The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation

by Yakub Totanawala

  ‘I drifted away, covered the mouth with my right hand, and spoke in a hoarse voice. “Hello,” I said.

  “Yes sir, please tell me,” said the girl.

  “Write down.” I dictated Sunil’s private mobile number. “Contact him and start the conversation with a greeting, followed by the code, ‘I am the gift for you’. Give him the hotel and room details. My client will understand and accept it. Please take his confirmation for tonight and revert to Harishbhai. We are waiting,” I said.

  “Okay sir, I understood,” she said.

  ‘I disconnected the call and approached Harishbhai. “She’ll call back,” I said and returned the phone. Harishbhai smiled. “Does my client need any hotel room code?” I asked.

  “No code required, sir. Room number is enough. The girl will inform him,” said Harishbhai to my relief.

  “Excellent. You act professional. I’ll appreciate your services to my employer.” I said, and they took pride in it. “One more request. My boss will send the client’s favourite drink. Please ask the girl to serve him. I’ll arrange the delivery at the hotel.”

  “Oh sure, sir,” said Harishbhai. The mobile rang. “The girl called back,” he said, and spoke. “Okay, good,” he said over the phone. “Sir, the client said he’ll reach by midnight,” Harishbhai said while holding her call.

  ‘My skin tingled. “Fine. I’ll deliver the drink by 11:30 pm,” I said. Harishbhai communicated to her.

  ‘I shook their hands, and Rakeshbhai questioned. “Your name, Saheb? How will the girl recognise you?”

  “Oh, come on. I selected her. I’ll visit room number 415 and say the code—'I am the gift for you’.” I winked, and they laughed along.

  “But sir, she might start the service for you,” said Harishbhai and flashed his teeth.

  “No, no. Let her satisfy our client. Anyway, tell her my name. It’s Guddu,” I said, and left.

  ‘I rushed to Chharanagar. To cover my tampered appearance, I wrapped a shawl. I broke the lock and stepped into my house. I paid my respect to my parents and my abode and departed. Near the entrance, I encountered Guddu. He glimpsed at me, scratched his chin, tilted his head and stared at me. His eyes widened as he identified me. Guddu pressed his teeth and growled as I swaggered ahead. And I remembered the payback. I twisted my upper body, raised my left hand, and showed him the middle finger. Guddu fumed but failed to understand my gesture.

  “Fuck off,” he shouted.

  ‘I proceeded, hired an auto, and reached my shelter home. I worried over my plan’s success till late evening. At 10 pm, I picked up my backpack and informed Hamid Saheb.

  “Going off to Ahmedabad, Saheb.”

  He raised his brows. “All OK?”

  “Hanh, Saheb. I now wish to settle outside Gujarat.”

  “Where do you plan to go?”

  “Undecided at this moment, but I’ll manage,” I said and cried. “I have no words to thank you, Saheb. I’ll never forget your support. Accept my apologies for my biggest mistake. Please forgive me on your behalf and of Naroda Patia residents. Bless me, Saheb, that I find peace in my life,” I said with folded hands. He kept his right hand on my head as a sign of elderly blessing. I touched his feet and left.

  “Contact me anytime you need me,” he called out.

  ‘I turned back and bowed for his support. “Sure, Saheb,” I said and exited. I hired an auto and reached Relief Road. Rakesh approached me.

  “Hello, Rakeshbhai.”

  “Oh, Guddubhai. How can I help you?”

  ‘I pulled him aside. “Need one more girl.”

  “For you?”

  “Nah. For another client. But a medium range. I’ll drop her to the client’s place.”

  “Sure.’ Rakeshbhai removed the photographs and flashed them. ‘Here you go. Select.”

  “This one.”

  “Rs 5000 including my commission.”

  “Done.”

  ‘He summoned the girl. I paid him cash. We reached Kubernagar, alighted from the auto, and headed towards Irfan’s house. The bloody inspector.

  “Wait near that tree. I’ll call the client,” I said.

  ‘She tiptoed and hid behind the trunk. I called up Irfan.

  “Saheb. Vicky here. Are you home?”

  “Sisterfucker...you are acting like a hero, huh? You dared to go against VD?”

  “Listen, Saheb. They murdered my parents, and are hunting for me. Please help me.”

  “Help? Bastard. I’ll myself kill you. You think you can escape?”

  “Saheb, please. Please listen to me. I’ll compensate. You’ll benefit. Kindly help me.”

  “Benefit? How will you benefit me?”

  “Saheb, I have arranged three gifts for you. I am in severe hardship. Kindly request VD to forgive me. I regret my mistake and will submit to them, Saheb.”

  “Convincing VD is difficult.”

  “Saheb, you are also responsible for screwing up my life. At least now settle my case with VD. I’ll work for them. Please help. And they’ll also be happy that you made me surrender. And reward you. Please, Saheb.”

  “Hmm. You are an intelligent Chhara. And what are my three gifts?”

  “A buxom lady, Rs 10,000 cash, and a bottle of TeeBee wine.”

  “Wow. Awesome. Send them to me quickly. I’ll speak to Sunilbhai tomorrow.”

  “Open your door, Saheb. She is waiting with the other two rewards.”

  ‘Irfan opened the door. The girl sneaked in.

  “Aaahhh. Wonderful gift. A pack of ice in a burning city. Thank you, Vicky. You relax. I’ll take care.”

  “Thank you so much, Saheb.” I disconnected.

  ‘I hired an auto to reach Hotel Taj. A part of me wailed, and a part of me prayed for my plan’s success. I had visited Taj often to arrange girls for high-profile clients. I entered and headed towards the lift. At the fourth floor, I reached room number 415 and knocked.

  ‘The girl opened it. She looked seductive.

  “Who are you?”

  “I... have come... to handover... the drink.”

  “Oh. Guddu. Come in.”

  “Damn it, the name mattered,” I said to myself and sneaked in.

  “Madam, this client is important to my boss. Please treat him well. And this is his favourite wine. Hide it for now. Serve him as a surprise, but after your services,” I said and handed her the bottle.

  “Okay. Understood,” she said.

  “Here is your balance payment.” She received it with thanks.

  ‘I exited the hotel and hid behind a tree. Sunil arrived at 12:15 am and entered. I hired an auto and reached the railway station at 12:50 am. I had to leave Ahmedabad soon, and the common connection available was Bombay. Bombay being a mega cosmopolitan city was safe for me. I dashed to the ticket counter and inquired about the immediate availability of trains.

  “Ranakpur Express at 1 am. Platform five,” he answered.

  ‘My watch showed 12:55 am. I bought an ordinary ticket and sprinted like an athlete. The TTE waved the green flag, the whistle blared, the wheels rolled, and I boarded the train, panting. My first phase of life at Ahmedabad ended. Another journey of my life began; in search of peace, in my own country.’

  ‘But... Sunil? And the Inspector? I didn’t understand your hotel set up and all,’ asked Zaheer.

  ‘Hahaha. My boy. I murdered those bastards. With crime world providing me with plenty of poisons, I had mixed enough in TeeBee wine.”

  Zaheer scratched his neck and bit his nails.

  ‘You didn’t understand? Oh, come on... A mindful murder plan made by a Chhara. Though challenging, the execution happened with ease because I knew their details. I’ll explain.

  ‘Sunil loved TeeBee wine, and people gifted him wine and sexual services for favours. His assistant Gaurang planned with precautions to deliver him the gifts. For secrecy, Gaurang used codes, and for extra safety, he used separate codes for different hotels and times. Any mismatch would result in rejection. You under
stand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sunil had gifted me TeeBee wine, and I knew the night code for the Taj. I had once overheard Gaurang instructing a call-girl with the code—"I am the gift for you.” Hence, I insisted on the Taj Hotel at night. Clear to you?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Now pay attention. I set up the meeting through the girl, and Sunil agreed due to the correct code. The client’s name didn’t matter as Gaurang kept all records and Sunil enjoyed the gifts. Most important, I instructed that wine be served after the sexual service, to confirm the mention of a sexual act in his post-mortem report. If he drank before and died, the VD would have publicised his murder for political benefits. And that would have resulted in chaos, a hunt for the murderer, and retaliation. Sunil’s popularity stretched across the State. His organisation, therefore, had to suppress the fact that he died consuming poisoned wine after a sexual encounter with a call-girl, arranged in thankfulness for his favours. They had to make a fabricated death story, like a heart attack.

  ‘Aha. Bolted in and out.’

  ‘Yeah. Same with Irfan. He stayed alone in a rented ground floor house at Kubernagar, near his station. He too died from my poisoned wine. But an inspector dying of toxic liquor in a dry state served by a hooker would rock the administration. And the tracing would connect with Sunil’s murder too, due to the common call-girl source. So, the department and VD suppressed it.

  ‘Further, they cannot interrogate the hookers in fear of public disclosure. And if they pursued them secretly, Guddu’s name would pop up, and Guddu would face it for screwing my life. Vikram Chhara had no connection in the murder episode. And he wouldn’t be in Ahmedabad any more. You get that?’

  ‘Oh my God. Perfect plan. Chharas are intelligent,’ he said, and laughed.

  ‘In the train, I cried the whole night. Pain ruled over me. My body sought food, but my grief rejected the demand. Early morning, I reached Bombay, freshened up in the bathroom, and stepped out. The newspapers had no information because the incident occurred late at night. I exited the station, wandered about, and found a crowd near an electronic shop. This is a usual phenomenon in India, as you know. People assemble before a television store to view any program. Hah. My favourite assembly to whack valuables while enjoying a broadcast.

  ‘I marched further ahead. The TV sets telecast various news channels. My urge provoked me to flick three wallets. The headline stunned the audience.

  Revered leader Sunil Thakur dies of heart attack.

  ‘The reader said, “The beloved public servant attended several welfare programs yesterday. He was scheduled to board an early morning flight to Delhi and rested at Taj near the airport. His associate arrived to pick him and reported his non-response. The hotel staff called for medical help and the police who reached the venue immediately. The medical team confirmed his death and shifted his corpse to Civil Hospital. While we await his autopsy report, the doctors assume the cause to be a heart attack.”

  ‘I released a long sigh of relief and my body relaxed. My eyes closed. My heart experienced ecstasy.’

  ‘I checked another TV. On a Gujarati news channel, a scroll at the bottom stated—Satkarnagar Police Inspector dies of heart attack.

  ‘My eyes twinkled. A mountain load had slipped off my head. I patted my heart. My spirit rejoiced in euphoria. Tears streamed down my cheeks. For the first time after my parents’ death, I smiled, and my life was worth living.’

  Chapter—22

  In Search of Peace

  ‘I cherished their murders. Bastards were unworthy of life. Though immersed in the news, I sensed a man on my left gazing at me. I glanced at him. He lifted his brows and yelled, “Hey Vicky, it’s you... You look different. What are you doing in Mumbai?”

  ‘I stood frozen. He was a Chhara teenager named Bablu, Guddu’s distant relative. A Bombay resident, he had visited Chharanagar last month. Impressed by my achievements, he adored me. Damn it. In a city where people are ignorant of their neighbours, he had identified me. My heart palpitated. I wiped my tears.

  “Delighted to meet you. Come home. My group admires you,” he said.

  ‘My inner voice warned me. Vicky, you are discovered and that too, by Guddu’s relative. It’s a bad omen. Escape from Bombay at once.

  “I am in a hurry. I’ll come next time.”

  I scratched my neck and wiped my sweat. With tight shoulders and a pale face, I darted glances at people. The fear of them identifying me as the murderer made me tremble. I hurried out from the assembly and paced towards the terminal. My mind scanned for the best and safe place in the country. North India? No. West? No. South... OK. Few Chharas stay there. I dashed into the station, wheezing, and inquired about trains.

  “Eh...This is a different zone. Go to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus,” said a man.

  ‘Damn it. I ran out, caught a cab, and rushed there. Where do I go to in the South? The region flashed in my mind. Cochin... Madras... Beynglor... Oh, Beynglor. I pronounced it as Beynglor then. Bangalore, the capital city of Karnataka State. Developing at supersonic speed, Beynglor attracted me. I fancied achieving success there. Beynglor touched my heart.

  ‘At Victoria Terminus, I dodged the overflowing crowd and sprinted to the first floor. I dashed through the flocks of people in unending queues and reached the ticket counter. People revolted and shoved me back, hurling abuses. I joined the queue, puffing. When it was my turn, I peeped in and asked,

  “Any train to Beynglor?”

  “Udyan Express,” he said.

  “One ticket, please.”

  “Rs. 231.”

  I gave cash. He tossed the ticket.

  “What time?”

  “8:05 am, Platform 12,” he said.

  ‘I checked my watch. Oh, God, 8:04 am. Rush hour again. I flew with the wind, skipping the steps, two at a time. The announcements played of the train’s departure. I scurried through the wandering crowd, jumped over the scattered iron suitcases and the waiting passengers, dodged the playing kids, collided with a gorgeous lady and tumbled over, bumped into a dozen galloping coolies overloaded with luggage, pushed the scurrying men and women, stamped on a few sleeping dogs and reached near the engine. The whistle blew. The dogs and pigs moved aside, the excreting children shifted to another track, and the train departed. Like a mouse, I penetrated the jam-packed unreserved coach. Habitual to such travelling and atmosphere, I stayed near the door. Udyan in Hindi means garden, the name attributed to the Garden city- Bangalore. Though cramped, I was happy to have boarded it. Going to Beynglor; in search of peace, in my own country.

  “What time will the train reach Beynglor?” I asked a fellow passenger.

  “8 am tomorrow.”

  ‘Oh. 24 hours... I gasped. I hoped to grab a berth, at least at night. The passengers jammed like they were conjoined since birth. At every halt, a few alighted and dozens gushed in. The Indian Railways, with a generous heart, accommodated them all. Entangled, we inhaled each other’s acrid sweat. Yet, I breathed to survive. Vendors carrying buckets of refreshments passed through the compartment. A passenger held a disposable plate on my shoulder and munched on bhelpuri. Another one spilt hot tea and seared my hand. He apologised. I didn’t care. My mind was scorched in a blazing fire, which burnt within me.

  ‘At 8 pm, the train reached Wadi station. A hundred disembarked, and three hopped in. Phew. Passengers spread newspaper pages on the floor and sat, and I grabbed a place near the coach door. A fellow passenger helped me with a magazine page. It had a full-page pic of a South Indian siren, in transparent wet clothes licking her lip in an erotic pose. I squatted on that one by two feet space; I had no complaints but my bum rested on her mouth, and I feared a bite. Sitting on a Tamil heroine with her mouth open tightened my pelvic-floor muscles. Unwarranted, I performed a Kegel exercise. Her voluptuous breasts were exposed from below my butt. The red-eyed passengers stared near my groin to ogle her bosom.

  ‘The stinking bathrooms reeked like Chharanagar, and insects
and rodents gave a homely feeling. But the vapours of pain caused a heavy rain of tears. The night passed by dozing and falling on fellow travellers.’

  Chapter—23

  The Same Liquor World

  ‘At 8:15 am, the train reached my destination. The soothing climate calmed my senses. I lingered on the platform and planned out my next move. From Ahmedabad to Bombay to Bangalore, I had lived a miserable life. Now, I wanted to start afresh and lead a peaceful life, like a human being.

  ‘I strolled towards a drinking-water tap. The memory of my school flashed in front of me, and I glanced around. Nobody cared that a Chharra was drinking water from a common tap. I washed my face and gargled. At the canteen, I drank a cup of tea and ate a packet of glucose biscuits. As I exited the station, the auto-rickshaw guys surrounded me. India’s culture is so rich and diversified that an Indian in another State feels like a foreigner. And so did I. They conversed in the local Kannada language.

  “Where do you want to go, Saar?” “Are you new to this city, Saar?” “You need a room, Saar?” They pulled me from all the sides.

  “I need a job. You know any place? Take me there,” I said in Hindi. The drivers hesitated. Few proposed to drop me at a commercial location so I could search for a job, but I declined. I roamed around asking for work, but received no response.

  ‘For breakfast, I headed to a restaurant on the station campus. The menu looked confusing so, I chose to play safe and ordered a Masala Dosa. I lingered around the exit, and after two hours I sealed the deal with one man. He said he would charge me Rs. 500, all-inclusive. I boarded his auto.

  ‘He switched on the metre and zoomed. My fate; he, too, was born with a question mark on his head. He conversed in his broken Hindi language and kept asking me questions to collect my information. “Who are you? Where are you from? Family? Job? Where did you work earlier?” and whatnot. I answered his queries. For safety, I disclosed my name as Vikram Thakur. Since my first name was tattooed on my wrist, I changed my last name to Thakur in memory of that rascal, and to hide my downtrodden identity. Thakurs belong to high class.