by Juggi Bhasin
She looked at the big clock next to the study. There was just enough time for her to record her thoughts before Rahul made an appearance. She pushed the recording button of the Sony tape recorder on her desk and spoke into it.
‘Client name Rahul Abhyankar. Referred by Suhel Bagga. Both are co-founders of a media company called Yummimages. After two brief sessions with Rahul, it appears that he is suffering from auditory and visual hallucinations. He is quite traumatized by these. I asked him if we could do an MRI or CT scan to rule out physical impairment. He was not keen on those. I also believe, though it is too early to conclude, that he is impaired with psychological and not physical trauma. Question is, what kind of trauma? Undoubtedly, the unexplained disappearance of his girlfriend has left a deep impression on his mind. He is both in a state of withdrawal and hyper external activity. It is a bit unusual, but there is precedence for such activity. Today, I will try and take him back to his childhood to find clues for his present state of being.’
A short while later, Rahul sipped some water from a glass and settled in for his session. He kept tapping the chair anxiously. She was dressed conservatively, and her glasses made her look older. He tried hard not to look at her and focus on what was being asked.
‘So, do you have any thoughts about our last session?’
He shook his head, and she continued in a neutral tone. ‘What do you remember of your childhood, Rahul? What are your most dominant memories?’
‘Memories, as in?’
‘Do you remember your state of mind then: happy, sad, angry or plain indifferent?’
He looked up at the ceiling as if trying hard to remember. ‘It was okay, I guess . . .’
‘Loving parents or were there any issues?’
‘Don’t remember much of my mom. I was in senior school when she died. Dad brought me up. He was a disciplinarian.’
‘Disciplinarian in what sense?’ she asked. ‘Were you afraid of him? He set you targets, pushed you to achieve things . . . maybe even beat you up sometimes?’
‘No . . . no . . . he never beat me. He . . . kind of exerted a kind of moral pressure on me. For some reason, he really wanted me to get into IIT. I guess a lot of parents in India push their kids to do that. Nothing unusual,’ he shrugged.
‘That is true. So, you resented studying for IIT?’
‘I never said that!’
‘Well, there was, as you said, a kind of moral pressure on you. How did you react to this pressure?’
‘Eh . . . I can’t remember what I felt then. I . . . I went along with the tide. I just remember my father had these big, sad eyes. Yeah, they kind of compelled me to become an overachiever.’
‘So, your father exerted a kind of non-verbal pressure on you through his big, sad eyes. Correct?’
‘Yeah . . . I would think so.’
‘You mentioned he was a disciplinarian. Could you tell me in which way?’
‘Well, he would get up every day at 5 a.m. He would wake me up, too, so that I could put in a couple of hours of preparation study before I went to school. He would make tea for me. In the evenings, he would monitor the kids I played with. I ended up playing only with Suhel. Like me, he thought Suhel was IIT material. He did not have a high opinion of the other neighbourhood kids.’
‘Suhel Bagga?’
‘The very same. We grew up together, went to the same school and then to IIT.’
‘So, you must have resented that . . .? Being deprived of a chance to play with other kids.’
‘Maybe. I don’t remember now if that was the case.’
‘You never rebelled or threw tantrums?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘So, in your opinion, your father’s big, sad eyes always steadied you. They gave you a kind of moral compass.’
Rahul visibly relaxed and smiled. ‘If you say so.’
Tanya furiously jotted points on a notepad.
‘What did your parents do for work?’
‘Dad was . . . he was a clerk in a government department. Mom . . . I am not sure. She was probably a TV serial actress. That’s what he told me once.’
‘Interesting,’ remarked Tanya. ‘And you have no recollection of your mother?’
‘Actually, I have no recollection of my life before I was seven. None whatsoever. It is a little scary, I guess. But it is what it is. “Mom” is just a word for me. I understand when people talk of a mother’s love and affection, but I have no recollection of her face or her love, which I am sure she had for me.’
Tanya stared at Rahul, looking for some emotion on his face. It was calm and free of any turmoil.
‘We will wind up with one more question. You mentioned that you have no recollection of anything before the age of seven. Would that include memories of Suhel too?’
‘Suhel comes in a different category. I have always known him to be by my side. Actually, my impressions of Suhel are even stronger than that of my father. We were always together, studying, playing and then work.’
‘Okay. If given the opportunity, would you like to regain memories of your life before the age of seven?’
Rahul took his time before he answered. ‘Why? What purpose will it serve? I have no complaints about my life.’
‘Fine then. We will close the session for today. Anything you want to ask or wish to contribute further?’
‘No. I . . . er . . . I have no idea where all this is leading. But I feel better . . . simply talking to you.’
‘Good. If that is the case, then we are making progress. We won’t wait long before the next session. Let’s try and meet after three days, shall we?’
*
In another corner of the universe, Kripal was perspiring heavily, short of breath as he climbed the stairs all the way up to the twelfth floor. Taking an elevator was not an option for him. He was acutely claustrophobic. He thought about the case to distract himself. Something in the narrative leading up to Simone’s disappearance was not making sense to him. He felt like a dog that was intent on finding its favourite bone in a vast pit of sand. He was doing just that: dig and dig, till he reached his reward. He was determined to peel off all the layers of this complex case.
He almost felt a heart attack coming on when he rang the bell of the apartment on the twelfth floor in Rahul Abhyankar’s building.
CHAPTER 24
The four men in the nondescript car watched Usman leave the Fort club and walk up to his battered dark green Tata Sumo. Choubey, the gang leader, watched him carefully. The way Usman had beaten him up a few days ago near Daryaganj had opened fresh wounds in his mind. It hadn’t taken him long to trace Usman’s whereabouts. He was determined to make him pay for his aggression.
In the rear-view mirror, he eyed the man in the back seat, who held an iron rod with the intention of putting it to use. His storm troopers were ready and willing. He saw Usman take out a piece of cloth from the dashboard and dust off the real and imaginary dust specks on the Sumo’s exterior. It struck him then how precious the old vehicle was to Usman. He looked into the eyes of the mean-looking toughie in the back seat.
‘Slight change of plans. We hurt him but destroy the Sumo completely. That will hurt him more than any beating. Let’s go!’
They came out of the car and ran towards Usman and his Sumo. Usman saw them and tried to react. However, his reflexes could not match the assault they mounted on him and his car. Two beefy men pinned Usman to the ground even as Choubey brought down a rubber truncheon on Usman’s face and back. The man with the iron rod smashed the windscreen of the Sumo and then turned his attention to the body of the car. Choubey beat Usman with savage intensity till his shirt was in shreds and the welts showed up deep and raw.
The man with the rod, meanwhile, bludgeoned the Sumo into twisted, useless metal. He then went to work on the interiors and tore up the foam and padding in the seats. Usman screamed not from the pain of his physical incapacitation but from being forced to watch the love of his life being destroyed. Piece
s of foam flew into the air, but the man with the iron rod was relentless. Usman sobbed as the blows came down heavily on him.
‘Tear me into pieces, you bastards . . . but spare my car . . . spare it . . . it’s my child . . .’
The guard from the club and passers-by ran to the site of the incident, but no one made a move to stop the assault. Soon, a police siren was heard in the background and Choubey signalled to his men that it was time to go. One last time, Choubey put his boot on Usman’s face and drove his point home.
‘See what I have done to your metal child. Now live with it forever!’
It did not end there for Usman. The police arrested him for instigating a riot near a club frequented by the public. Also, he was chargesheeted as a bad character who would need to be constantly watched and monitored. He was thrown into jail. The club management did not need any prodding to fire him. Within a day, Usman had not only lost his job but had no money to apply for bail.
No one came forward to help him in his time of need. Members of his community wanted to have no truck with him. No one wanted to be associated with a man who could spread the smear to those he shook hands with. Usman lay in a cell, barely able to walk, his wounds festering. It was late at night that he thought of the bearded man who had showed him an unexpected, kind face. He bribed a constable on duty with his wristwatch to help him place a call on his cellphone that was supposedly confiscated by the station house officer. Hyder Ali, aka Rahul, listened to what Usman had to say as soon as the call was made.
‘Brother, this is Usman. You had met me at the pool. You had given me your number. I am in a shitload of trouble. Can you help me?’
The wheels of justice started to move for Usman after Rahul entered the picture. He secured bail for Usman and took him to a private clinic for a medical examination. The results showed that he had two fractured ribs, many contusions and swelling of body parts. The doctor advised complete bed rest and a course of antibiotics. For a jobless man with practically no savings, unable to move, it was like an end-of-the-road situation.
Rahul drove Usman home and settled him in. It was a dry winter afternoon and the cold seeped in through the plaster on the walls. Rahul added another cushion to the pillow rest and said to Usman, ‘I will be back with a few supplies. Hang in there.’
Usman’s lip quivered with emotion. ‘Hyder Bhai, I have lived like a dog on the street, and I have been treated like one. I expect nothing else. And here you are . . . words can’t express what you have done for me . . .’
Usman’s voice was choked. Rahul said matter-of-factly, ‘No one does anyone a favour in this world. You are down and out, but you are a man of potential. You can be useful to me. I need trusted men when I set up my new business. Besides, I enjoy talking to you. I think we have more in common than it would appear.’
Usman wiped his tears and found his voice, ‘I am your slave, Bhai. Say the word and any work you give me will be done. Well, as soon as I recover. My only regret is that I cannot teach you how to swim now.’
‘Oh! There will be plenty of time for that,’ Rahul said dismissively. ‘You will, of course, wind up from here sooner than later and accompany me to the beaches of Mahabalipuram. I will give you a dream job, Usman! Think of your new life on those sandy, golden beaches,’ he stopped and smiled genially. ‘Till then, rest, my friend. I will be back in the evening.’
Usman was in deep sleep when Rahul came back late that evening. He quietly entered the apartment soaked in a shroud of intense black. The room was freezing. Rahul plugged in the new heater he had purchased. He made space on the table for fruits, antibiotics and other supplies. Then, he drew up a chair and stared at Usman’s sleeping frame. The temperature in the room slowly became more comfortable. He had a sense that he would stumble on to something today. Usman was weak, immobile, beholden to him . . . almost at his mercy. His face stiffened and his eyes were like orbs of translucent glass, eerily lit in the dark. He lost sense of time and space. He could hear the sound of silence in the room. It was like a noise in his brain and not his ear. It was the sound of a muffled gong that slowly but surely grew in pitch and intensity. It became so loud that he could no longer bear it. He felt crazed, out of control, smothered by the sound and the darkness. And then, it suddenly stopped as it had begun. Simone was standing at the foot of Usman’s bed. She was like an apparition. A thin trickle of blood escaped her mouth. Rahul looked with horror as she raised her hand and pointed at Usman, who continued sleeping peacefully. And then she disappeared.
Usman also woke up at the same time and felt his way around the bed in the dark. Rahul held his hand, making Usman recoil from the freezing touch.
‘Who is it?’
Rahul tightened his grip on Usman’s hand. His orbs were still and opaque now. He quietly replied, ‘Who else can it be but me, Brother. I have been watching over you.’
Usman let out a sigh of relief, ‘Thank Allah it is you, Brother. My lucky day. I wish to share something with you.’
‘Tell me. Shall I put the lights on?’
‘No, don’t do that. These things are best told in the dark,’ he said and became quiet for a bit. Then he spoke as if in a daze. ‘I dreamed, Brother. I dreamed a beautiful dream.’
‘What was it, Usman?’
‘I dreamed of a person who, other than you, was the only person ever to have cared for me. I dreamed of holding her body in the water, teaching her how to swim. I dreamed of running my hands over her bronzed skin, her smooth, long legs. Her breasts . . . they were so delicate, soft and small. The nipples would always be erect, waiting for a touch. And her face, Brother. It was the sweetest, most vulnerable face ever. You would want to hold it forever, caress it, care for it, and smooth out the lines of terror on it when she would bob up and down in the water.’
Rahul’s response sounded as it was coming from afar, ‘You have a vivid imagination, Bhai.’
‘It’s all too real for me, Hyder Bhai. It happened to me. She happened to me. I can never forget it.’
Rahul felt as if his heart had stopped. He could hardly make out that it was he who was talking. ‘What was her name?’
Rahul felt as if Usman was searching for his face in the dark before he replied, ‘Her name was Simone, Bhai. Simone . . . her name is seared on my soul.’
Rahul felt choked with hatred and anger. He managed to say, ‘Tell me more about this Simone.’
Usman reached for the light and turned it on. A pool of yellow light descended on the room. With that, he had changed the mood. ‘I will tell you about her another day, Brother. There is a desire far greater than passion. And that is a hunger of a different kind. I am starving, Bhai. Hope you have got something for me to eat.’
CHAPTER 25
‘Wheeeee!’ The kid on the skateboard sailed past Kripal and turned just as he was about to crash into the crockery shelf. He came back and again went past Kripal, keeping up his never-ending banshee anthem, ‘Wheeeee!’. Kripal pretended to smile, but he felt like pulling the kid’s ears to instil some discipline. What kind of parents, especially grandparents, allowed kids to run riot on skateboards in drawing rooms making annoying noises? The Gurugram variety, he thought dryly, finding his own answer. He also remembered that most of these parents were professionals who had limited time for their kids. The grandparents would always be on call to fill in the gap. The parents and grandparents, in that short time also called ‘quality time’, would spoil the kid silly to deal with their own guilt, and the kids would end up making ‘Wheeee’ sounds, surfing in drawing rooms, not caring if they crashed into glass tables or guests like Kripal. Wheeee!
Kripal caught the eye of the grandfather seated opposite him, who simply shrugged and smiled.
The inspector nodded, hoping that the kid had disturbed the occupant of the apartment below, who in this case happened to be Rahul. There was no traction in the case, and he wanted to shake things up. His bosses were pressurizing him to close the case but a stubborn feeling made him hold out. Yet, afte
r hours of interviewing residents in the building and going over the CCTV footage from the elevators, the lobby and the building compound, he was still where he had begun.
Wheeee! From the periphery of his eyes Kripal saw the kid come in directly towards him and reflexively moved to protect himself. The kid stopped inches away from his face and spoke up.
‘Uncle, I have been listening to your conversation with grandpa. I was skating the night the lights went out. I saw something . . .’
Kripal did not know how to react to the kid. This was a hyperactive kid, and he had probably made up a story. Nevertheless, he asked him. ‘So, what did you see?’
The kid rolled up his eyes as if he was trying hard to remember. ‘I saw white, flashing lights, Uncle. They seemed to be coming from somewhere opposite our building.’
The indulgent grandfather began to laugh. ‘He’s thinking of a UFO. They watch so much rubbish on television and their iPads these days. Next, he will be saying that the UFO abducted this girl, Simone, from the balcony. He has a vivid imagination!’
The kid propelled himself backwards on the skateboard, quite offended that his grandfather had made fun of his contribution. He shook a fist in the air in anger. ‘No! No! I am not lying! I saw white lights. I was scared when I saw them. There was no light in my room. I covered my face with the comforter after that. You have to believe me!’
Kripal shook his head and got up. He shook hands with the grandfather and looked at the kid maniacally speeding on the skateboard. ‘I believe you, kid. Go easy. Wheeee! Well, thanks for the tea, Mr Prakash. Enjoy what remains of your siesta.’
The grandfather eyed the sullen kid speeding around. ‘No chance of that. He will sulk because there were no takers for his story. Will have to take him to the market in the evening and buy him toys to get him in the right mood before his parents come home. Sorry, could not help you much with your investigation. That Rahul fellow is a quiet one. Don’t know much about him. Frankly, we slept through this infamous party.’
Kripal did not bother to reply. He was staring at defeat for the first time in his career. He knew no one would censure him in the department; no one wanted to go after a well-known chief executive of a media company. It was his Jat stubbornness and pride that did not allow him to leave the case alone. Kripal felt as if nothing was how it appeared, and he was still nowhere near solving the case. It troubled him deeply.
