Mission Mumbai

by Mahtab Narsimhan

  So that explained the momentary panic at dinner. “How could you be so stupid?” I hissed. “Back home the cell is glued to your fingers. And you forget it when we need it the most?”

  “Then why didn’t you carry one?” asked Rohit. “I’m sure your parents could have afforded to give you a cell phone with a local phone plan, moron!”

  He had a point there. They’d offered, insisted even, but I’d refused. I wanted to get away from everything completely even if it was only for three weeks. I didn’t want Mom and Dad calling me with endless advice or complaints about each other and had asked them to email me instead. And now my plan had backfired.

  “Do you at least know the way home?” I asked.

  “It was saved on my phone but I know it’s in Deolali Camp and starts with a G,” he said.

  “Brilliant!” I said. “Starts with a G … should be good enough for a scootie driver.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic,” he snapped. “Do you remember it?”

  “No, because I don’t live here. I’m just visiting.”

  “It’s been five years since I’ve been back to Deolali!” said Rohit in a squeaky voice.

  “Oi, chup karo,” someone muttered close by. “We’re trying to sleep.”

  We stood under a lamppost, glaring at each other. I was so mad at Rohit, I couldn’t speak. His sweaty face mirrored my frustration and anger. I had suggested we go to the movie but it was his fault for forgetting to bring his phone or memorizing his home address. Six of one and half a dozen of the other, as Mom loved to say. Now what?

  “Let’s go find a phone booth and call them,” said Rohit.

  “Great idea,” I said. It was the first smart thing he’d said all night. “I have lots of change.”

  “You are lost,” said a gruff voice behind me. “Need help?”

  I whirled around, unintentionally grabbing Rohit’s arm so tight he yelped. A man limped out from the shadows. He was dressed in shabby clothes that stank even from a distance. In spite of the heat, he wore a floppy hat. Eyebrows like white caterpillars hung over deep black eyes that bored into us. My heart went into shock and the rest of me wanted to follow. Sam was tougher than Frodo, I reminded myself. Try not to faint, please.

  “No, thank you,” Rohit managed to squeak. “We were on our way home.”

  “But I think you are looking for Ma and Papa,” he said, imitating Rohit with uncanny accuracy. “And you have no cell phone.”

  Slowly he slipped his cap off, revealing snow-white hair. It felt as if I’d plunged into a pool on a winter morning. This was the same man we’d seen at Sagar and then again at the tea stall. My stalker had caught up with me at the worst possible time.

  “You’ve been following me, you perv!” I yelled, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just leave us alone.”

  “I see you run from fire,” he said softly. “Take you home where it’s safe. Come.”

  He seemed to speak English decently enough but his tone and mannerisms seemed a bit off. My brain was bouncing around my skull on high alert.

  He shuffled closer, clutching a tattered umbrella in one hand. His other hand reached out for us, yellow fingernails encrusted with dirt. We backed away.

  “Come with me,” he repeated.

  Rohit and I exchanged glances. I wasn’t walking as far as the next lamppost with this weirdo, let alone home.

  “No, thank you,” said Rohit, sharply. “We know the way.”

  The man stared at us with those piercing eyes. I looked around for help. All the shops were shut and no one was in sight. Mrs. Lal wasn’t kidding when she said this small town went to sleep early. Now it was just us and this whacko in the dead of night. We had no phone and neither of us knew the way home. The seriousness of the situation crashed over me like a tsunami.

  “Really?” the old man whispered. Just the way he said it made my skin crawl.

  He smiled. I swear the resemblance to Hannibal slash Saruman was uncanny. Before my legs turned to jelly and became completely useless, I grabbed Rohit’s arm. “Run!” I yelled.

  And then we were running down the street for our lives. Hands clasped tight, we zipped in and out of the shadows. The last time I’d held hands with anyone in public was when I was a toddler, but if I let go, I wouldn’t have the strength to run at all. Rohit was the only thing keeping me on my feet for the second time that night.

  Up ahead, the streetlight was off. Darkness loomed. We kept running. Horrible thoughts pounded my head as our feet pounded the asphalt. What if we were kidnapped and I never saw my mom again? What if this psycho decided to snack on our limbs? What if this madman killed us and sold our body parts on the black market? I’d seen that in a movie one time. And why had I been dumb enough to watch so many horror movies when Mom had told me not to?

  Note to Self: There’s a reason why some movies are rated R. Remembering the horrible ways you could die might slow you down when you’re actually running for your life. From now on you’re only watching Disney movies!

  A rhythmic slap-slap sound followed us down the street. We stopped. The footsteps stopped. Loud panting filled the air. “Don’t run, my dears,” the old man pleaded.

  “This way,” hissed Rohit and we darted into a side street.

  We were so lost we didn’t care where we went as long as we could get away from our stalker. The creepy music from Psycho, when Norman Bates stabs a woman taking a shower, pulsed through my mind. I almost stumbled and fell. Stop thinking about horror movies and focus!

  Thump, thump, thump. Us running down the road.

  Slap, slap, slap. Psycho in slippers following us.

  Squee, squee, squee, squee. Psycho soundtrack echoing in my head.

  I ran faster, dragging Rohit with me. The old man sure had stamina; he was still right behind us. He must want to kill us really badly. My legs suddenly shot out from under me and I landed on my butt with a resounding thud.

  “Ow-ow, OWW!”

  “Shut up,” growled Rohit, yanking me to my feet. “Can’t you yell quietly?”

  I refused to answer as I got to my feet and hobbled after him, my backside throbbing. Ro and I realized, at the same instant, what a huge mistake we’d made. The side street we’d turned onto led to a dead-end alley. We whirled to run back out when a dark shadow fell across the entrance.

  I clutched Rohit’s hand, murmuring, “Our Lord who art in heaven …”

  “Om Namah Shivaya …” Rohit muttered under his breath.

  Hoping the double whammy of prayers to Jesus and a powerful (I hoped!) Hindu god would save us, we inched backward, staring at the growing shadow. I looked behind us, but the wall was at least six feet high. Even with a ladder, I’d have had difficulty climbing over. Vaulting over was totally out of the question. Ditto for Rohit. We were trapped! Every horror movie I’d ever seen flashed through my mind. Dismembered body parts and lots of blood …

  The geezer inched closer. His black eyes locked with mine.

  I wondered how I’d taste, pickled in formaldehyde.

  Squee, squee, squee, SQUEEE.

  IN THE DIM LIGHT OF THE LONE STREETLAMP, THE old man sidled even closer. I could feel his malevolent gaze and smell his decaying body. Sweat trickled down my back. I glanced at Rohit. He had a determined look on his sweat-slicked face. His elbows jabbed his sides rapidly, as if he were winding up for takeoff. The eye staring out of the shattered lens of his glasses was trained on Psycho.

  “Should we rush forward and knock him over?” I whispered. False bravado. My knees were knocking so much I could barely stand, let alone run.

  “We can try,” said Rohit.

  “Wait, I have an idea,” I said. I slipped the Rolex off my wrist and clasped it tightly, waiting for the right moment.

  “I don’t think—” Rohit started to say but I shushed him.

  “A Rolex doesn’t just tell time, it tells history. Anyone can appreciate that.”

  I waited till the old guy was close enough and threw my watch at him
. It bounced off his nose and landed on the ground with a sharp crack that echoed in my heart.

  “That is a Rolex,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “It might be scratched now but even so you’ll get a very good price for it. Just leave us alone, er … sir.”

  The man grimaced and rubbed his nose, emitting a low growl. He didn’t try to pick up the watch. I knew then we were in serious trouble. He wanted us, not our valuables. This was no petty thief, but a serial killer. Why didn’t I buy pepper spray when I’d first noticed this psycho at Sagar? I could have emptied the can in his face, saved my Rolex, and we’d be on our way home. Visions of the blood-splattered sidewalks flashed through my mind. I had been dying to see a murder and now I was going to see one—mine!

  “You idiot,” whispered Rohit. “At least you could have thrown the watch at his feet. Now we have an angry old psycho.”

  “Crap,” I whispered.

  “You want money, we’ll give you money,” said Rohit. “I have lots of it at home. Just take us there and you can have it all.”

  “Don’t need money … I just want my kids back,” he said, his voice breaking.

  My bowels were liquefying along with the rest of me and I was in real danger of peeing my pants. “And our moms want us back,” I said, trying to reason with him. “Please let us go, sir, and we’ll help you find your kids.”

  “Too late for that now,” he replied. “You’re all I have, all I want.”

  “We are so dead,” I whispered. In utter frustration I yelled, “Jao!”

  Creepy smile from Psycho.

  Rohit glanced at me. Then he swallowed and stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body. “This is my friend, sir, and a guest in our country. You will not harm him. If you let him go, I’ll come with you quietly.”

  For a moment I was so shocked I could only stare at the back of his large head. After the horrible things we’d said to each other just a few minutes ago, I was sure he’d want to ditch me. But here he was trying to protect me (even though it would have taken three of him to protect me properly). Could I have been utterly wrong about our friendship? Did I have it in me to be as brave as he was? There was a lump the size of a golf ball in my throat and my eyes became strangely watery.

  “You will let us both go, sir!” I said, stepping up to stand next to Rohit. “Or I’ll knock your head off. I’m a black-belt Karate Kid …” I took up the classic stance: knees bent, turning sideways, and trying to imitate the kick I’d seen the Kid do in the movie. I overbalanced and Rohit had to grab my T-shirt so I wouldn’t keel over and fall flat on my face.

  “You better watch out!” I said, putting my fists up in front of my face. “These babies are lethal.” I jabbed the air a couple of times to let him know I meant business. “You come any closer and you’ll be kissing this,” I said, waving my fist at him.

  “Come home with me, my sweeties,” he said, shuffling closer. “Daddy only wants to tell you a story. You loved hearing about Hanuman, the Monkey God, destroying Lanka. Remember?”

  All of Mom’s warnings about talking to strangers or going anywhere with them echoed in my head. Sorry, daddy-o, but these sweeties aren’t going anywhere with you. And I don’t like monkeys.

  “An invisibility cloak would be so useful right about now,” moaned Rohit. “Or a large rock.”

  “As long as we have each other, we don’t need anything else,” I said. And I meant it.

  The old man slipped his hand into his tattered jacket and my heart almost burst out of my chest. I had to do something. Fast. I remembered the camera around my neck.

  “When I give the signal, run,” I whispered to Rohit, tapping my camera lightly. Rohit glanced at me and nodded.

  The old man shuffled closer. Not breaking eye contact with him, I switched on the camera and set off the flash in a burst of blinding light. The old man instinctively raised his hand to cover his eyes.

  “CHARGE!” I yelled and ran straight at him. I shoved him hard and so did Rohit. He fell over like a bowling pin. Then we were running out of the alley as fast as our shaky legs could carry us, the camera thumping on my chest.

  The old man recovered quickly and within seconds he was on his feet and pursuing us, grunting ominously and muttering in Hindi.

  We raced out of the alley and turned right. The street was deserted and behind us the footsteps grew louder. I grasped Rohit’s slick hand in mine as we ran.

  “Someone help us!” I called out.

  “Please, HELP!” Rohit echoed.

  “In here, quick,” said a voice. A hand shot out of an open doorway and beckoned.

  Without further hesitation we dived into a dimly lit hovel, one of many that lined the street. As soon as we raced in, the door swung shut and the light went out. My nose was assaulted by a dank, musty smell. We heard the old man cursing as he approached the huts. Then nothing.

  “Where are you?” The gruff voice pierced the silence. He was right outside and I almost started crying. If he decided to fling open the door, we were dead. I was so winded I couldn’t even stand, let alone run. My life sped up in my mind’s eye. Goodbye, world!

  “I just want to talk to you,” the man whispered, a sob in his voice. “I promise you.”

  Rohit squeezed my hand tight and I squeezed back as I tried to slow my breathing.

  Just then there was a tremendous crack, as if Thor’s hammer had shattered the sky. The heavens opened up and rain pounded the pavement. Thank God. No one could be crazy enough to look for us in a downpour. Not even Psycho!

  For five agonizing minutes we sat in the murky darkness while my eyes adjusted to the surroundings. Then it hit me: We’d escaped Psycho but who would we find in the room with us when the lights came on again?

  THE RANK ODOR IN THE ROOM LESSENED SLIGHTLY as someone cracked open the door. I heard something scrape against a rough surface again and again. The only image that came to mind was a blunt instrument being sharpened. For a kill.

  “Be ready to run,” whispered Rohit.

  “ ’Kay,” I said. My heart objected strenuously to being put through so much in so short a time but I told it to stuff it.

  A match flared and what seemed like a disembodied hand lit the wick of a kerosene lamp in the center of the room. Soft golden light lit up the face of our savior. I slumped back in relief.

  An ancient woman (she looked at least five hundred years old!) in a tattered saree, so faded I couldn’t even make out the color, smiled at us. Her sharp black eyes crinkled at the corners, and toothless gums peeked out from between her wrinkled lips.

  “I’m Rohit … Thank you for saving us.”

  “Namaste!” I said. “I’m Dylan.”

  The woman nodded. “I’m Shakuntala,” she said in a slightly indistinct voice. She was so thin and frail; I couldn’t believe she lived in a tiny shack. She should have been in a nice, comfortable home surrounded by nurses and other ancient people.

  “Who was that psycho chasing us?” I asked.

  “That was Rafiq,” she said. “He lost his wife and two boys in an accident many years ago.”

  “But why was he chasing us?” I said. “He’s been stalking me since I got here.”

  The old woman sat down on her makeshift bed and leaned against the wall, sighing deeply. “Whenever he sees two boys together it triggers something in his mind—he goes a little mad.”

  “He should be locked up, Aunty,” I said. “He chased us and almost gave me a heart attack.”

  She laughed. “Rafiq looks scary but really, he’s harmless. He was telling the truth when he said he only wanted to talk. He would have made you listen to a story and let you go. No harm done.”

  “So, if he’s harmless, why didn’t you come out and talk to him?” I said. “Why hide us?”

  “When he’s in this excitable state, it’s hard to reason with him,” said Shakuntala. “It’s best to stay out of his way. He’ll be all right by tomorrow.”

  Rohit and I exchanged glances. Crap. Had we just
escaped a madman to get stuck with a batty woman? Dear Lord who art in heaven … I’d forgotten what came next but I hoped the Good Lord wouldn’t hold it against me.

  “We’re going to contact the police tomorrow morning,” I said firmly. “He should not be allowed to roam the streets.”

  Shakuntala looked at me calmly. “The police will beat him up and release him. Once he’s on the street, he’ll do it again. The fear of being beaten up will not stop him from missing his boys. Is that what you want?”

  I remembered the bruise on Psycho’s cheek I’d noticed at Sagar. My resolve weakened a little but I still wasn’t convinced. “Why don’t they put him into a hospital and treat him? Why let him run around terrorizing people?”

  “Son,” said Shakuntala, “India has over a billion people and not enough money to look after them all. The hospitals and asylums are overrun with the worst cases and even then there’s a waitlist. Rafiq won’t even qualify. Why don’t you just forgive and forget? Sometimes it’s the only thing in your control.”

  Easy for her to say. She wasn’t chased by a psycho in the middle of the night and aged ten years in ten minutes.

  “You are welcome to spend the night in my home,” she said. “It’s not fancy but it’s fairly dry and you’ll be safe.”

  I let my eyes travel around the one-room hovel. It had a few blackened, dented pots in a corner. On a line strung across the back of the room were a few ragged bits of clothing. In another corner were piles of rags, empty plastic jugs, and lots of aluminum cans of every shape, size, and color. The place smelled strongly of kerosene oil, sweat, and mud. But we were safe and at the moment I didn’t care if it smelled like cow dung. Now and then a drop of water would land on my head. I looked up and was shocked at the state of the damp ceiling covered with ugly water marks and holes. The grimy windows filtered the light from the streetlamps, making the room dark.

  “We have to get back,” said Rohit. “There was a fire at the theater. We got separated from our parents.” His voice faltered and I squeezed his arm. “I have to know if they are all right.”

  “Not tonight,” she said. “You won’t find a scootie at this hour in the rain. Do you want to walk there?”