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  Piyush Jha is an acclaimed film director, ad filmmaker and the author of the bestselling novels, Mumbaistan and Compass Box Killer.

  A student political leader at university, he pursued a career in advertising management after acquiring an MBA degree. Later, he switched tracks, first to make commercials for some of the country’s largest brands, and then to write and direct feature films. His films include Chalo America, King of Bollywood and Sikandar.

  He lives in his beloved Mumbai, where he can often be found walking the streets that inspire his stories.

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd. 2014

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Sales centres:

  Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

  Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

  Kolkata Mumbai

  Copyright © Piyush Jha 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 9788129134219

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First impression 2014

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Printed at [PRINTER’S NAME, CITY]

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  To my wife, Priyanka,

  for the gentle nudges that push me in the right direction.

  Prologue

  The moon shone on the long blade of the knife. The steel reflected a silver ray straight into her eyes, but she didn’t flinch. The wind howled through the overgrown vegetation that surrounded her as she stood rooted to her spot. A long minute elapsed. Then he held out the leather handle of the knife towards her, and finally a cracked voice broke out of her quivering lips: ‘I left that life behind years ago.’

  The fervid expression froze on his face. In the bright moonlight, she saw the familiar black intensity in his eyes that she had never quite understood. ‘It has to be done, or they’ll take us down with them,’ he said.

  ‘But can’t we all sit down like civilized people and at least discuss it once?’ She was almost pleading now.

  He stepped closer, reached out and shoved the handle of the knife into her reluctant palm. The burnished leather felt warm and inviting. She fought against the instinct to wrap her fingers around the handle and grip it hard. He sensed her dilemma and continued, ‘They’ve become crazed with greed. They refuse to see any sense. You and I are the only ones who can run this whole thing now.’ His tone softened to add, ‘You know that I love you, don’t you? I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’ His voice was soothing, but his expression was still hard. A spark of doubt ignited in her mind. But, then he smiled in the most reassuring manner that she had ever seen and she found herself smiling back. She gazed into his determined, young face and he did not break his gaze from hers.

  The sound of a dry twig breaking under the weight of someone’s foot rang out through the moonlit night. The spell broke. Both of them turned to see a long-haired girl walking up the path towards them.

  He squeezed her hand. She let his warmth radiate through her body. She let a full minute pass and then slowly tightened her grip on the handle of the knife.

  Ready for attack, she strode down the path, in the direction of the long-haired girl.

  1

  By the third glass of cutting chai, Inspector Virkar was on the verge of calling the whole operation off, but something in his gut told him that his luck was about to turn. Virkar only hoped that it was not the overly sweet tea doing the talking. He turned his attention back to the entrance of the crumbling chawl building across the chai shop where he was sitting. That afternoon, he had received information that the wanted tuition teacher-turned-khabri-turned-extortionist, Usman Teacher, would be visiting the house of one of his ex-students at the BDD Chawls in Worli. Virkar had quickly gathered a team and by evening he had spread the plainclothes policemen in the vicinity of Chawl tenement no. 32, where Usman Teacher was expected to arrive at around 7 p.m.

  It was now 9 p.m. and Virkar still hadn’t caught sight of the wily Usman. Virkar’s eyes scanned each passer-by, trying to match their faces to the police photograph he had committed to memory. His searching eyes settled for a moment on the flashing signboard of the Lovedale Bar and Lunch Home at the corner of the street. Customers were already flowing steadily into the bar in pursuit of their evening tipple. For a moment, Virkar wondered whether the Lovedale Bar served his favourite Godfather Beer. His slid his wet tongue over his lips in an involuntary reaction to the thought. Realizing that he was losing his concentration, Virkar brushed away the thought and forced his mind to go over Usman Teacher’s history in an attempt to stay focused on his quarry.

  Usman Reshim Abubaker aka Usman Teacher had had a colourful career. He began as a tuition teacher to Class X S.S.C. students in his Darukhana neighbourhood as soon as he finished his graduation from Anjuman Islam College. His first foray into the shadowy world of police informants, or khabris, started when, in response to a reward offer, he tipped off the police on the whereabouts of Gani Lala, the feared ganglord from Sewri. He had gleaned this information from Gani Lala’s school-going daughter, who took private tuitions from him. Gani put a supari on Usman’s head and Usman went underground, his career as a teacher coming to an abrupt end. Fortunately for him, the policemen who benefitted from the information that Usman had provided gave him protection and soon Usman Abubaker morphed into Usman Teacher, the khabri.

  Gani Lala was shot in an encounter a couple of years later but Usman continued his khabri activities for the easy money it provided. He rose to become one of the biggest khabris in Mumbai, recruiting and training a small network of khabris who became his eyes and ears. But soon, he was no longer satisfied with the scraps that the policemen threw at him and decided to go into business on his own. Exploiting his position and proximity to certain senior policemen who relied on him for information, he began to threaten small traders who operated out of makeshift street-side structures in Darukhana with police action against them if they didn’t pay him a hafta. The traders coughed up the protection money without as much as a meek protest.

  Emboldened by his success, Usman went a step further, threatening to implicate people with shady pasts in crimes that they were not even remotely involved in. Here, too, he had modest success, because the people he targeted knew that he was capable of causing trouble. But he finally ran foul of the police after they discovered that he had set up an elaborate scam to implicate a legitimate businessman from Pune in weapons trading activity. The businessman turned out to be innocent and Usman’s extortion business came under the harsh glare of the media. The same policemen who had once enlisted his services now looked the other way when he asked for their help. The Crime Branch was brought in and Usman Teacher was on the run again, but this time from the police. Life came full circle when a khabri who had trained under Usman tipped off the Crime Branch that Usman was to visit one of his faithful students from his tuition-teacher days at BDD Chawls to pick up some cash that he had stashed with him.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time, Virkar’s eyes did a sweep of his carefully position
ed plainclothes men. Impatience was getting the better of him, and he decided to let off some steam. He pressed the speed dial on his phone and a dial tone sounded in the Bluetooth device in his ear. The call was picked up after just a single ring, but before the person on the other end of the line could say anything, Virkar’s gruff voice barked, ‘I’ve been waiting for two hours now.’

  ‘Saheb, aaichi shapat, he left three hours ago. I’m sure he’ll be there soon,’ a man’s thin voice responded.

  Virkar swallowed hard, calming himself. ‘Tell me again, what was he wearing?’

  ‘A blue-and-white checked bush shirt, brown polyester pants and white Nike slippers.’

  ‘Bhosdeekay, you didn’t tell me about the slippers!’ Virkar exploded.

  ‘Saheb, I told you about the white slippers,’ the man replied, his voice quivering in fear.

  ‘But you didn’t tell me what brand they were! How do you know, anyway?’

  ‘Saheb, the logo was printed on the side.’

  ‘Remain on standby, you dhakkan,’ Virkar spat into the phone and cut the line. Irritated at not having had the crucial piece of information earlier, Virkar turned his attention to the feet of every passer-by. No one was wearing any slippers even remotely resembling the description he had received.

  It was now 9.30 p.m. and Virkar suddenly began to have a sinking feeling of disappointment. In his mind, he began readying himself to wind up the operation but the loud screaming of excited kids disturbed his thoughts. His eyes went back to the entrance of tenement no. 32. The bunch of kids who had been playing in the small open space next to the tenement’s entrance were hopping and skipping towards a group of burkha-clad women who were emerging from the tenement’s entrance. They playfully wrapped themselves around the knees of the women, who returned their affection by bending down and hugging them—all except one woman who broke away from the group and began walking towards the shops across the road. Virkar was about to turn his eyes back towards the entrance of the tenement when, by pure instinct, his eyes fell upon the burkha-clad lady’s feet that peeped out from under the black fabric. Even at a distance, Virkar could make out the bold Nike logo emblazoned across the side of the white slipper. Virkar’s brain took only a second to realize that it was Usman Teacher under the burkha, and that he had been inside tenement no. 32 for the past few hours. He had obviously walked in unnoticed because of his disguise. Virkar pulled out his walkie-talkie from under the table and shouted, ‘Burkha lady, burkha lady…walking towards the market,’ into the receiver, but saw that his team of plainclothes men looked confused. A couple of them ran towards the ladies standing around the kids outside tenement no. 32. Virkar wasted no further time and ran out of the chai shop in the direction of the burkha-clad Usman Teacher. Meanwhile, the burkha-clad women began screaming at the plainclothes men, who were pulling at their veils. A commotion soon erupted among the passers-by, some of whom had stopped to watch the odd spectacle unfolding on the street. Virkar bumped into a few of them as he ran, desperately trying to spot Usman Teacher in the crowd.

  By now, chaos had completely taken over the street as the plainclothes men had pulled out their revolvers to clear the irate crowd that had gathered around them. In response to their guns, the crowd was now running helter-skelter, fearing that the police were staging an encounter. Their screams and cries rang in Virkar’s ears, and he suddenly realized that he had created an incident that had spun out of control. He took one last look around him and saw that there was no chance of him spotting Usman Teacher in the crowd. Turning around, he quickly made his way back to his harried team. He sighed to himself; instead of catching a wanted criminal, he would now be facing a departmental inquiry instead.

  The street ditty, ‘Ataa maajhi vaat laagli…laagli re, laagli re!’, kept playing on loop in his mind.

  2

  The knife was incredibly sharp.

  She had intended to only take a trial swipe, but the blade sliced through the flesh with surprising ease. The organ that she had been holding on to came free in her hand. The realization hit her only when she looked down and saw it still throbbing, flooding her palm with blood.

  She could see that he was equally shocked at being quite literally dismembered, so much so that his brain was still undecided on whether to express his pain or his confusion. Instead of screaming, he was more interested in stopping the blood flow from the wound left behind in his crotch.

  Lying spread-eagled on the bed; he had been expecting her to join him after stripping off her clothes. But she had asked him to close his eyes and he had indulged her. Then, a couple of minutes later, she had straddled him, wearing a full-length, waterproof raincoat made of heavy rubber. He was surprised and had wondered why she was dressed that way. But before he could open his mouth to ask her, he had seen the gleaming hunting knife in her hand.

  Her eyes were cold as she reached for his crotch with her free hand, her fingers wrapping themselves around his shock-stiffened member. The blade slashed down at him and, in a searing, heat-filled moment, it passed through his flesh, leaving behind an oozing fountain of his precious life fluid. As drops of his blood splashed and slid off her raincoat, he finally realized why she was wearing it.

  As he stared at the organ that was slowly shrivelling in her hand, realization finally penetrated his fuzzy brain. With a jolt, the dormant synapses in his brain came alive, making him fully aware of the repercussions of her actions. His mouth opened to scream his fear, but no sound came out of his dry throat other than a helpless gurgle.

  He tried to push her off him with one hand, clawing at her shoulders. She flung his hand away. The knife in her hand struck down on his naked chest.

  The blade slid between his ribs till she tugged it away from his chest. It exited his chest with a sickening squelch. He was already in so much agony that his brain could not feel the increased pain. He was expecting it to be over then. But she brought down the blade again and again and again till the dull grey walls around her were splashed red with blood.

  After nearly five minutes had passed, she stopped the bloody mayhem that she had unleashed—not because life had finally taken leave of his body, not because she realized the horror of her deeds, but because a mobile phone suddenly began to ring from the heap of clothes that he had discarded on the floor by the bathroom door.

  She was pulled out of her trance. It was then that she realized she was still holding something in her left hand. It was the organ she had detached from his body.

  She shuddered involuntarily at the sight of it lying useless in her palm. She let the phone ring to a stop. Leaving the knife still stuck in his chest, she dismounted from his body and peeled off the blood-drenched raincoat. She was naked underneath. Taking utmost care to not get any blood on her, she turned the raincoat inside out and folded it in such a manner that it was spotless and dry on the outside. Jumping off the bed, her feet landed softly a few feet away from the bed. Making sure she wasn’t stepping on any blood droplets, she padded barefoot across the floor to the backpack lying beside the door where she had left it when they had arrived that afternoon. She extricated two strong plastic bags from the backpack. In the smaller one, she deposited the dismembered penis, in the other she slid in the folded raincoat. She pushed both bags into the backpack, away from sight.

  Then she turned her attention to the heap of his clothes. She rummaged in the pocket of his jeans and fished out the phone, extricating his wallet along with it. Her own clothes and shoes lay in the far corner where she had flung them before she put on the raincoat. She slipped into them and walked back to the bed. With one hand, she pulled out the knife from his chest and, wiping it clean on a dry portion of the bedsheet, she slipped it into the secret compartment in the backpack where she had kept it hidden during their long motorbike ride to the resort. She then slung the backpack on to her shoulder. Opening the front door, she stepped out into the small veranda in front of the shack they had rented at the Blue Nile Resort.

  For the first t
ime, she became aware that darkness had fallen outside and the moon was hiding behind a large clump of clouds. She looked up and down the lawn, making sure none of the hotel guests were out taking an early evening stroll. But since it was a weekday, the resort’s occupancy was at its minimal. Satisfied that no one was around, she hurried across the veranda and made her way to the wooden door in the fence directly across the shack. Unlatching the door, she stepped on to the Manori beach.

  3

  Naina Rai, Assistant Professor of Counselling Psychology, was in a cab and on her way to her first lecture of the morning at the Willingdon College when she received the call. She didn’t recognize the number but she took the call anyway. A harsh voice spoke in her ear, ‘Naina Rai?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. For a few seconds, she listened to what the person on the other end said to her and then hung up with a cursory ‘okay’. A frown crinkled the large, round vermilion teeka on her forehead. Her velvet brown eyes had a determined expression in them, and her full lips—usually adorned with a broad welcoming smile—were pressed tightly together, making them seem almost bloodless. She tapped the cab driver on his shoulder and said, ‘Bhai saheb, please turn the taxi towards Ballard Estate.’

  ‘But, madam, you said that you wanted to go near the museum!’

  ‘Yes, I know, but the plan has changed. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you the full fare.’

  Reassured, the taxi driver turned on to P.M. Road and made his way towards Ballard Estate. Under instructions from Naina, he drove to a small chai shop on Kumtha Street at the back of Ballard Estate. Naina got off the taxi and the proprietor of the chai shop, who was sitting at the counter near the entrance, looked up to see the upmarket lady enter his humble establishment. He was even more surprised to see Naina walk directly to the back of the shop, towards the kitchen. Before he could say anything, she had walked into the small open space behind the kitchen where a scrawny young boy was scrubbing large copper utensils. Naina walked up to the boy and threw the utensils aside with a loud crash. The boy looked at her, shocked. ‘Madam, I’ll lose my entire month’s salary!’ he squealed.