BLOOMERANG

BLOOMERANG



“May you burn in hell,” he’d cursed his daughter’s unknown murderer, gazing agonized into the lovely young face contorted by brutal death.


He hadn’t cried since he was eight years old, when tears of pain and anger and humiliation had been wrung out of him by the vicious beating his father had meted out to him. He was now fifty-two and he couldn’t stop the tears coursing down his cheeks as he stood staring at the corpse of his daughter. His only child.


He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight he could hardly bear. His nineteen year-old daughter, once so lovely and graceful, now rendered graceless, almost grotesque by the peculiar indignity of a certain kind of death: her face horribly contorted, ugly bruises on her slender neck. As the significance of those bruises sunk in slowly, he raised his hands in a curious gesture suggestive of a helpless amazement at the machinations of fate and gazed at the Inspector, his eyes asking the question his tongue could not utter.

“Yes, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon responded rather awkwardly, answering the unspoken question in the tortured man’s eyes. “It was murder, no doubt. She’s been strangled.” Trying to speak sympathetically, he sounded merely brusque. Hell, there was never an easy way of doing this, Ashir Menon thought to himself. Poor chap. This has really knocked him out.

It had. His daughter meant more to him than anyone in the world, almost including himself. If he overreached himself sometimes in his businesses, it was for her sake. To give her the kind of childhood and adolescence that had been denied to him. To smother her in every luxury she desired. And to buy her love and respect and admiration. She was part of him after all, and hence the sole recipient of his unconditional love.

His creation. Now destroyed.

He would suffer, the man who had done this to her, he promised himself. He would make him suffer agonies beyond Hell. Whoever he was, the man responsible for Dipannita’s death.

“May you die a thousand living deaths,” he enunciated slowly and clearly, to the added unease of the policemen in the morgue. “May you burn in hell and continue to burn for eternity,” he cursed.




*



The news had been brought to him within rather less than a half an hour of reaching his house, straight from the airport after his business trip to the Middle East. He had barely finished his cup of tea when the doorbell rang, ushering the two policemen, bringing with them the news of the death of his daughter. They had not said anything more at the house, in the presence of his wife and mother.

It had not really registered, not for quite some time. His tired eyes had flickered round the room, taking in the figures arrayed like some ghastly tableau in a surrealistic play --- the carefully expressionless face of his wife as she stood rigid and catatonic --- his mother, who let forth an unearthly ululation --- his weeping servants, the Maharaj making a particularly loud racket --- and the two slightly embarrassed cops who had come with the news.

On being asked if he would accompany them to the morgue for the purpose of official identification, he made a futile gesture, and then walked out of the room, out of the house, followed by the policemen. It had not occurred to him to say a word to his wife, to even ask her if she’d like to accompany him.

Of course she wouldn’t! Women were to be spared such horrors. There were some decisions meant for men to take. The premise had served them both well, he was sure, all through the years of their marriage. Why make a departure now, in the midst of such a crisis? His mother was bound to wail, of course. Women of her generation always did, when confronted by death or disaster. As for him . . . as for Bhavik Chaudhary . . . he could not even begin to gauge the depths of his devastation. Dipannita’s death, to him, meant the negation of his own life. Whatever remained now was gall and wormwood.





* * *




It happened as she passed under the jambul tree. Something plonked on her head, even as that ubiquitous chattering song assaulted her ears yet again. She’d find the bird now, she was determined. It was in that tree --- it had to be! She looked up, standing as still as possible under the fruit-laden tree. Plonk! There it fell, again. But this time it just missed her head. It was a jambul. Her eyes followed the trembling branch and she found herself looking into two brown eyes, deep and still as forest pools.

She stared, fascinated, as the squirrel plucked a jambul, held it between its forepaws, and nibbled it as delicately as a Victorian debutante at the Vicarage Tea Party.

Then plonk! The fruit all consumed, the seed dropped nonchalantly. Not on her head this time, though.

So that’s one mystery solved, she mused as she sauntered along almost jauntily, invigorated by the delicious air --- the smell of the rain-watered earth --- the cool nip in the breeze --- and, of course, the birdsong, now a solo aria, then a sharp counterpoint, yet again a soaring, full-throated orchestral symphony. Maheshwar was at its gorgeous best right now, at the tail end of the monsoon. The vegetation was lush, wildflowers there were aplenty, and the Karvi was in full bloom, a portent signifying some momentous happening.

The season had not yet begun, so the hillstation was mercifully as yet free of the hordes that would descend on it in the next two weeks. And he would arrive tomorrow, she told herself, happily. Pity she’d had to fib to her parents --- given them some gup about going with college friends to Patang. She’d given Rashida’s name of course. There was nobody at her place right now, so no one would know.

She was staying at the hotel under an assumed name. Funny how difficult it could be, to think up a name on the spur of the moment. The idea had occurred to her at the last minute, and had seemed a good one. Even more adventurous! For a moment she’d wondered what name to put down. Then her gaze had fallen upon the edit page of The Chronicle, which the clerk slapped down on the reception table when she approached. The famous byline caught her eye. Why not assume that identity? She’d pass off, she was fair enough!

It had gone smoothly enough. The receptionist had looked rather admiring, when she’d given him the name. It gave her a cachet, that name! Of being someone famous! She’d already warned him on telephone He’d be here tomorrow, also staying at the same hotel. That’s why she’d decided on this long walk, today. She enjoyed walking in the forest, but he didn’t.

She was walking along a muddy trail, away from the main road, through a fairly dense wood. She came again to that faint, intriguing trail she had noticed on her way to the market. To the left of the kachha path, a shortcut to the hotel away from the main road, rose a sudden, steep incline. There was this faint trail snaking up the incline, beneath the jambuls and the oaks, leading probably to the top of the hill. It seemed to be an interesting trail, worth following, with a sparkling rill bubbling past. The forest floor was covered with dense undergrowth. She could distinguish the delicate fronds of the maidenhair and the silver fern, and the white and green hoods of the cobra lily punctuating the path like so many magnified commas. The trees were covered with trailing moss and epiphytic ferns, brushing her face and arms with ghostly caresses.

She took a couple of tentative steps up the trail, glancing at her watch. It was still just about 10 in the morning. She negotiated a sudden sharp bend and looked up to see where the trail was leading her. It was then that she noticed the boundary wall just about visible over the tops of the trees where the hill had plateau’d out. Almost like the rampart of some ancient castle or manor house, she told herself, hastening her ascent in excitement.

She came to a green-painted wicket gate standing slightly ajar in half-hearted invitation. Dipannita opened it wider and walked into the compound. Inside was a two-storied structure, of quite charming design. Rather sprawling, covering a considerable area, with detached outhouses. The gardens were nicely laid out, if not imaginatively planned.

The scent of magnolia assailed her sensitive nostrils. A little away from the main building, the boundary wall seemed to give way, curving downwards. She walked towards the curve as though impelled, and found steps leading down into what seemed to be a sunken garden. The scent of the Magnolia grew stronger. Yes, she caught sight of a branch --- two branches actually, one bearing pinkish white flowers, and the other flaunting blooms of gold, both entwined into each other. The shrubs must be planted very close, she thought idly, breathing deep, her eyes closed.

“Looking for someone?”

The brusque voice, sounding almost in her ear, made her jump. Literally. She swung round sharply to face her interrogator, and was annoyed to find herself swaying on her feet. A hand reached out and gripped her soft upper arm.

Her sudden clumsy movement had made her drop her bag. As she tried to retrieve it, the press button that held the flap burst open, scattering some of her belongings on the ground. He immediately bent and picked them up, before she could . . . a compact, her wallet, her room-key which she had retained with her, a lipstick . . .

She shoved the stuff back into her bag, higgledy-piggledy, with a murmur of thanks. She secured her bag and looked up at him. He seemed decent enough, if a bit rough-hewn. Mid-fortyish, stocky, solidly built. Dark glittering eyes under beetling brows, a bushy black beard trying to subdue full, somewhat coarse lips. His voice was at variance with his appearance, thought Dipannita. More educated than he appeared to be.

“Sorry about all this,” she said awkwardly, startled into being on the defensive. “I am . . . I was . . . on my way to my hotel, when I came across this trail and . . . I wondered where it led . . .” she trailed off.

“Where are you staying?” he asked . “Which hotel?”

“Hotel Windcliffe .”

“That’s some distance from here. And quite isolated. Have you lost your way?” he seemed concerned.

“N.n.no …. No, but … am I trespassing?” she asked apologetically, wondering who the hell this chap was. He was definitely not one of the owners of this fairly grand-looking place. Clothes and appearance all wrong, she naively told herself. Even if he sounded educated. Was he the caretaker? He seemed a cut above the usual caretaker-type. Maybe an estate manager or steward or something, she thought doubtfully. She lived in a world where such things were not quite unheard of.

The man did not enlighten her. And something in his demeanour, in his gaze, precluded her from asking him the questions she was dying to. Like what was this place? A private residence? Rather a large, rambling place. It had an Atmosphere. Whom did it belong to? Were the owners around? Could she look around a bit?

“Would you like to look around a bit?”

“Yes, please, if I’m not trespassing?”

“You are not . . . not if I invite you.” Those words should have been accompanied by a smile. But weren’t. It struck her that he had perhaps forgotten how to smile.

“What’s down there?” she asked, pointing to the flight of steps.

“A holy place.” The word sounded strange on his lips.

“A garden?”

“Indeed! Watered by holy water straight from the Gaumukh. Come.”

She followed him, intrigued. Water from ‘Gaumukh’ in the Sahyadris?

The stone staircase was spiral, and the steps slippery with moss and lichen. He let her go first, and came close behind her, his arm once more grasping her bare upper arm. An involuntary thrill coursed through her. She stiffened. The fingers bit more deeply.

She went down gingerly. A light drizzle had started, bringing a slight nip into the atmosphere, redolent with the heady perfume of the magnolia and the jasmine. As they neared the bottom of the steps, the garden slowly came into view. Apart from the magnolia, and the jasmine and the jui, and several ferns and climbers, there were shrubs of night jasmine, which would flower only after sunset. Lilies and crocus sprung up at random in the tall grass.


Dipannita rounded the last bend, descended the last step, and caught sight of it --- the `water from Gaumukh’! And she laughed aloud. It was a spout in the shape of a cow’s head, probably connected to an underground spring, from which issued forth a stream of water. She ventured closer, and found the stream fell into a kind of a well. She leaned to look into the well. And she screamed.




*


At the precise moment that Dipannita caught sight of the boundary wall of her imagined castle in Maheshwar, an elderly man entered the Colaba Police Station, about 200 km. away, in the city of Bombay, to report a murder. A rather unusual murder. That of a beggar who seemed to be sort of stationed a short distance from the Taj Hotel. A mutilated creature. Armless. Right from the shoulder downwards. Both arms, Ramramram! A sorry looking specimen, the elderly gent told the Sr. Police Inspector, one wondered why anybody should bother to kill him, but killed he was, in cold blood, apparently. Stabbed! That too in broad daylight! What was the world coming to, for shame! Of course, these ruddy beggars were a nuisance and a pain, and should be got rid of, but not stabbed to death! What were the police doing nowadays, the elderly man muttered. Time was …

How did he notice? Well, on Tuesdays, he always gave alms to at least one beggar. Eased his conscience, somewhat. They were a nuisance, of course, whining and dirtying the roads and pawing decent people who themselves could barely make both ends meet in these hard days, but well, they too had to live, he supposed, and he wouldn’t miss a couple of rupees each week, would he?

Well, here was this poor chap, his head sagging on his chest. He thought he’d give him some money. It was when he bent to drop some coins into the tin can that hung on his chest, suspended by a tin wire round his neck, that he noticed the red stain. It took him just a moment to realize that the poor devil was dead. Of course, he knew better than to touch him. Blood and all. Of course he knew it’d be a police case! Why, he wouldn’t have touched the chap even if he hadn’t been so damned stinking filthy!

Yes yes, of course he would take the Inspector to the spot. He’d be late for his lunch, and his wife would be waiting for him, but well, duty called, didn’t it? He’d never been one to shirk his duty, No Sir! Hadn’t he come to inform the police? Going out of his way too, when all those younger men, good-for-nothing rascals, most of them, just stood round gawking and making lewd comments, no respect for death, not enough gumption to go to the Police . . .

By this time they had reached the dead body. Even the young rascals had disappeared. There were one or two curious lookers-on, and a young, well-dressed woman who was arguing with her male friend that something should surely be done, while the friend was trying to haul her away, assuring her it was no use getting mixed up in something like that, only a waste of time, and who knew what the cops would do, and who the hell was bothered, it was only some armless beggar anyway, who was probably better off dead. Why, he doubted if the poor devil could have risen up off the pavement without help. He wondered how he had managed to eat and drink and stay alive even that long!



At first sight he appeared to be dozing, his great shaggy head lolling on his chest. SI Pereira squatted by the dead man. Without touching him. He was stabbed all right. Not much external bleeding, just a slight red on the left side of his chest. Almost obscured by the tin can, but not quite. The murderer had known what he was about. The classic stab point was chosen. Probably a thin, very sharp blade.

“Was there any weapon lying around, Mr. Gupta?” Senior Inspector Geoffrey Pereira felt foolish even as he asked the question. He knew, of course, what the answer would be. But the question had to be asked.

No, he had seen no weapon, asserted Gupta. And of course, he had looked around for one, before going off to fetch the police. He had that much common sense, after all! Even if he hadn’t read so many detective novels, he’d have known enough, to look for the murder weapon.

Hiding a grin, Pereira reassured him, telling him he was an excellent witness --- just the kind of informant the Police prayed for. “And I only hope the pompous windbag doesn’t haunt the Station now,” he had muttered savagely to his Sub-Inspector later on.





*




It was the topic of discussion at Rashne’s party. Her article in ‘The Chronicle’.

“Absolutely thrilling, Sharmeen! Where did you get all those gory details?”

“ Too too gruesome, darling! Do such things really happen? I mean --- it’s worse than watching Ramsay brothers or whatever!”

“You mean you actually watch that tripe . . . ?”

“Hey Sharm, you’d better be careful, or you’ll have some of the Beggar Mafia gunning for your lovely neck. Better get some police protection. What say, Rashne? Where’s that cousin of yours?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind police protection myself, if personally provided by Arshan.”

“What am I supposed to provide, and to whom?” The tall, lean man, who’d seemed to Sharmeen to be a bit out of place at the party came up, glass in one hand, and put his free arm round Rashne. So he was Rashne’s famous Police Commissioner cousin! Deputy Commissioner, she corrected herself mentally.

Rashne laughingly introduced them --- “Sharmeen Turel . . . Arshan Chinoy. Sharmeen is a free-lance journalist, Arsh. And her beat is crime … or should I say passion! She refuses to touch Society stuff. She’s after real dangerous stuff, like underworld dons and nasty slumlords, and her latest pet hate, the Beggar Mafia. Did you read her article in yesterday’s Chronicle?”

Deputy Commissioner Chinoy grinned sheepishly. “You know I don’t have time to read the papers, Rash! Nothing except the comics! Anyway, you’re bursting to tell me all about it.”

“Well, it’s pretty interesting, in a way. And I do think someone should investigate further. I mean the Police absolutely must do something about it!” Knowing his cousin of old, Arshan waited patiently . . .

Everybody knew, of course, that there was some kind of racket going on --- there were these Mafiosi, controlling beggars --- it was they who ran the racket, housing the beggars, placing them in strategic spots in the city, rotating them if thought fit, teaching them the tricks of the trade, making a fortune from money given to these wretched dregs of humanity as alms. That’s why quite a few people in Bombay stopped giving money to beggars. God knows who really benefitted!

Sharmeen’s story, however, had a different, quite horrifying angle, Rashne informed her cousin in thrilling tones. Sharmeen said people actually ran this as a sort of business, and `manufactured’ beggars --- by deliberately well, blinding people, or …or mutilating them. Could anybody be so depraved and cruel? Children kidnapped and `made suitable’ for begging! Sharmeen was sure there was some kind of base where these Beggar Mafia operated from. And that there was some head honcho who pulled the strings from behind the scenes. She felt if only the cops took some trouble, they would unearth these chaps and bust the racket. What did Arshan think? After all, he was the Deputy Commissioner, Crime Branch! Couldn’t he do something?

“Perhaps. But I’ll have to interrogate Ms. Turel, first.” The mocking eyes quizzed Sharmeen under raised brows.

“Oh, for God’s sake call her `Sharmeen’” Rashne said irritably.



She didn’t know quite how it came about, but Sharmeen found herself being dropped home by Arshan after the party. He too lived in Bandra, and she hadn’t taken her car. It was a hell of a hassle, getting parking space on Peddar Road in the evening.

After essaying `Commissioner Chinoy’ a couple of times and thinking she sounded silly, she switched to Arshan without his invitation. He was too savvy to let her know just how interested in her he was, in so brief a meeting. Actually, he knew quite a bit about Ms. Sharmeen Turel. He had read her article. Not only this recent one, but also most of the stuff she’d written. Had long admired the way she wrote. And what she wrote.

Her articles, especially her investigative pieces, had caused considerable comment in the top echelons of the Police. And now, in certain quarters, there was fear that she was attracting attention from dangerous quarters. Just recently they’d had a tip-off that some very undesirable types were keeping a close watch on Sharmeen Turel’s movements. Arshan had come to this blessed party only because Rashne had let drop that Sharmeen Turel would be there. He had wanted to meet her informally, socially, if possible.

He’d had no idea what she looked like. She did not permit her photograph to embellish her columns. She’d turned out to be a stunner. Not strictly beautiful, but an amazingly interesting face. He was in danger all right.

They talked mostly about her article. He admitted he had read it. He felt she had a point. But he also felt, quite seriously, that she was indeed courting danger. Especially after she revealed to him how often she had stood about in the streets at night, alone, around some beggar or the other, waiting for him to be approached by what she termed his (or her, of course), `minder’. Then she’d try and follow them if she could without doing it too obviously. He heard her out gravely. Then asked her if her efforts had met with any success.

“Have you really managed to follow these chaps? Discovered anything?” His voice was stern all of a sudden, the face grim, the brow furrowed.

“Silly little idiot,” he thought to himself. “She seems determined to rush in where any sane person would hesitate to tread. Does she not realize what they’d do to her if ever they got an inkling of what she was up to? And writing articles under her own name, on top of that. Damn fool woman,” he raged inwardly, even as he could not help admiring her guts. And her resourcefulness.

For Sharmeen was resourceful, all right. She had come pretty close to her objective. And she was determined, not to give up now. She knew the area where the hideout was, she was sure. A hillstation, not too far from Bombay, But she couldn‘t pinpoint the exact location, the actual spot.

“You’d better tell me what you’ve discovered,” he told her grimly, as she kept silent.

“Want me to do your job for you, Commissioner?” The delicious voice held more than a tinge of mockery.

Notorious for biting sarcasm himself, he was nonetheless in no mood to appreciate hers. His hands clenched on the steering wheel. He’d have shaken her hard had he not been driving, and never mind whether he had any right to do so or not. This girl was a calamity! To herself, above all.

Sharmeen grinned to herself in the darkness. She had some inkling of what her companion was feeling and thinking, and was glad. She knew she’d need police help to really succeed in what she hoped to do. Bust the Beggar Mafia.

She had reached a crucial point in this particular investigation, which was fast becoming an obsession with her. She was leaving for Maheshwar on Monday morning, the day after, (tomorrow, really! It was almost Sunday) to do a bit of a recce there. She had lost that van she’d been following, somewhere in the marketplace of that hill-station, when her own car had struck a puncture. She was pretty certain that that was where the Beggar Mafia had some kind of a hide-out --- somewhere in or around Maheshwar. Or even Patang, which was a sort of a satellite hill-station, famous for its boarding schools. If she did indeed find anything, she’d need back-up, and swift action. Also someone to SOS to, if she ran into any danger. She was bound to, she thought fatalistically. She’d often felt she herself was being followed or observed, even while she herself was doing the following or the observing. This was much too big to handle on her own. She’d need reinforcements. Meeting this chap at this juncture could well be a blessing. Why not exploit it? He was definitely intrigued, if not smitten. She knew the signs.

As he brought the car to a halt outside the building where she lived, she turned to him, placing a seemingly impulsive hand on his arm. “Will you help me, Arshan?” she asked.

“Get out,” was the cold, uncompromising response. “I’m seeing you to your flat,” he added in a tone that brooked no protest, parking the car and getting out himself.




*



In their opulent flat at Napean Sea Road, barely a 15-minute drive from Rashne’s place, the Chaudhary family was at dinner, en famille for once, at around the same time that Sharmeen’s article was being discussed at Rashne’s party. It was indeed a rare occasion when the Head of the family managed to get home in time for Dinner. The bahu, Sudha, had long since given up trying to assemble the family together at meal times. Caught between her mother-in-law’s interfering dominance and her husband’s general indifference to matters domestic, she took the line of least resistance. Even her daughter, thoroughly spoilt by Bhavik, and alternately indulged and bullied by Maaji, was totally out of her control.
So Sudha had taken refuge in God. Her days were filled with prayer and devotion. She visited temples, held Poojas for every conceivable occasion, good or bad, gave alms to priests and the poor, and prostrated herself at the feet of every visiting Guru or Maharaj. For the Maharaj that ruled her own kitchen, however, she reserved a quite different form of devotion.

Even before the rice was brought to the table, the dinner was interrupted by the trilling of Bhavik’s mobile, which lay on the side of his thali. It was his ‘special’ mobile, reserved for very special people and very urgent messages. Which he carried even to the loo. Since he had not made love to his own wife in the last five years, Sudha had no idea if he kept it on in bed, permitting its ubiquitous intrusion even into that most private of intimacies.

Maaji clucked and Dipannita sighed, as Bhavik rose and walked out of the room, the mobile glued to his ear. He was back in a couple of minutes, frowning heavily.

“What’s happened, beta? Any bad news?”

“Just a bit of nuisance,” he answered his mother.

“What nuisance,” she would not be put off so easily.

“One of our trucks, carrying rather valuable cargo, has been overturned on the ghats. They wanted to know what to do.” He looked at his wife. “I’ll have to leave, in an hour or so. See to my packing, will you? Enough clothes and stuff for a couple of days.”

“But Papa, you’re going to the Middle-East, shortly,” protested Dipannita.

“Yes, gudiya, but that’s next week. I’ll be back before then.”

“Well, if you don’t come back by Wednesday, I’ll have left myself.”

“Yes, you’re off with your college friends, aren’t you? To that hill-station?”

“Patang.”

“Oh! Yes of course. You’re going to Patang. Will you be staying there only, or are you moving around?”

“Oh no, we’ll be in Patang only. Rashida’s younger brother is in school there, and they’ll have half-term while we’re there. So we’ll be visiting the school, and maybe taking walks, and generally chilling out.”

“Let’s see, it’s Saturday today. Oh, of course I’ll be back by Wednesday. I’ll make sure I am,” he assured her.

“You’d better be,” she waved her fork at him mock-threateningly. He ruffled her hair caressingly and rose from the table, his mind already on this latest mishap and how to overcome it. It was worrisome. Hmmn … it was definitely worrisome!

Maaji clucked again. Bhavik was really spoiling the child. Had she dared to do that to her father, she’d have had her knuckles well rapped. But Bhavik would not let anyone so much as touch that girl in anger. The only time she, Maaji, had tried to physically chastise Dipannita for her own good, Bhavik, on hearing of it from his daughter, had flown into a rage with his mother, warning her never again to dare raise her hand or take a cane to Dipannita. Sudha herself had never dared, knowing her husband’s almost violently obsessive love for their only child.

Behind her light-hearted badinage, Dipannita’s mind was churning with speculation. Her father ran a recruiting business. Recruiting unskilled labour from UP and Bihar, and other such places and got them jobs in the Middle East.

“That’s the business to be in ---labour! No dearth of raw material for that, in this country. Too much population, mostly ignorant and illiterate, easy to handle and manage,” she’d heard him once expound to a group of friends, who’d come over for drinks and cards.

What did a truck in the ghats have to do with recruiting business? wondered Dipannita. Most of the labourers came by train, from Bihar or UP. She knew, her father did organize transport and stuff for his recruits. Maybe he was getting people from other places, now. She had heard rumours that times were bad, and that Gulf jobs were getting scarcer, the Middle-Eastern governments getting stricter. Maybe even labour was hard to get. Luckily, her father’s agency or whatever seemed to be thriving. There was no shortage of money in the Chaudhary household. She herself had only to express a desire to have it instantly gratified by her adoring Dad. Oh well, maybe he had some other business she knew nothing about, she shrugged. Not that she knew much about his businesses, anyway.

She forgot all about the truck on the ghats, and thought pleasurably about her own projected trip.


* * *



Sharmeen returned to the Hotel Windcliffe late evening, dead tired. It was the same day that Dipannita had discovered `Gaumukh’ in Maheshwar.

Sharmeen had registered as Avan Fraser. Arshan had insisted on that. As he’d insisted on her carrying the mobile he gave her, with a special roaming facility.

“You take this, keep it with you always, and keep it on”, he’d ordered. Noticing the spark of mutiny in her fine dark eyes he’d added grimly, “You either promise you’ll do as you’re told and take proper precautions, or I’ll take you into protective custody. And enjoy doing it,” he assured her. They’d met at her flat again on Sunday, to work out all the details of her trip to Maheshwar.

Sharmeen returned to the hotel to find cops swarming round the place, and the hotel manager in a state of near apoplexy. And, amazingly, astoundingly, to find Arshan Chinoy there. He seemed to be the cause of the manager’s apoplexy!

He noticed her as soon as she walked into the reception area. But he made no move towards her. He was looking grim as hell. She wondered what was up. About to go up to him, she noticed, on the sofa, the body covered in white sheet up to the face. As though impelled, she walked up to it. It was a young face. Once a pretty face. Now grotesque. Seemed to have been strangled.

Despite herself, she swayed. And found her arm caught in a hard grip which was oddly reassuring. It managed to convey strength and anger and reassurance and comfort, all at once. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “What’s happened? Who . . . who is she?”

“Sharmeen Turel.” The mockery in his voice was bitter.

Tears suddenly sprang into her eyes as she turned to look up at him, horror mingling with hurt reproach. In that moment he realized how vulnerable she could be. He was ashamed of his bitter tongue. He put his arm around her and hugged her slightly. “That was the name she’s registered under. Lord knows why. Her real name is Dipannita Chaudhary. At least that’s what all credit cards in her wallet indicate!”

She was stunned. “But . . . why did she . . . how . . . I suppose she’d read it in some paper?” He nodded. A killing thought struck her. She clutched the hand resting on her shoulder. “Arshan . . . this means . . .”

“. . . Someone wanted to kill you, but killed her instead, thinking she was you,” he completed for her. “That’s why I came racing down. Made it in three hours, from Bombay. The news received there was that `Sharmeen Turel’ had been found, murdered. By the time I reached here, Inspector Mahadik here had searched her room and discovered her real identity.”

His tone told her what his words did not. Part of his anger had been due to anxiety. But oh God, what a mess. And this girl, this poor, poor girl!

“Come,” said Arshan, clasping her hand. “I’ll take you to your room. Pack up. I’m taking you back to Bombay. We’ve made arrangements for the body to be taken to Bombay. I’ll depute some chaps to go to her folks once we find out where she lives. I’m sure the address given here is bogus, but she seems to be from Bombay, all right."

“If she’s been killed instead of me,” Sharmeen said huskily, looking straight into Arshan’s eyes, “there could only be one reason . . . that I’m right, and that hide-out is somewhere here.”

“Yes, I’d gathered that,” he said dryly. “Instructions have been given --- for a discreet but thorough search of every likely place in Maheshwar. If need be, even the unlikely ones --- then they’ll move to Patang. I’m taking no chances, now. This gang just has to be busted, and the ringleader caught. We’ll have a detailed talk later, in Bombay.”


She knew what that meant, of course. She was now in greater danger than ever. He’d probably insist on police protection for her. Oh well, she’d think about it later. Right now, she could not rid her mind of the thought that another young girl, a much younger girl, had been killed for her sake --- instead of her! It was bitter gall to swallow, for someone so sensitive as Sharmeen.



* * *




The Constable on duty brought Bhavik a cup of tea. He choked on the very first sip. He tried to compose himself. He could see they were waiting to ask him some questions. He must help them. Help them catch this bastard, who’d done this to his daughter.


He’d been told that she was found, strangled, in the gardens of some hotel in Maheshwar. So she’d lied about going to Patang. Not that it mattered now. Nothing mattered. Except to avenge her murder.

“I don’t understand . . . my daughter . . . why should anyone . . . was there any . . . was there . . . ?”

“Yes, Mr. Chaudhary, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon cut in swiftly. Of course, we yet have to do the PM, but preliminary examination by the Medical Officer does show evidence of rape. Probably shortly before she was killed.”

“There’s perhaps one thing you could help us with, sir,” continued the Inspector. “Something that’s been bothering us a great deal.”

Bhavik looked at him in dumb inquiry.

“Did your daughter know a lady called Sharmeen Turel?”

Bhavik’s face had turned even more ashen. “W..why do you ask that, Inspector?” He asked, a tremor in his voice.

“Because for some reason, your daughter had assumed that name, when she registered herself at Hotel Windcliffe, in Maheshwar. She told the hotel clerk her name was Sharmeen Turel. And that was the name she was known by, at that hotel. . . . Mr. Chaudhary? Mr. Chaudhary? Are you all right, Mr. Chaudhary? Get a glass of water, quickly,” the Inspector ordered the Constable on duty, as Chaudhary seemed to visibly shrink, guttural, keening sounds emitting from his lips.

That conversation . . . that fatal telephone conversation, just a day before he was to leave for the Gulf . . . after Dipannita had left . . .

“Bahadur speaking Boss, from Gaumukh. We’ve found out who’s been snitching on us, Boss. It’s that haramkhor Malloo, whose arms we took off last month. Necessary steps will be taken, Boss. We’ll make an example of him.”

“Good,” he’d said. Well, he couldn’t have people snitching, in his business, could he? They’d have to set an example!

“More good news, Boss, we’ve also located that dame . . . that Sharmeen Turel, who’s been troubling us. She’s here right now, at Maheshwar, in Hotel Windcliffe. Go ahead, Boss?”

“Yes, dammit,” he’d snapped into the phone. “Finish her off. Khatam kar dalo, saali ko. But listen, her body must be found. If she disappears, there’ll be a search. We don’t want that. But finish her off as soon as possible.”

“Will do, Boss! She’s some babe, though! You’d have enjoyed her, Boss. Er, mind if . . .”

“Do what you like with her, the bitch,” he’d laughed crudely. “Have your fun, but finish her off. I’m off to Muscat, tomorrow. I want a full report when I return.”

The full report. He’d got it all right.

He stood frozen, gazing blankly at the sympathetic Inspector, as flames flickered all around him, leaping higher and higher, engulfing him till he was burning in Hell.





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