to slash her wrists with Babuji's shaving blade.
'What are you doing, Sapna?' I screamed and snatched the blade from her trembling fingers. Her whole body shook as if she was in the grip of a violent chill. I helped her back to the bed, and lay down with her, pulling the heavy woollen blanket over us completely, smothering both the cold and my sobs.
It was inside that blanket's dark cocoon, as I listened to my little sister's muffled heartbeats, that I had my first real epiphany. With startling clarity, the impermanence of life, the transience of fame and the true meaning of family were revealed to me. I saw the starkness of Sapna's predicament and the source of her poignant anxiety, and I decided in that instant that come what may, I would protect my sister. Even if it meant taking the rap for murder.
At the same time, I remembered Barkha Das's words – how the rich and famous manipulate the law and get away with murder – and wished I had an ace up my sleeve which could trump all our troubles, an ally in high places. Someone who could get the body disposed off and get the whole thing hushed up. And that's when it struck me, I know such a man. He is a part-time producer, occasional murderer and full-time philanderer. More importantly, he is the son of the Home Minister of Uttar Pradesh, who controls the entire police force of the State. And his name is Vicky Rai.
22 March
I called him up on my mobile. Luckily his number wasn't engaged.
'Is that really you, Shabnam? I hope my Caller ID is not playing tricks on me.'
'Vicky, I need your help.'
'So you want the National Award, after all?'
'No. It is much more serious than that.'
'Really? Have you murdered someone? Just joking. Ha!'
'I cannot talk on the phone. I need to see you.'
'Well I've been dying to see you for a very long time.'
'Can I come today?'
'Today? No, today is a bad day. Why don't you come tomorrow? Come straight to Number Six.'
'Number Six?'
'Yeah. That's my farmhouse in Mehrauli. Every taxidriver in Delhi knows the address. Tomorrow night I am throwing the biggest party on earth. Celebrating my acquittal.'
'I need to see you privately. Not at a party.'
'We will meet in private, darling, but after the party.'
'But you must promise that you will help me.'
'Of course, I promise. Anything you want. But my help comes at a price.'
'I am willing to pay it.'
'This isn't just about your starring in Plan B.'
'I know what you are talking about, Vicky.'
'Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow, 23 March at eight p.m. at Number Six.'
'See you.'
'One more thing, Shabnam.'
'What?'
'Wear something sexy, OK?'
So this is it. The die has been cast. I refused to sleep with a prince, but I have just agreed to sleep with a murderer. Sisterly love has extracted the ultimate price. And I shall pay it willingly.
I took out the dead man's Beretta, pressed the release button and ejected the magazine. I have handled enough guns in films to know them inside-out. There are six cartridges left. I reinserted the magazine and carefully put the pistol inside my handbag.
I am going to a murderer's house; the least I can do is go with back-up. My own Plan B.
EVIDENCE
'There are no facts, only interpretations.'
Friedrich Nietzsche, Daybreak
14
Restoration
MOHAN KUMAR looks at his watch and inserts a hand in the pocket of his kurta, feeling the cold metal of the pistol. It is a timely reminder of the mission he is here to undertake.
It has been over an hour since he entered the gates of Number Six. The strong police presence outside the farmhouse had surprised him. But luckily there was no screening through a door-frame metal-detector for those arriving with their invitation cards.
Vicky Rai had greeted him in his usual pompous manner. 'Hello, Kumar – or should I address you as Gandhi Baba? Glad you could make it.' The hostility between them hung in the air like fog. For a brief moment he had flirted with the idea of shooting Vicky Rai then and there, but his hands had suddenly turned clammy and his heart had started palpitating alarmingly, and he had quietly slunk away into the garden.
His mind has been playing tricks on him all evening, strengthening his resolve one moment and breaking it the next. He swings between confidence and despair. And matters are not helped by the strangers who keep distracting him. They waylay him every few minutes, either to compliment him on his exploits as Gandhi Baba or to seek a favour. 'You deserved the Nobel Peace Prize, Gandhi Baba,' says one. 'Would you agree to address the World Leadership Conclave next July?' requests another. He smiles at them, while inside him the anxiety is growing. He wants to end it, quickly.
To take his mind off the issue of murder, he tries to focus on the mechanics of the act. The party is much bigger than he expected – there must be at least four hundred people on the sprawling lawns of Number Six, another hundred inside the house – and he will have to shoot Vicky Rai in full view of all the guests. This does not faze him. On the contrary, he relishes the prospect of a public execution. It will be an apt lesson for all future Vicky Rais. He touches the butt of the Walther PPK again and senses its power seep into his hand.
He moves towards the gazebo, hoping to locate a suitable vantage spot. The swimming pool is bathed in light, its cool blue water shimmering like glass under the bright spotlights. A girl in a blue bikini suddenly dives into the pool, splashing him with water. As he brushes the drops from his khadi vest, a flashbulb pops in his face, blinding him momentarily. He loses his footing and is about to fall into the pool when someone catches his arm and steadies him. For a few seconds he sees only blackness. When his vision clears he blinks at his benefactor. It is a bearded waiter in a red-and-black outfit. 'Thank you,' he mumbles, feeling flustered. He will have to be more careful, he reminds himself.
There are a good number of people around the pool, sipping wine and swaying to the music. They are all under twenty-five, and he feels old and out of place. He is about to turn away when a statuesque blonde girl in a body-hugging dress approaches him, strutting like a model on a catwalk. 'Ghandi Baba, how lovely to see you,' she drawls, pirouetting seductively in front of him. He can smell liquor on her breath. 'I'm Lisa. I'm in India for a photo shoot on the Kama Sutra. I could teach you some interesting positions.' She laughs and tries to kiss him.
'Ram, Ram,' he says and steps back hurriedly. In the process he collides with a waiter heading for the bar with six bottles of whisky on a tray. The tray falls from the waiter's hands and the bottles tumble to the paved stone floor and shatter. The air begins to reek of alcohol. So pungent are the fumes that he begins to feel di
zzy. He stumbles away from the pool, feeling nauseous and strangely light-headed. He lurches down the lawn, moving further and further away from the crowd.
Before he knows it, he is deep inside a wooded area, where the lights of the garden do not reach. The moon is a giant white disc hanging above the treetops, its chalky light the only illumination in the forested gloom. He hears the steady gurgle of a waterfall some distance away, but closer to him the only sound is that of his own laboured breathing. He is wheezing slightly from all the running. Something is happening inside his brain, some kind of chemical reaction. His mind has become a kaleidoscope of shifting thoughts and images. Old suppressed memories are rising up, a fog is lifting, but only partially.
His foot crunches on something. First there is a creak and the snap of a breaking twig, and then he hears a faint hissing sound. He looks down to find a snake on the ground, and from the shape of its large head he knows instantly that it is a cobra. It is poised just above his right leg, its slippery tongue flickering in and out. He freezes and the blood stops coursing through his veins.
The snake rears its head, preparing to strike. I am going to die, he thinks. Just then he hears another twig break and suddenly a hand grips the head of the snake and lifts it off the ground. The cobra writhes for a while till it is flung far away.
'Who . . . who are you?' he asks, trying to peer into the silvery darkness.
A shadow shifts and a strange young man steps forward. He is dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, with a red Gap cap on his head and a black bag draped over his shoulder. His skin is so black that he merges with the darkness, but the whites of his eyes shine like torches. 'I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand,' he says.
'What are you doing here?'
'Waiting.'
'Thank you. You saved my life.'
'And who are you?'
'I am Mohan . . . Mohandas . . . Karam . . . Kumar. No, no – that is not right . . . Let me say it again. I – am – Mohan Kumar. Yes. And I hate snakes.'
'I have removed the snake, but you are still fearful.'