I could have left at eighteen but then my boyfriend wanted to stay. Naïve idiot that I was during my teens, I believed that I could not live without him. I guess that’s how first love makes one feel—completely obsessed and focussed on one person. Soon after, I had my heart broken for the first time, which changed my worldview again.
Then there was college. Three years of seamless fun and enjoyment in a distant city, far away from the probing eyes that chased me everywhere I went in this dingy village! I enjoyed myself immensely, and, for three years, the urge to run away disappeared. I was hardly home, and even when I visited I stayed only for brief, bearable spells.
Having graduated, the time was ideal for me to fly away. But I had to deal with a few issues before I could escape for good. I wanted a permanent break. How could I live in peace knowing that they could summon me to the homestead anytime? That was unacceptable. I wanted out. For that, I had to make sure that they—my grandparents—did not want me back.
My grandparents were something else, really. No matter what I did, they always sent for me during college holidays. Sometimes I came, and sometimes I refused. I had to stop this ritual.
I had tried a million tricks to shock them. I brought boyfriends home on holidays—all shady characters with tattoos and rap sheets. I smoked and drank, got high on a concoction of drugs, wore clothes that bared more than they covered. They chided me, took me to a psychiatrist, found me a bodyguard, tried counselling, enrolled me in a de-addiction centre from where I ran away... they did everything I expected them to do except disown me.
Then my brilliant plan dawned on me. What if I were dead? Even they couldn’t bring back the dead.
Once conceived, I had to implement the idea. The next day I went to the location where I was to die. I checked the setting and planned the final act. It had to be staged before their eyes to ensure that they believed I was dead. I planned everything to the last detail.
I planned to execute my death on a Sunday. On the chosen day, I told the old people over breakfast that I was going to the suicide point. This news made their ears prick up. My announcement made them uncomfortable. I had a history of pursuing forbidden pleasures. Even though I had never attempted suicide before, they believed I was capable of anything they objected to, especially self-destructive activities.
They exchanged looks, and grandma spoke. With feigned surprise, she declared that it had been years since she had been there herself. Grandpa joined in, saying he too had not been there in ages. And just like that, they invited themselves to tag along.
I protested. They would have become suspicious if I had accepted their company without putting up a fight. I could sense their nervousness. They packed some of my favourite dishes, as though food would make me change my decision. They knew me better than that, and yet they persisted.
The suicide point in our tiny village was the highest spot in the area from where the whole village was visible. It was not a tourist spot even though the view was breathtaking. We locals had no interest in it. The view was excellent everywhere. Some lovesick or crazy drunkards found their way there off and on, but otherwise our suicide point saw scant traffic, even on Sundays.
That day was no exception. We had the place to ourselves. The nearest house was more than a mile away. We spread out a picnic blanket one hundred metres away from the tip-off point. The pinnacle was a narrow space where only two or three people could stand comfortably. Below, the mountain formed a sheer wall that extended over twenty feet before a ledge jutted out from it. Beyond that, the rock face was uneven, and, further down, dense undergrowth covered the terrain.
Silly people who jumped off to end their lives usually succeeded because they ended up hitting their head on the ledge or some other jutting edge. The unforgiving forests below consumed anyone who survived the edges. Soon, they became part of the compost of dead creatures feeding the massive undergrowth. Nobody who fell into the forest had ever been found, alive or dead. I also knew that there was no gain without pain.
I had brought along ropes and other equipment for the so-called picnic. I was a seasoned climber and my grandparents knew that. As a child, I had climbed many of the slopes around us. They never stopped me because they knew I was not suicidal, just rebellious. Now I was older and crazier even by my lofty standards, making them unsure of my innermost thoughts—hence the worry.
Once there, I declared I was going climbing to catch some fresh air and be free of their forced company. They protested. I ignored them. I was hardly hitching up the ropes for the first time in my life. Their protests were illogical, and I told them as much.
Fretting and fuming, they came after me. I set up my gear and descended with a promise to climb only as far as the ledge and then return. Helpless to stop me, they watched me leave with worried eyes.
The day before, I had spiralled down to the ledge and laid out my suicide gear. The plan was to reach the shelf and leap off. The location was far from the top, and the old birds lacked twenty-twenty vision. Invisible from above, I had set up a second set of climbing equipment using which I planned to escape. Even I, who knew where everything was, couldn’t spot it until I reached the jutting edge.
I planned to loop the rope, which was fastened to the underside of the shelf, around my foot before taking the leap. From above, only my dive would be visible. The width of the ledge would conceal my actual fall trajectory from any onlooker. Hidden from view, the rope secured below the shelf would drag me underneath and arrest my fall. Oblivious to this, my audience would assume that I had fallen to my certain death.
They would panic and rush to get help. They had old limbs. It would take them at least five minutes to reach the car. They did not carry mobiles, thank God! They would have to drive for a kilometre or so to find someone and bring back help. It would easily take twenty minutes for them to accomplish all this—ample time for me to execute stage two of my plan.
Even if Grandma stayed back to keep vigil over me, my plan would work. Without wasting time, I had to slither further down to a smaller projection below. Remove all traces of my handiwork and head out left, staying under the narrow protrusion that ran horizontally for a full ten metres. From there, I had to leap over a simple crevice and move into a more sheltered section of the mountain.
Further ahead, there was a cave where I had placed a backpack of essentials and a bottle of water. I had to reach it, change, and then move out to a softer slope. I would emerge in a nearby village and take the late afternoon bus out of town.
Everything was planned.
The rescue teams would gradually increase the radius of their search. By that time I would be long gone, and even if they found anything—like ropes or pieces of clothing—it would be very difficult for them to determine if they were mine or if they belonged to a climber who’d visited these mountains. They would have to declare me dead at some point.
All my bonds would be broken with that one declaration. I would be free at last.
The flip side was that my endless supply of money would be hit. I would have to be ingenious and come up with a solution. I was a resourceful person if nothing else. I would survive, I was
◆◆◆
Under the watchful eyes of my grandparents, I began my descent to freedom. I was halfway to the ledge when a commotion above made me look up. What I saw almost made me lose my grip. Grandpa was dangling upside down from a rope, and grandma was frantically trying to grab hold of him while standing precariously close to the edge.
My plan was falling apart before my eyes.
I waved and told grandma to move away from the edge. She must have heard me because I saw her step back. Then I started to climb back up, and grandpa shrieked. Hearing his cries, grandma returned to the rim and resumed her frantic efforts to pull him up.
He was hanging from another end of my rope, I realised. Every time I moved, the knot around him tightened, increasing his pain. I had to act fast. Quickly, I identified a grip I could reach and worked at cutting the r
ope from above me to relieve grandpa of my weight.
Presuming that I was sacrificing my life for the old man’s, both of them screamed in alarm.
I reassured them, but they were too frightened to pay attention. Ignoring their shouts, I carried on with my task. I knew what I was doing. As my knife sliced the last strand and the rope gave way, I slid my right hand into the crack I had spotted earlier and steadied myself. My feet had always been firmly lodged so there was no risk actually. Only drama, that too when viewed from above.
At that instant, I felt a rush of air as something flew past me. I was too stunned to react. The gust of wind was my grandmother in free fall.
Before my eyes she plummeted head first, rammed into the projection below me, and disappeared beyond. Above me, grandpa’s shrieks filled the empty spaces around. The mountains echoed his agony, and soon it sounded like an army was wailing with him. I could not tell if he was shouting in pain or because of the agony of his loss. Both, I suspected.
Somehow, I have no recollection of how I made the slow climb back. I hauled my subdued grandfather to the ground with great difficulty. His leg was broken and so was his spirit. His foot had become entangled in the extensions of rope I had carelessly left lying around. This was strictly against safety rules, but I had done it on purpose. The loose ropes on the lip of the cliff were supposed to stop my grandparents and keep them from coming too close to the edge. I had wanted them to see me fall, not flee.
The best-laid plans go awry.
Grandpa wasn’t satisfied watching my progress from a distance. Without displacing any of the ropes littering the narrow space, he found a spot with a decent view. He became so engrossed in following my descent that he noticed too late that his leg was caught in one rope. He panicked and fell off the edge. Grandma saw me cut my rope, imagined the worst, and in the process lost her footing too close to the brink and tumbled to her death.
I rushed grandpa to the hospital and alerted the authorities about the accident. A search party went down the mountain. All they found was my escape route: my gear under the ledge, my backpack further ahead... everything. Grandpa had to undergo surgery. Grandma’s body was never found, and the police suspected that I was responsible for the whole incident.
They wanted to know if I had planned to kill my grandparents and escape.
Who could blame them? The sequence of events offered scope for such speculation. All I had to do was push the old folks down the mountain.
In their clever opinion, I was even capable of orchestrating an accident similar to the one that had happened. It fit the evidence beautifully. The entire village knew I hated my grandparents. But I had planned to fake my death, not the other way around. Sadly, nobody believed me except grandpa!
After his surgery, he corrected the policemen and told them to put their non-existent brains to better use. He scoffed at their theories and told them to get lost. That ended the matter. Bless the old soul. Soon after, he developed an infection in his wound. His condition deteriorated, and within ten days he too kicked the bucket.
Just like that, within a month, I was free—and somehow freedom was no longer my choice! With both his parents dead, my father took over the estate, and suddenly I had nowhere to live. I was free and homeless. I left, determined never to look back.
I went far away from here and found refuge in the big city of Pune, where nobody cared for me. I had little money, but I was a Bong. I was spunky. I found a job, completed my masters, and made a life for myself all on my own, with no one to help me or hinder me.
One day, unexpectedly, a lawyer contacted me about an inheritance. It felt ridiculous, like winning the lottery after receiving a death sentence. And now I was back. This time, I did not know if the law would allow me to stay. Perhaps another dramatic and long parting was on the cards. Especially when Creep Choudhary found out how my grandparents died and what the police had suspected.
Chapter 21
I felt like crap. I had woken up early, and a beautiful day welcomed me after a night of tossing and turning and worrying about what dawn would bring. Life was taking too many bizarre turns for my mental peace. In my carefree days, I would have welcomed any bitter turmoil, but now I would give anything for some peace and quiet in my life.
Alisha messaged me saying she needed to speak to me urgently. Ridiculous. Everyone had been too busy saving their own hides to call and check if I was all right. I was sure she wanted to talk because she needed a favour from me. I was not interested in her or her problems. Besides, I was no longer at IndeGen. How could I help?
By afternoon she had sent me twenty messages, and I received a few from others who had been on the trip as well. All of them, it appeared, were in some kind of trouble together. It was uncanny, but I was determined to ignore them. They did not deserve my time.
Close to five in the evening, they started calling. Every five minutes, the phone rang. I ignored them and their calls. When the constant calls became too irritating, I switched off my phone. Living in the hills away from the fast Pune life had awarded me that luxury. I could now cut off the world whenever I wished.
Other than their persistent hounding, my day was uneventful and passed smoothly. The Creep did not call or put in an appearance. I was relieved.
◆◆◆
On Tuesday, February 16, I was soaking in the sun and gazing at darling Kanchenjunga while having my brunch at my favourite viewpoint when noisy shouts rudely broke the calm. Male voices dominated the commotion. I wasn’t expecting a house call from my father, so turned around to see who had come to visit.
A startling sight met my eyes. Coming up the slope were Alisha, Cyrus, Stanley, Devyani, and 1991. The butler and another servant were trying but failing in their efforts to stop them.
I had half a mind to let the comical altercation continue but shouted to my help to let the IndeGeners pass. They had come this far to meet me; something was up.
Once they reached the top, I offered seats and food. Cy was the first to speak. That was to be expected.
He enquired about my health. I replied but did not ask them how they were. I could see they were far from fine. Long faces, fidgety hands, bobbing Adam’s apples; the telltale signs of stress were clear in all of them.
An awkward silence followed Cy’s greeting. They had made the journey to my doorstep but could not gather the courage to discuss whatever they had come to speak about. Amused, I stoked the flames.
‘That snow-clad peak out there,’ I said, pointing at a mountain, ‘is the Kanchenjunga! Isn’t she beautiful?’ They tried to share my enthusiasm but not one of them could muster more than a cursory smile. ‘It’s a good day to gaze at the mountains. Not all days are clear like this,’ I continued resolutely.
‘So you come here often?’ Cy asked.
‘Every day.’
‘Why did you do it?’ Alisha demanded suddenly. Her voice was low, but the accusatory tone was hard to miss.
‘Kill Piyush?’ I asked, my voice turning to ice.
‘You really killed Piyush?’ 1991 asked, shocked. If the others’ expressions were anything to go by, they were stunned too.
‘No, I thought that was what she was asking me.’
They relaxed. Their reaction intrigued me. Did they believe I was innocent? Then what did Alisha’s question mean? I stared at her, waiting for an explanation. She rephrased her question.
‘Why did you rat us out?’
I still didn’t understand. Rat on them? What was she talking about? ‘I told you I was sharing your files with the CBI. I informed each of you personally.’
‘Not that. You told them you suspected Devyani and Cy,’ Stanley said.
So all this was about that. How did they know? It did not slip my notice that five of them were here together, not just Devyani and Cy. What had they been up to? I became nervous. There were five of them, and I was all alone here.
Keeping a lid on my true feelings, I attacked them. ‘How do you know what I said and did not say? Y
ou are assuming too much.’
‘Actually, we are not. We have definite information from an inside source,’ Cy gloated.
I understood. They had breached Creep Choudhary’s fortress. Impressive, but the leak was bad news for me. I spoke carefully. ‘Actually, I told them Devyani may have something to do with some evidence they had gathered. About Cy, I wondered what he was doing up and about at that time of night. That’s all. I did not accuse anyone of murder. Now seeing all of you here together, perhaps I was on track.’
Silence fell. Nobody spoke. This was my opportunity to escape, I realised. ‘Now that I have clarified that I did not “rat out” any of you, I would like to be on my way. This estate does not run itself.’ I rose, and they protested unanimously.
‘Nalini, not so fast,’ Alisha said, her voice hard. Was the criminal or the IndeGener sitting before me today?
‘What’s the hurry? Are you going to call and tell him that we are here?’ Stanley asked. He too was angry.
These two were rearing their criminal heads. I needed to think fast. ‘Well, if you don’t believe me, I can’t understand why you are here. I cannot repeat whatever you say and accept things I did not do just to pacify you.’
‘You have not told us exactly what you told the CBI,’ Stanley said. He stood and walked up to me.
‘I am sure my statement is recorded somewhere. Use your so-called source and find out.’
‘You told the CBI we were responsible for Piyush’s death,’ he insisted.
‘You’ve got your facts wrong,’ I replied as emphatically as possible.
‘So why did you not answer our calls or messages?’ Alisha asked. ‘I had mentioned that I needed your help.’
‘Look, guys. I have left my empathy and sympathy hats at home. So don’t expect either from me. None of you stood by me when I was in deep crap. You obviously don’t care about what happens to me. Then why should I get involved in your mess? I am facing a very serious allegation here, and, honestly, I don’t have time to waste on other people’s troubles.’ My voice was harsh and bitter.
The Murder Suspect Page 16
