DEATH AND DISHONOR
ABHIMANYU SAXENA
TANMOY BASAK
DEATH & DISHONOR
revenge is everything
ABHIMANYU SAXENA
TANMOY BASAK
Kalamos Literary Services LLP
Kalamos Literary Services LLP
Email: [email protected]
Published in 2018
by
Kalamos Literary Services
ISBN- 978-93-87780-02-6
Copyright © Abhimanyu Saxena 2018
© Tanmoy Basak 2018
Death & Dishonor
Abhimanyu Saxena
Tanmoy Basak
Cover designed and typeset in Kalamos Literary Services LLP
Print and bound in India.
All rights reserved. No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission by the publisher.
The views expressed in this book are entirely those of author. The printer/publisher and distributors of this book are not in any way responsible for the views expressed by author in this book. All disputes are subject to arbitration, legal actions if any subject to the jurisdiction of courts of New Delhi, India.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
So, this is it. It has been a great journey, and our story has been a part of us all the way. Its happy moments being our own, its sadness affecting us. It is hard to recall when we saved the first chapter and everything changed! The funny thing is, we used to save chapters before too, but this time, we couldn’t stop somehow.
And they say to make the acknowledgments funny…….. Knew we had a punch line coming, though. Next time, got to remember it before the dots end!!
Oh, well! Let’s go on with thanking the people who have been part of this journey in helping and encouraging us. First of all, we would like to thank Anuj Kumar, our publisher who has helped us in shaping this novel. He has been more than a friend in the entire process; our editor who has chopped off the major chunk of the novel for its betterment of course (wink!) and our friends Krati Vishisth Rao and Sandhya Verma, who have helped us a lot.
Special thanks to our parents who have been a guiding light throughout our lives. Love you guys!
My love for writing wouldn’t have been possible without the support, guidance, and blessings of my Nanaji – Sh. Jagdish Chander Saxena, being a great writer & poet himself, motivated and pushed me forward to write since my childhood.
And lastly, we have argued, fought and insulted each other almost every other day but we could not have asked for a better author/co-author combo than us.
Wait! Wait! Wait! This is the co-author interrupting the end, but I have a few words to say. In the end, I would like to thank the author for giving the writer inside me a push, shove and occasional praises. I had not known that I could even give words to my ideas if he hadn’t come with that intriguing question of “Why don't you start writing for once, idiot?”
May you all enjoy reading the book as much we enjoyed writing it!!
FOREWORD
Like Arjun to Father John, let me confess at the beginning, I am not a big fan of thrillers, partly because it is not a genre which has been cultivated with a degree of finesse in our country, partly because I am more inclined towards non-fiction. Throw in honourable exceptions, and you have thriller as a medium of narration that appeals largely to younger group of readers. Those who like it, often outgrow it soon enough. It is a way of storytelling that allows no room for prevarication, action is king, and momentum absolutely essential. All qualities one would say that appeal to the young, and the young at heart. Much like fast bikes, fast food for the young. Considering my reservations about the medium, I approached Abhimanyu Saxena and Tanmoy Basak's Death and Dishonor with a blend of hope and misgivings. On the one side was an opportunity to read fresh authors sharing a story that seems so close to our real life. On the other, were my well-established prejudices about the medium. And am I glad, that the former won, the latter came second in a two horse race! A few pages into this racy, taut thriller which has more depth that the waters of the Ganga in the plains, I was won over. Gone was my apprehension, my thoughts on reading story which may never happen in real life. Within no time, I was drawn into the world of Arjun Rathore, Aditi, Ali and others. In fact, each page presented a delightful possibility of the introduction of a new character adding to the mystery of Arjun's complicated life. Is he just another cop in love with a journalist? Is he a man let down by his best friend? By his girlfriend? Is he a man not in control of himself? Confession does not get him far, the inner pangs remain. And the authors throw in a college friend, more of a buddy, who is not worthy of the trust reposed in him. Not to forget Zayed. Half way into racy saga, you realise, you have all the ingredients of an action thriller that would make a filmmaker licks his lips at the prospect. Yes, the novel has immense possibilities of being adapted to the big screen, or even a television series. Were it to happen, it will fill a vacuum in that medium too. As for literature, it is already helping me revise my notions of the thriller medium.
Death and Dishonour is the kind of book you pick up one weekend, and then find yourself hooked. Till the next weekend, or till the last page, you are like a man who has surrendered himself to the whims of the authors. In this age of competitive, and even conflicting priorities, it is no easy task. But Saxena and Basak accomplish it with the ease of a seasoned story-teller.
Indeed, Saxena and Basak display a rare ability to keep the reader engrossed from one page to another with credible twists and turns. There is nothing in Death and Dishonour which would stretch the limits of credibility. More is the credit due to the talented duo.
If this is a sign of things to come, readers can keep some space on their book shelf vacant for their next work. Like Aditi says in the novel, "Police Babu I have tons of stories to tell," here is hoping that the authors back up Death and Dishonour with another 99 stories, and then some more. What an honour will that be! And what a life!
Ziya Us Salam
Bestselling Author of Triple Talaq
Associate Editor in Frontline, The Hindu
~MORE WORDS ABOUT THE BOOK~
“Unconventional writing style and unpredictable plot. Must read.”
– Aashish Gupta
Author of Demons in my Mind &
TEDx Speaker
~*~
“A twisted tale which gets complicated as the story progresses; just to muse the readers.”
– Abir Mukherjee
~*~
“Death & Dishonour is a debut thriller from two gifted writers and an interesting mix of psychology and suspense.”
– Braham Singh
Bestselling Author of Bombay Swastika
The devil whispered in my ear,
“You’re not strong enough to
Withstand the storm.”
Today
I whispered in the devil’s ear,
“I am the storm.”
-----Unknown
This one is for you Nani
Mrs. Suman Lata Saxena,
the most loving and purest soul in the world taken away too soon from us.
Miss you every day!
WRECKED
I looked into her eyes, and my lips turned into a smile. Whenever I saw her, thought about her, heard her name - my knees wobbled with happiness. She was the one for me. I never believed in God, but after meeting Shikha, I believed that she was an angel sent by him. And I should always treasure her.
“I love you,” I whispered in her ear.
“Awwwww honey! I love you too, but don’t you thi
nk we are too old and married for the college romance,” she smiled.
She was preparing the dinner, and her hands were busy kneading the dough. I held her from behind and kissed her neck. “It’s only been a year since we are married, but I promise you I will keep loving you till my last breath.”
She turned and kissed me. “Arjun Rathore, you should have been a writer instead of a Police officer.”
I laughed my heart out. “I am a man of a few words, but with you, this Dilli ka Policewala becomes a poet.”
“Now, let me prepare the dinner otherwise you would cry your heart out,” she replied getting back to her task at hand. Her hair tied in a neat bun and her white kurta and floral skirt made my heart skip a beat. Her beautiful big kohled eyes, her stupid nose, her beautiful lips, everything about the girl made me madly in love with her. She was the drug that I was addicted to.
I went outside the kitchen and sat on my favorite recliner couch when a thought came to my mind.
“Jaan,” I shouted from the other room.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t we have a kid? I bet we would make an amazing baby,” I added nervously.
Suddenly, there was an eerie silence in the house. I leaped up and went just outside the kitchen to see her reaction. She looked at me and was about to say something when I saw a huge black hooded figure standing right behind her. It had a huge scythe in its right hand. I tried to jump between the figure and Shikha, but it felt like my whole body was paralyzed. I couldn’t even move a single limb of my body. I tried to shout, but no words came out. I wanted to scream or warn Shikha to run away, but I couldn’t even move my eyes.
“Jaan, I am bringing food to the dining table, you can wash your hands and wait for me there,” she said in a sing-song voice, oblivious to the dark hooded figure. The shadow moved ever so slightly, tilting the scythe near her beautiful neck. But she was unperturbed, she stood there smilingly, and the hooded figure slit her neck swiftly. Within a second, blood started oozing out of her neck, and it turned her whole white kurta blood-red. She was still smiling, and the hooded figure removed his hood, his face still masked with darkness, and took her with him.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” I shouted.
It took me a moment to realize that it was another nightmare. But it felt so real that I had fallen from the bar stool. My hand was bleeding; perhaps I applied too much pressure on the glass in my hand – it was broken.
“Dude we are closing the bar; you need to leave,” the bartender shouted at me.
“Pour me two more vodka shots.” I barked at him.
He shook his head. “You have had enough; we are closing now.”
I looked at him, my legs were shaking, and my vision was blurry, but I felt hatred brewing up within me.
“Saale, don’t you know who I am?” I grabbed his shirt and yelled.
He punched me and threw me on the ground. “We all know your stories, the drunkard ex-cop. If you continue your gimmicks, you won’t be allowed here.”
I growled at him. It took me more than five minutes to get up and pick up my jacket. It was December of 2017, and the cold in Delhi had reached its peak. I took baby steps and still managed to fall. As soon as I reached outside, I picked up a rock and threw it at the front of the bar. Without wasting any second, I ran like a madman. The streets of Defense Colony were deserted and silent. There was a stillness in the air except for the sound of street dogs barking at me. I stepped into an old looking building which had a cross in front of the oak door.
‘Must be a church,’ I thought.
It was indeed a church; there were rows of benches in the wide hall. The statue of Jesus crucified was placed in front of the hall, and there was a unique calmness in the room. Then it hit me… this was the same St. John’s church that I had been going to all these months. And as soon as I was about to sit on a bench I felt retching in my stomach as if my intestines were churning and I vomited on the floor.
“Who is there?” Father John demanded.
I grunted. Father John had a pitiful expression on his old face. The white goatee beard and his wrinkled face gave him an ‘all-knowing’ otherworldly presence. He looked like a nice bloke, but I had never talked to him. He had made countless attempts to fix me or know what was broken inside me but I never uttered a single word. He had recognized me and then looked at the vomit covered floor.
“Oh my lord! You have made a mess here,” he had a strong but reassuring voice.
I didn’t know what to say; I was still ecstatic after drinking like a fish tonight. John placed a hand on my shoulder. “Son, you seem lost, I can help you. The God can help you.”
I growled back; I was in no mood to talk to anyone. “Don’t need yo- your help; I am not a toy that can be fixed.”
He smiled. “We all are toys; we all are playing our role as written by the Almighty himself.”
I started to leave; I couldn’t have stayed there any longer. The eerie calmness was killing me. I started my pace towards the exit door when I heard a voice.
“If you ever want to talk to God, you can confess to me. It will help you.”
I didn’t say anything and stormed out of the place. As soon as I stepped out, a cool breeze touched my face and triggered an old memory.
“Arjun, you won’t step outside without wearing your jacket!!!” shouted Shikha at the top of her lungs.
Her nose twitched in anger, and I was never able to keep a straight face looking at her.
“It’s not that cold outside; your husband is not yet old.”
She didn’t say anything and waited for me outside. After locking the house, I stepped out, and the bone-crushing cold killed me. She smirked and cleared her throat.
“Mr. Arjun, what about now?”
I grinned. “This wind is the essence of the cold... I love it,” I managed to say this shivering.
She knew that all this was horse shit and shook her head in anger.
“If I feel cold, I will kiss you and feel the warmth,” I said and kissed her cheek quickly.
She blushed and hugged me tightly.
“Look where you are going!!!!!!”
I was taken aback; I was so lost in my memory that I had forgotten where I was. A bike was about to thrash me if he hadn’t shouted some pretty sweet expletives at me. I could have retaliated and roared back at him, but my cheekbone was still sore from the punch gifted by the bartender.
Without drifting into any more thoughts, I opened the gate to my house and saw some familiar faces standing there in front of me. My friend Pratap and his wife Neha greeted me. Pratap was my closest friend from college. He was now promoted as ACP, and he truly deserved the honor.
Pratap sensed that something was wrong. “Did you fight with somebody?” he asked commandingly. He was not such a hard-ass in the past; I guess being ACP did that to him.
He was six feet five inches tall and had a buffed up body. This was a result of frequent working out. I myself wasn’t too bad in my good days. I was six feet tall and had an athletic body; I used to work out in Gyms with Pratap in those days, but everything changed in an instant. I forgot to care about everything; I had huge eye bags, unkempt hair and uneven beard covering my face. I looked hideous now, but I couldn’t have cared less.
“I asked you something, didn’t I,” he shouted.
Neha placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. She looked uncomfortable. “Eh! A little bit,” I grinned.
Pratap shook his head, he wanted to slap me but controlled his urge.
“Arjun, have they sent back the Rover? I think it was insured, right?”
Neha scolded him and looked at me with a sorry look. I hated the Rover, even the slightest mention of that godforsaken car startled me. “I sold it Pratap and bought a second-hand pulsar,” I said, pointing at the garage door.
He took the keys from my hand and started unlocking the front door of my house. He was breathing fire but didn’t say anything. As soon as we stepped inside, Neha placed a handkerch
ief on her nose. The whole house was smelling like shit. Dirty laundry was piling up, and everything was everywhere. Pratap removed the closest pile of clothes and found a couch underneath it. He motioned his wife to sit there; I just slid down near the center table tired from all the drinking and hurling abuses.
“I don’t have any snacks here. I wish I had got something from the market today.”
Neha shook her head. “Bhaiya, we have come to check on you, not for a feast.”
I gave her a toothy smile, Pratap gave me an ice pack for my bruised cheek and ego. Nobody said anything, and the awkwardness had reached a whole new level when Neha broke the silence.
“You got this award from the CM, right?”
I looked at her. She held an award in her hand. I remembered I had won many of them during my tenure.
“Yeah and Pratap never won any. I was always better than your husband,” I replied in an instant.
Neha smiled and looked at her husband’s frown.
Pratap’s lips turned into a line. “Until you were not.”
As soon as those four words came out of his mouth, he regretted it. “I-I didn’t mean that,” he added.
The smirk and pride on my face vanished in an instant. I still remembered the day, when I lost the second love of my life – my job. It was the start of winters then, I had lost Shikha three weeks back, and I was unstable at the time.
I came inside the Police Station, and everyone was shocked to see me.
“Go back to your home; it is too early for you to join back. I will manage here.” Pratap argued.
I looked at his crisp khaki uniform, he looked sharp with his aviator glasses and a mustache. I, on the other hand, looked shabby, I didn’t even wear my belt – I couldn’t find it. Without Shikha, my life was a mess.
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