Pretty Vile Girl

by Rickie Khosla

  Arty shook his head. He plonked himself on the expensive hotel chaise and clutched his head. Jazmeen came and parked herself next to him, snuggling deliberately under his shoulder. Momentarily, he relented as well, and swallowed her under his left arm in a tight clutch.

  They were quiet for a long while.

  ‘You want to do this for Ma.’

  Jazmeen didn’t say a word.

  ‘Remember, you are not doing it for me,’ he added.

  This time, Jazmeen reacted, even though it was just a tremble of her body. She wasn’t sure if Arty even noticed.

  Selling the idea to his brother had been easy; Arty made a call to Karan the same day, and left for Gorakhpur the very next morning. He also left the act of persuading Ma to go with the plan for Karan to do, he simply didn’t have the inclination to do so himself.

  Ultimately, even the Universe had aligned with the plan in a very convenient way. Subhadra Laxmi Rathore’s 60th birthday was only two weeks away. Just days before the election. It provided the Rathores a perfect opportunity to throw a glitzy event—and invite big names to attend it. It was touted as a non-political celebration, where one could cast aside political differences for just one evening. An invitation to Amrit Singh Yadav was graciously extended, and just as graciously accepted. After all, who was going to turn down a great photo-opportunity of political rivals behaving with such maturity in public? More importantly, of course, who was going to turn down the opportunity to rub shoulders with a hot Mumbai celebrity visiting Gorakhpur? It wasn’t every day that one got a chance to see Film Star Jazmeen do a live performance in their small town.

  Amrit Singh Yadav was certainly not going to miss out on that opportunity!

  ‘What was it that your mother told you when you had visited last time? “What use is your mistress to me?”’ Jazmeen said jokingly, as she and Arty arrived at the farmhouse in Gorakhpur a day before the gala event.

  The palatial Rathore home was the venue of the birthday party the next day. The glitzy affair was graced by everyone who mattered in Gorakhpur, and many others who mattered in the rest of Uttar Pradesh. Some political and corporate heavyweights dropped by from Delhi, too. Muscle-power mingled with money-power, and the heady mix resulted in a free-flow of booze, crude jokes and raucous merry-making.

  Amrit Singh Yadav arrived minus his wife but with his son who looked fourteen or fifteen. After Subhadra’s massive birthday cake—specially flown in from Wenger’s in New Delhi—had been cut and apportioned among the guests, Yadav and his son were offered an opportunity by Karan Rathore to meet the star from Mumbai privately. Both jumped at it.

  Film star Jazmeen was being accommodated in one of the bungalow’s guest suites. The room was brightly lit with extra, temporary lighting, and resembled the makeup section at a film studio. There were three open suitcases lying on the floor, with clothes and shoes strewn about as if the place had just seen a stampede of fashion models. A giant make-shift dressing table stood by the wall, laden with all kinds of instruments related to feminine beautification.

  Yadav entered the room confidently, son in tow. Jazmeen stood to receive her two star-struck visitors. The father’s eyes seemed large with excitement but his demeanour was polite and respectful, as if he was making an extra effort to contain his emotions in front of his son. The boy’s disposition matched his father.

  ‘I have been hearing so much about you from Karanji,’ Jazmeen said, as she took Yadav’s hand and held it tightly. She was wearing her dance costume already—a sequined blouse, snug, and cut dangerously close to the edges of her nipples, with a form-fitting matching skirt that started six inches below her navel and ended about the same distance above her knees. The midriff was long and taut, the legs even more so. Her hair was tied up into a wig, and her assistant was quietly embellishing it with shiny specks of golden nuggets. She wasn’t wearing any jewellery. The most expensive items on her were her shoes, six inches high and imported. They made her tower over the Yadavs.

  ‘I came to meet you because my boy here insisted,’ Yadav said, pointing to his accomplice with his eyes. ‘Say Hello to Didi, Varun!’ he commanded his son, who went tomato red.

  ‘Such a handsome boy,’ she said, as she sized up the young man who was finding it impossible to meet her gaze. Then, turning back at the father, she added, ‘He takes after you.’

  Yadav smiled.

  ‘You’ve come alone? You didn’t bring your Mrs, Amritji?’

  ‘She…errm…she likes to tuck in early,’ the man sputtered. ‘Anyway, these big parties are not really her thing!’

  ‘Oh, what a pity! Anyway, come, sit with me for a while. Sareen, can you organise some drinks for our visitors? What will you have, Sir? Vodka ya whisky?’ she asked, as she plonked herself on the sofa, allowing her skirt to ride up another two inches away from the knees. It was interesting to note the directions in which the men’s eyes lurched. The young man’s went for her breasts as they slowly swivelled at her movements, his father’s, on the other hand, didn’t leave her crotch for most of the forty-five minutes they stayed in the room.

  Much of the discussions revolved around Bollywood and Gorakhpur’s sparkling history. Later, after the Yadavs had consumed two single malts and two Bacardi Breezers between them, it was time to leave.

  ‘You must come and visit us in Gorakhpur again,’ Yadav said. ‘Maybe when I throw a party after I win the election?’ he added cheekily.

  ‘See, Amritji,’ Jazmeen said in a whisper, stepping closer to the man as if she was about to tell him a secret, ‘I’m an artist. And what does an artist seek?’

  Yadav’s lips tried to mumble a suitable response. No, ‘money’ didn’t seem like the appropriate thing to say, he concluded, so he kept mum.

  ‘Love, Amritji, love! We just long to see love in our fans’ eyes. This time, it was the love that the Rathores bestowed on me that brought me here. Who knows, it might be someone else’s love next time? You get what I am saying na, Amritji?’

  ‘Absolutely, Jazmeenji!’ he said, nodding. ‘I really wish you were staying longer in Gorakhpur.’

  ‘I am leaving tomorrow morning, Amritji. But I do feel it’s going to be a long night tonight.’

  The two continued to stand close, uncomfortably close as far as the young man watching them was concerned. He coughed to draw attention.

  ‘I shall beg your leave now, Jazmeenji,’ Yadav said finally. ‘It is time for your performance. Maybe I will see you again before I leave tonight?’

  ‘I would like that, Amritji!’

  ‘Don’t forget what I said about performing at my victory party!’ he added.

  ‘Sitting so far away in Mumbai, how will I even find out about your win? I don’t read newspapers, na, Amritji!’ she said laughing, the tinkling sound making both father and son swoon in a similar fashion.

  ‘So give me your number, Madam, I will call you personally!’ the man said, immediately taking his BlackBerry from his pant pocket.

  Jazmeen laughed again. A missed call was made from her disposable phone and the number was saved.

  ‘I had a great time with you, Jazmeenji. I wish I…errm…I mean we, could have stayed longer,’ Yadav said with a tinge of regret in his voice.

  ‘Oh, you are talking as if your time on Earth has ended, Amritji! The night has only just begun!’

  ‘What do you say to people who say that you are no more than a flash in the pan, Jazmeen?’ asked Charan Grover.

  ‘The people who say that had better cover their eyes, because this flash is going to be long and blinding. You know, like a nuclear explosion. Actually, it’s a good idea for those people to keep their eyes permanently closed.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because that way, they will never be able to see themselves in a mirror. To see just how small and pathetic they themselves are!’

  Charan Grover smiled.

  ‘You have a habit of cutting people down to size. No matter who it is that you are facing, you just never get faz
ed!’

  ‘Not just cut them down to size, I simply finish them off. Didn’t I tell you a few minutes ago that I like to kill people?’

  Charan laughed. This time, Jazmeen joined him too.

  Jazmeen’s live performance at the Subhadra Laxmi Rathore birthday party was spectacular. Its success could be gauged by the mere fact that Subhadra herself had to retire to her quarters, given the unceasing cacophony of hooting and whistling by the raucous attendees. Several times, Jazmeen even descended from the stage and danced around the Rathore brothers. Twice she came by Amrit Singh Yadav—and his son, too.

  By the time the party ended, it was past 1 AM. The departures of the guests were swift. Many were too horny to stay back for extended goodbyes, making a quick beeline home so they could wake up their wives and mistresses. The rest were too drunk. Amrit Singh Yadav and Karan Rathore parted civilly, just as they had behaved with each other all evening. Sadly for Yadav’s searching eyes, Jazmeen was nowhere to be seen.

  Jazmeen was back at the farmhouse past 2 AM. Arty was not with her.

  ‘Well, we tried,’ he said to her on the phone. ‘He didn’t bite. There is nothing more we can do. Go to sleep.’

  Jazmeen nodded her response that Arty couldn’t see. He was right. There was nothing more that could be done. She had played a gamble. And it hadn’t paid off.

  After a long evening, sleep was easy to come by. Despite the disappointment of having failed to help her lover and his family the only way she knew how, Jazmeen’s dreams were happy, vivid and colourful. All of them featured Arty. In one, he was serenading her on the piano, like the old Hindi film heroes of black-and-white movies, with his fingers gliding absurdly on the shiny piano keys, producing magical musical notes. Jazmeen smiled in her sleep. Then, the song Arty was singing was over, and he got up to come over to kiss her. Strangely, though, the piano kept playing on its own. Jazmeen’s sleeping face furrowed at the silliness of it. She woke up with a start.

  Her phone was ringing. It was the familiar piano tune of ‘Lag ja gale’. The flashing number was the one she wanted to see. She pressed the green button.

  ‘I was waiting for your call…’ she said.

  There was a pause.

  She told him the address.

  Pause.

  ‘Because there’s no one here. No one will know. And no one will see.’

  Pause.

  ‘Oh, you have no idea the things I am going to do to you!’

  Tinkling laughter.

  After Jazmeen hung up the call with Amrit Singh Yadav, she called a number on her speed dial.

  Three days after Subhadra Laxmi Rathore’s gala, Amrit Singh Yadav’s body was discovered in an abandoned field about seventy-five kilometres outside Gorakhpur. It was difficult for even his wife and son to identify the body because its skin had been mostly eaten away by maggots and birds of prey. And also because, bizarrely, the man’s thick mane of dyed jet black hair had been shorn off completely.

  The Gorakhpur constituency election was countermanded and a fresh date—three months later—was announced. The opposition party collapsed into factionalised disarray due to the sudden loss of their star, but managed to cobble together some semblance of unity when they picked Yadav’s widow as their consensus candidate. However, by the time the election took place, any sympathy wave there may have existed for the Yadavs had already disappeared. The inexperienced woman didn’t stand a chance against the mighty Rathore family.

  Karan Singh Rathore won the Gorakhpur parliamentary constituency by-election with a thumping majority of over 2,87,000 votes. It was his second consecutive election win from his Lok Sabha seat.

  Subhadra Laxmi Rathore was alone with her elder son when the election result flashed on TV. The son was beaming ear to ear, but the mother looked sullen. To her, this was nothing but a pyrrhic victory.

  ‘But this is what we wanted, Ma!’ Karan reminded her.

  ‘Maybe. But we have allowed a prostitute to place her filthy hands upon us. It is just a matter of time before those hands are at our throats. What are you going to do about that?’

  The son glared at his mother for ruining such a joyous moment.

  ‘I want this problem to go away. Before she ruins Arty’s life any further. Before the secret of ours that she carries in her bosom damages your chances for Prime Ministership. Before she ruins our family name.’

  The man looked away from his mother and closed his eyes. He said nothing for several minutes. Then, his mother’s words pounded his ears again.

  ‘Are you going to make this problem go away, son?’

  Karan Singh Rathore nodded. His eyes were still closed.

  ‘What about the future, Jazmeen?’ asked Charan Grover. ‘Where do you see yourself in five years, ten years?’

  Jazmeen smiled. She had never learned how to answer such questions. After all, five years ago, she could never have imagined that she would be sitting for an interview on national television. Who knew what she was going to be up to five years hence?

  ‘Probably making someone’s life miserable. Who knows, Charan! In fact, I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow.’

  ‘Ha, OK—let’s start there, then! I’m sure you must know what your day looks like tomorrow!’

  ‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow I have a doctor’s appointment!’ she thought, as her heart raced in anticipation.

  ‘Tomorrow, I’ll simply be recovering from this interview with a bottle of vodka!’ she said smiling, making her host laugh.

  ‘But seriously, Jazmeen, you must want to settle down with a man, plan a future, have kids…no? Are those not things in your five- or ten-year plans?’

  ‘More like a nine-month plan. A baby. A baby! I’m having Arty’s baby!’ she thought, and her body quivered imperceptibly with excitement.

  ‘Well, I first need to find a man who has balls as strong as mine, don’t I?’ she said. Then, with pretend-sheepishness, she added, ‘Oops! Can we use that word on TV?’

  Charan waved off her drama with his hand. It was way too late to pretend that this was a child-friendly TV interview.

  ‘But finding someone like that has got to be like looking for a needle in a haystack! It’s like learning…art. Very difficult!’ Charan said jokingly.

  ‘Difficult, yes, but not impossible—right?’ Then, looking straight at the camera, she said, ‘I know such a man exists out there. Made just for me. I just have to find him. And when I find him, I’m never going to let him go!’

  Arty watched his woman’s interview with pride. He was glad that he had cajoled Charan Grover to feature Jazmeen on his show, without her knowing that he had anything to do with it.

  That last line that Jazmeen had spoken on national television had made him blush, almost as much as the secret news that she had whispered into his ear that morning.

  Yes, Arty was never going to let go of her—and their child—for as long as he lived.

  But karma, that entity that Jazmeen had no patience for, had other plans.

  13

  Returned From Heaven’s Door

  Eight months ago

  It may quite unimaginatively be called 16th Road, Bandra, but there are plenty of good things going for it. It is tree-lined, paved to perfection, neatly footpathed, and garbage-free. The traffic is usually sparse, but the cars one does get to see on it are posh—much like its residents. The Bandra Police Station is just half a kilometre away. And every large and small building has a security guard (or five) on sentry duty outside. Then, there are the well-behaved stray dogs that keep their eyes, noses and vocal chords open and ready at all times, making even petty crime a rarity in this part of the megapolis. All in all, 16th Road, Bandra is a good place to call home.

  A tough street, one could say, for a hired assassin who was targeting a kill there. But then, the man who had set his eyes on the resident of the penthouse at Naveli Apartments was no ordinary hired assassin. He was among the best of his breed. His success rate was 100%.

  He had been h
ired by a shadowy master only two weeks ago. He knew nothing about the person behind the scenes because the instructions had come cloaked in at least three layers of secrecy. That made him almost certain that the job was political. Especially because the money was fantastic—the kind that only politically-motivated killings pay. Anyway, it was not his style to overthink about the ‘who’ and the ‘why’. He was only interested in the ‘how’ and the ‘when’. He had been in the business of getting rid of people for far too long to let irrelevant details bother him much.

  The assassin knew that the simplest way to sneak inside the heavily fortified bunker-like homes of the super-rich was through the weakest chink in their security. Their Security. He had already identified it at Naveli Apartments—the scrawny Chand Bahadur, a 24-year-old security guard from Nepal. The resemblance between the two men had been a stroke of good fortune—except for their 10 year age difference, and the sparse hair on the Nepalese’s face, there really wasn’t much separating them. The young fellow had been working in the building for four months. Perfect, thought the assassin. Four months meant that the boy knew all about the building, but was yet to develop any loyalties for the job or the folks who lived there. Being an outsider to Mumbai was an advantage too. It meant that he had no roots in the city. All it had taken was a princely sum of one lakh for Bahadur to quickly shed his morals and uniform, and take the first train out of Mumbai in search of a new life and identity in some other metro.

  Yes, it had been ridiculously easy for the assassin to assume his place in the posh building on 16th Road, Bandra.

  The building that Jazmeen called home.

  ‘May we sit with you, Sir?’ the young man asked politely. He seemed to be representing the four fresh-faced men standing in front of Babu Ram Manjrekar holding food trays in their hands. Manjrekar’s eyes dropped from the young man’s face to the tiny black name-tag pinned above his khakhi shirt pocket. It read ‘S Ahmed Rizvi’. Manjrekar looked up again to the innocent-looking face that seemed to be trying to pass off as an adult with the aid of a barely-there moustache. The babyface was, however, belied by a deep voice and a very tall body, at least 6’5 inches, gangly because of its unusual height. The young man was smiling, as were the three friends with him.