by Ranjit Lal
The nightmare continued with a humiliating strip search, fingerprints, photographs… And then, after what seemed like ages, his mother was brought in, white in the face and virtually paralyzed with shock. Mihi had fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion; Gaurav just stared at the floor, still not fully comprehending what was happening. His mother took one look at him and at Mihi, loosely wrapped up in a coarse blanket, and went ballistic.
‘You barbarians!’ she screamed, gaping with horror at his bruised and battered face and at her little baby. ‘Is this what you do to children?’ A couple of female cops moved swiftly and pinioned her arms.
‘Madam, this is a security breach involving the prime minister. Kindly cooperate.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
They didn’t care to give any answers; they were like machines, operating at a dehumanized level.
Captain B.K. Roy, hero commander, had been ordered to bring his taxiing jet back to the bay and was taken away by a posse of six commandos. The airline had immediately grounded, and then suspended him.
Hero pilot’s son allegedly involved in possible PM assassination attempt.
Dog set upon elephant to cause chaos on PM’s route.
Was it a prank or something more sinister?
And then, that question from a local TV news channel that had made his father livid and smash the camera being stuffed in his face:
‘Sir, the police are saying you might have been planning to fly your jet into government buildings in Delhi, like the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Is there any truth in that?’
The cops had descended on the house en masse and turned it upside down. They took away the computers, CD recorder, CDs, DVDs, and all their phones. They scanned Gaurav’s cellphone records and asked: ‘Who is this Zara person? You have made five calls to him in the last three hours and sent eight messages.’
Within the hour, a Mumbai Police jeep had screeched to a halt outside the grey-stone house at Worli Sea Face. Rambo and Queenie, out in the garden with Zara, had not greeted them in a friendly fashion.
‘You are Miss Zara Shroff?’ one of the cops asked from the gate. ‘Yahan bhi kutte ka lafda hai,’ he muttered. ‘Kindly tie your dogs and let us in. We have to ask you some questions.’
‘What?’
‘Please do as we say.’
‘Wait, I’ll get my father.’ She was trembling as she turned and ran up the driveway.
They questioned Zara and her father for two hours, after which they took away their phones and computers too and placed a watch outside the house.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Mr Shroff bellowed after the police had left. ‘Your chokra deliberately set Rani on an elephant! Is he mad? Is he doing drugs?’
Zara, in a state of total disbelief and shock, whispered, ‘He would never do such a thing, popsy, you know that! He adores Rani. Maybe the elephant attacked…’ Her eyes were red and swollen, as she thought about the gorgeous German shepherd that had so often broken up their cosy moments.
‘You’re not going to have anything to do with that boy!’ Mr Shroff ordered. He felt humiliated. The police, whom he held in utter contempt, had invaded his house and cross-examined his beloved daughter as if she were a common criminal, about e-mails and telephone calls to that chokra. Stuff that nobody should be reading, or writing for that matter. ‘I’m sending you and your mother to Yasmin’s until this dies down. I’m getting your tickets booked. You leave for San Francisco tomorrow morning, so start packing. And please hand over your mobile right now!’ He held out his hand.
‘Popsy, please!’
‘Next time those havildars will come and want to take you to the thana or Arthur Road jail! And do you know what happens to young girls inside police thanas and lock-ups in this country? Do you?’
Meanwhile, at the Roys’, the police found nothing. They had been piling up charges, none of which could be proved. Then suddenly, without any explanation, they dropped all charges and dismissed the case. And two days later, without any apologies, they released Gaurav. They simply reiterated that he should have listened to the cop’s command, and this ought to be a lesson to others to do what they were told. This had just been an unfortunate accident, the police concluded. Captain Roy, however, was still considered a security threat, and was to remain grounded.
The press slunk away like jackals, their tails between their legs, scurrying after other new victims – six more ‘pram and crib bombs’ had subsequently gone off in different cities. Here, nothing had happened; no one except a dog had died.
After the incident, the elephant’s mahout had been taken to hospital in an unconscious state; he had regained consciousness a day later. His claim that he’d been hired to bring his elephant to the restaurant as part of the celebrations for some VIP’s child’s birthday proved correct, and he was released.
The PM’s approaching cavalcade had been warned well in time that evening and had shot off through Amrita Shergill Marg instead of Lodi Road. The PM had duly inaugurated whatever he had been scheduled to.
The police returned the Roys’ computers and phones a fortnight later, and Gaurav immediately changed his e-mail passwords and identification. The bastards had deleted the contents of his inbox as well as his sent items; they obviously had no respect for anyone’s property. ‘Be grateful that they returned the computers,’ his father snapped. ‘They could have kept them.’
Soon after he was released from the police station, Gaurav had called Zara – from an STD booth, because he suspected his phone might still be tapped – but her mobile was switched off, so he tried the landline.
‘Zara baby gone away,’ he was told.
‘Can I speak to saab, please?’
‘Yes?’
‘Sir, Mr Shroff… it’s me, Gaurav Roy.’
Arre haraam zaade, you don’t come near my daughter, do you hear?’ Zara’s father roared over the phone. ‘You don’t speak to her or send her e-mail-she-mail, nothing! You killed that lovely dog – what kind of bugger are you? I come out into the garden and what do I find? Six policemen at the gate trying to look down my daughter’s blouse and asking her dirty questions! They take away all phones, computers, everything, and three days later the tax fellows are ringing me up and asking me questions about my horses and who will win the derby! You come back here and I’ll kill you! And don’t you dare try to contact Zara in any way!’ And then the final, unkindest cut: ‘Zara says she doesn’t want to have anything to do with you any more. You and she are khallaas! For ever! You will never see her again!’
‘But, but… hello?’
But Mr Shroff had already slammed down the phone.
Gaurav’s heart was hammering wildly. Zara was gone.
And so was Rani. He shook his head as rage blurred his vision. Rani’s death would have to be avenged. She would have given her life for him and Mihi (and Zara) – the least he could do was get justice for her.
His mother was in shock. It took a month before she began to recover slowly. She gave up on the idea of taking a job, at least until things got back to normal. But how could that be possible now? Things would never be normal again.
People started recognizing Gaurav and pointing at him on the streets. He shaved his head and started growing a beard. He never went back to Lodi Gardens, and practically stopped going out altogether. He changed his phone number. He tried Zara’s mobile several times, but it was eternally switched off. She had disappeared from his life, as if she had never been in it. And somewhere deep in his belly, a poisonous ulcer of hatred started burning. He would get back at them, somehow.
What he needed was a rifle; a sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight and good range. But where the hell would he get one from? A bomb-laden white Gypsy with flashing lights and a siren would be poetic. He could slam it into the side of that fancy black BMW. Funny no one had thought of that. But it was the cops he had to get even with… maybe send them on a wild goose chase… bomb scares everywhere… Nah, they would only throw their we
ight around even more; glorified watchmen that they were. What about bomb scares at the offices of TV news channels and newspapers then? Screw them good, they feasted on other people’s tragedies and misery. But the police had nifty ways to trace hoax calls nowadays. They’d caught that fellow who’d been doing it on the Metro. And when they took you in, they – and you – ceased to be human. Gaurav shuddered.
He downloaded violent video games involving assassinations, bombings, annihilation, but somehow they never satisfied him. He started drawing a series of savage caricatures of VIPs being bayoneted, of snipers on rooftops and treetops, of cops fleeing in terror from a pack of Alsatians and having their throats torn out by the dogs.
Then one morning, on a whim, Gaurav bought some plasticine. He started by making crude human figures out of the stuff; but he was good with his hands and soon his figures started bearing resemblances to the bigwigs he had begun to hate. He set them up in the verandah next to his room, the figures standing behind a podium with a mike or beside a black toy Mercedes convertible (he couldn’t find a BMW) surrounded by other toy cars and jeeps. He placed a big newspaper-filled cardboard box behind them. Then he put a lead pellet into his .177 air gun and took position at one end of the verandah. His first shot sheared the right arm off his target. His second shot took a bodyguard’s head clean off. And the third drilled the VIP figure right through the heart, the exit wound large and ragged. Gaurav frowned; it was all right, but it wasn’t perfect. So he made a larger figure out of the modelling clay, and carefully chiselled a tiny hollow in the chest and abdomen with his penknife. Taking a syringe, he injected a small quantity of tomato ketchup into the cavity and then patched and smoothed it up with flat pieces of clay; it was messy, but blood always is. Then he set the figure up, picked up his air gun, and fired. The pellet ripped through the VIP’s chest and splattered the ‘blood’ around. Satisfied, Gaurav turned his attention to the Mercedes…
‘We’re going to Anandpur for a month,’ his mother announced one morning. ‘We need to get out of here for a bit. Papa’s arranged it all. There’s a place that’s just been opened by a school friend of his…’
‘Oh. Will papa be coming?’
His father had practically said nothing to him about the whole episode, but his icy silence had stung more than any rebuke.
‘No,’ his mother sighed. ‘He’s trying to get his grounding orders revoked so he can fly again.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a beautiful place, up in the mountains, away from all this. It won’t have many tourists; it’s quite remote.’
‘Oh.’
‘Apparently you have to hike for over an hour to reach there.’
Mechanically Gaurav packed his stuff, ramming clothes and sweaters into his suitcase while his mother and Mariamma made long lists of the things they’d need for Mihi. Before leaving for the station, he pulled out Rani’s blanket, which still sat in the cupboard, and stared at it.
‘I’ll get them, Rani,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know how but I’ll get them, I swear. They will pay.’
FIVE
‘Rani, come here, girl. See that crab lying there doggo… see it?’ They were on a beach in Alibag. His mother was walking on the sand with Mihi and Zara, and Gaurav had taken Rani for a run along the edge of the sea. Papa was flying New York–Bombay non-stop in a brand new 747. The Alsatian trotted up to him, tail swishing, ears pricked with that intelligent alertness that was the signature of her breed. ‘Oh, yes, all very dignified we are… Just a sec…’ He flicked some sand at the crab, and it scuttled away sideways. ‘There it goes – go get it!’ Rani pounced and danced around it, and then suddenly looked startled as the crab vigorously dug itself into the sand and disappeared. ‘Find it, Rani; it’s getting away!’ Gaurav shouted, slapping his thighs and laughing. Rani was barking and digging with frenzy around the point where she had last seen the crab, throwing up the damp sand in great swathes. She soon gave up and trotted up to him, casting puzzled looks behind. ‘Oh, no, they get the better of you every time, don’t they!’ he said, then flung a piece of driftwood and watched as she raced after it, her tail streaming behind her. But she spotted his mother, Mihi and Zara, and ran towards them instead, barking in delight. Then suddenly she remembered the stick and went back to it, but he had picked it up and hidden it behind his back. ‘Where is it?’ he asked. Rani sniffed around, looking up at him. And as she bounded behind him, Gaurav turned and she jumped at him excitedly. ‘Okay, okay, girl, you found it,’ he laughed. ‘Now stop licking my face. Go wash Mihi’s face. D’you know she drools just like you?’
Suddenly Zara was by his side, brown and elfin and sexy as sin in her dark-blue swimsuit, her curls in wind-blown tangles. She held his hand as they snuck behind some rocks. Gaurav chucked the stick and Rani went charging off, and he and Zara turned to each other. ‘Hurry!’ he said. ‘She’ll be back in twenty seconds.’
‘And very annoyed to find us doing this!’ Zara giggled as they stole a kiss.
And then they were on a plane, his father’s jet. Rani was guarding a pair of would-be hijackers, whom she had taken down with one leap – at his command. He walked down the steps of the plane to inspect a guard of honour as a twenty-four-gun salute boomed and the prime minister waited with a smile on his face and a medal in his hand…
Gaurav woke up with a jerk, a smile of pride on his face. Instantly, his face closed up, his dark eyes turned opaque and shuttered, and the molten boulder of lead was back in the base of his stomach.
It was just five-thirty in the morning and some mountain bird was calling like a lunatic right outside his window; he wished it would shut up and fly away. He looked around the small annexe room his bed had been placed in, wondering for a moment where he was. The cream walls of the room were painted with a simple dark-red tribal pattern, depicting hunters with bows and arrows chasing deer and bison. Gaurav got up and padded to the bathroom; he changed and came out quickly.
In the main room, his mother slept with Mihi next to her. Mariamma was stretched out on the carpet beside them. Gaurav picked up his sketchpad, a clutch of pencils and rotrings, and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. As quietly as he could, he unbolted the door and stepped out.
It was a diamond-bright, dew-drenched morning. Gaurav gazed unseeingly at the mountains, radiant in pale-pink and amber-gold in the early morning sunlight. He made his way past the silent dining hall and old stone house, which housed the office, and headed for the wooden bridge that spanned the stream.
In her bedroom, Shroom woke up with a start as her alarm beeped. Oh, god, was it six already? She jumped out of bed. She was feeling good this morning – bouncy and bright. Today her lessons were to start, and Snake-face and Flared-nostrils would be on her case again. She grinned and wriggled into jeans and her favourite maroon sweater.
Now, should she leave by the window and drainpipe or sneak out through the front door? Trouble was, the doors, stairs and wooden floors in this house always creaked loudly, and the Geek Empress was a light sleeper. Shroom had been strictly forbidden from climbing down the drainpipe and ivy creeper – one of the patrolling hobgoblins had spotted her the last time and tattled to the Geek Empress – though it was more fun and so much like a genuine escape. But Tinku, sleeping just outside her room, would hear her and start whining and scratching at the door. She’d better get out of here quickly; soon the Geek Empress, whose bedroom was directly beneath hers (so that she could keep track of her footsteps above), would be up and Snake-face and Flared-nostrils would report for duty. It was surprising they had not yet been instructed to sleep outside her room. That would probably happen once the Geek Empress was comfortable enough with them. She really was funny in many ways.
Carefully Shroom opened the door. She shushed the delighted dog, lying just outside, and patted her. ‘Come on, Tinku, we have to escape,’ she whispered and tiptoed down the stairs. ‘Okay,’ she murmured, ‘through the kitchen door; that’s easier to open.’ In the kitchen, she opened a cabin
et and took out the bag of brownies that Megha aunty had given her the previous day. ‘We must have sustenance at all times, right, girl?’ she told Tinku. She struggled with the bolt on the door, trying to ease it back as quietly as possible. ‘There!’ she said, pushing the door open to let in a flood of sunlight. The dog raced out, thrilled to be free. Quickly, Shroom took out a brownie. ‘Here!’ she hissed, holding it out. Tinku was instantly by her side. ‘Come on, you silly thing. We’ve got to get out of here. Then you can run around all you want. And no barking, absolutely no barking – you got that?’
There were usually four hobgoblins from the Genghis Battalion guarding the house at night, and two at the gates. They were slit-eyed Gurkhas, actually, who could look very stern yet be so kind. With guns on their shoulders, they went round and round, banging their bamboo staves and blowing their whistles late into the night. Later they patrolled the house and garden silently or sat on the verandah and smoked their stinky beedis. At six, the night shift gave way to the morning shift: two men to guard the house and two posted at the gates near the bridge. That was all the Geek Empress would tolerate.
Shroom held the dog by the collar and stepped out into the brilliantly sunlit vegetable garden. She quietly went around the side of the house and peered into the front verandah. She grinned. The two hobgoblins on duty – Jeet Bahadur and Loke Singh – were huddled around the remnants of the small fire the night fellows had made, cupping glasses of tea.
Shroom disappeared behind the house and made for the forty-feet high fern- and flower-filled bank that led up to the path. ‘Okay, Tinku,’ she said as she started climbing up the steep bank. ‘We’re going to Shroom’s Perch.’
The first part of today’s operation was to check on the leopard. She’d spotted it basking in the sun, way down on the rocks at the base of the waterfall. Of course, it disappeared the moment it realized someone was approaching the slippery path. Shroom had never been able to get even three steps down without disturbing it. From her perch at the edge of the ridge to one side of the waterfall, she could gaze at it for as long as she liked, dangling her legs over the precipice. She’d seen it there – the leopard’s favourite place, apparently – at least on three occasions. It hadn’t been there the previous day, though, probably because Snake-face and Flared-nostrils had made such a noise while following her. And it was unlikely that it would be around today – the spot where it liked to sprawl didn’t get sunlight till much later in the morning. That was why she was letting Tinku come with her; anyway, the dog had given the leopard the slip thrice in the past and vanished every time she’d sensed the animal’s presence.
