It was when Jazmeen was halfway inside the corridor, treading carefully over broken glass, that she saw her attacker again. She froze for an instant. There was no panic, no urge to flee. There seemed no need to do that anymore. She couldn’t see the man’s face, just his two legs lying flat on the floor, protruding knee-down into the hallway. The rest of his body was obscured inside the master bedroom on the right. The unmoving legs meant that the man was at least unconscious. As Jazmeen stepped forward and timidly peeked inside the bedroom, she discovered that her assailant was way more than just unconscious. Even in the dark, there was no hiding his open eyes glazed in death—and his partially missing right brain, seemingly blown off by gunshot.
Jazmeen made a face. ‘How curious, isn’t it,’ she thought, ‘that the colour of blood in the dark is black?’ There were smudges of black all around the dead man. Some of it had sprayed on the bedroom door and wall too.
Jazmeen was relieved. But perturbed. None of this made sense.
She noticed her phone lying on the dresser and walked up to it hurriedly. She changed her mind about dialling 100 at the last minute. Instead, she called the number she usually dialled a dozen times each day. She was surprised when there was no lag as the ring-back came through on her earpiece instantly, unlike how it had been the last several times when she had dialled Arty in Dubai. That surprise transformed to dread when she heard the sound of Arty’s ringtone, the ever-classy ‘Inspector saab, meri chaabi toh ghumao’, emanating from the hidden side of the bed just a few feet away. Arty’s phone was in the room!
As the phone rang and rang, and with each ring viciously destroying her sanity and replacing it with the precipitous foreboding of death, Jazmeen continued to stare at her own shadowy image reflecting back at her from the dresser-mirror. Desperate as she was to quickly run to the other side of bed and face whatever reality lay there, she just couldn’t look away from the horrific sight of herself that she had just seen.
Jazmeen knew instantly what the large patch smearing the front and bottom of her white pyjamas meant. Yes, the colour of blood in the dark was indeed black. Her Sheetal had dissolved into a pall of hideous ink. Jazmeen slowly raised her hand to her belly. The pain that had been afflicting her for days and weeks had vanished, leaving behind a stillness that suddenly felt even more agonising. Jazmeen’s eyes stared at the empty ones reflecting back at her. The wound of loss was too new for them to react just yet. Just then, with a jolt, Jazmeen realised that the hidden phone in the room had stopped ringing.
Haltingly, she pulled away from the dresser and made her way to the other side of the bed—the side where the body of Arjun Rathore lay, with his right hand on the knife in his neck, and his left clutching the gun with which he must have shot and killed the attacker.
There were large patches of black everywhere. Dark and morbid, like this endless night of Jazmeen’s life.
14
A Season of Double-Crossing
Why me?’
A question that seldom gets an answer, especially when it is directed at karma. It doesn’t matter if you ask it just once, or repeat it a million times. Nor is it of consequence whether you search for the reason in the words of the wise, or by sifting through the experiences of life filed away in your head. You can toss the question around in many ways—some whisper it into their pillows as they cry to sleep, others echo it in their minds as they meditate for peace. But the answer remains elusive. It’s quite like staring at a mountain of silence. No one knows how long you must wait for an answer that is so illusory that you start wondering whether you are even asking the right question.
And so, you move on, choosing to push ahead rather than pull back, hoping to stumble upon something new along the way. Wishing for something distracting that will make you forget what had just happened. Forget how unkind karma had been to you. So unkind that it wouldn’t even deign a response to your question. ‘Why me?’
What option did Jazmeen have other than to move on?
After staring at the ceiling of her bedroom for a full week, Jazmeen decided she had done enough wallowing in bed. It was time to push ahead, to look for a diversion in the comforting numbness of daily routine. She was back at the sets of the ‘Bloody Butcher’ choreographer, trying to forget the images of her Arty’s dead face. And the wispy, imaginary one of Sheetal.
‘Why me?’ Jazmeen did try again, this time with her old, reliable confidante. Sareen was working on her face in front of a giant mirror at the same Yash Raj Studios’ makeup room as last time. The puffiness on the cheek, resulting from the attacker’s single punch, and her river of tears since that night, was thankfully manageable. All that was left on the skin was a bruise, and her faithful assistant was masking it with some heavy foundation. A small problem for him to fix, hiding the purple colour under the fake beige. Of course, Sareen had no answer for the bigger gash, still raw and throbbing, seared on Jazmeen’s soul. For that, all Sareen had to offer was commiseration in the form of the dampness around his eyes. He knew that he was the only one in Jazmeen’s life who was aware of this brand new tragedy.
The only other man who also knew of her wretchedness was Karan Singh Rathore, but he had not started to matter to Jazmeen.
Not just yet.
Under Prime Minister Satyendra Saran’s benevolent gaze, Karan Singh Rathore had quickly established himself as the rising star in the Indian Kranti Party. What had also aided that ascent was the compelling mix of sharp political acumen and massive physical appeal—a strikingly handsome face, taut body, impressive height, sunshine smile and ready wit. As a result, the party had made the wise choice of elevating him to several positions of eminence. He was the Information and Broadcasting Minister, and also the party General Secretary and key media spokesperson. Karan had lost no time in making himself omnipresent on the airwaves and the front pages of national newspapers. Not only was he the face of the Government at media events and press conferences, he was also seen on TV news debates each night, looking sizzling in his kurta and jeans, sporting a day-old stubble, sometimes even covering multiple channels in the same hour! He could be as charming in his candour as Shah Rukh Khan, as lethal in his arguments as Ram Jethmalani, as dramatic in his delivery as Amitabh Bachchan, as witty in his repartee as Lalu Prasad Yadav, and as suave in the use of language as Shashi Tharoor. The sheer combination of such skills was enough to demolish anyone who stood in front of him as an adversary. Even Arnab Goswami couldn’t get the better of him. That popularity boded well for his future, for Karan was a man with gigantic ambitions.
However, that future was poised for a dramatic turn in the course of twelve hours the day Arty died. The day had gone from the high of intrigue during the afternoon, to the low of paralysing mortal fear after Jazmeen’s late night call giving him the news.
It was a day that Karan was unlikely to forget for as long as he lived.
The Information and Broadcasting Ministry of India occupies a giant edifice in the heart of New Delhi. Shastri Bhawan is one of those medium-high government buildings that demonstrate the stodgy styling that was popular in the middle of the previous century. This one is painted two shades of pink—ugly dark pink and uglier light pink—though one could argue that the shades are a tad less unsightly than the other ministry buildings surrounding it. Those are usually painted a dirty-yellow. There really are no redeeming features to Shastri Bhawan, except for the heady smell of authority that emanates from it. It is, after all, the seat of Government that controls what is Watched, Read, and Said in India. The government ‘servants’ toiling away inside this building have the power to control Public Opinion, the authority to curb the Internet if they so please, and the clout to ban tits, butts, sex and smoking from films at their whim. Their only skill is in making sure they don’t appear blatantly Orwellian while doing so. After all, it is a democracy.
Whatever be the look of Shastri Bhawan on the outside, the insides of the building are well-kept, almost plush. And they get positively opulent by the time
one makes one’s way to the higher floors, especially the top-floor where the Minister has his office. Its sumptuousness is enough to startle an ordinary visitor, if the person hasn’t had much interaction with the highest echelons of the Indian government.
No such issues perturbed the visitor seated in front of Karan that afternoon. He was used to such authoritative settings. If anything, it was Karan who was intrigued by his guest’s presence and the subliminal message that he was relaying.
‘Mr Lakhani has often wondered why you don’t make more personal visits to Mumbai, Sir. Please know that he and his wife are very keen to host you—in fact, have you as their special guest in the presence of some of their closest friends,’ the visitor said. The man’s name was Kailash Kheterpal, Managing Director, North India, LakTel, the largest telecom company in India and the fourth largest in the world, with subscribers across South and South East Asia, Africa and the Middle East, Russia and Eastern Europe. LakTel was part of the Lakhani Group Worldwide, the largest conglomerate in India. The company, valued at US $188 billion as per the latest Forbes list, was owned by the aforementioned Mr Lakhani—Romesh Dharampal Lakhani—fifty-two years of age and the sixth richest man in the world.
To anyone not in the know, it might have sounded absurd that Kailash Kheterpal would be here to invite Karan Singh Rathore for a meal with Romesh Lakhani in Mumbai. After all, Kheterpal was a mere regional MD of a member-company within the giant multinational labyrinth—‘small-fry’ in Lakhani’s mammoth universe. But Karan knew that Kheterpal was no small-fry. He knew that the man’s business title was merely a façade. Kheterpal was, in fact, Lakhani’s chief wheeler-dealer and right-hand man, who was usually sent out only for the most delicate negotiations on behalf of the big man himself.
Kheterpal was also the man that Romesh Lakhani used when it came to relaying his most private and confidential messages to someone important.
‘Now, why would Romesh Lakhani want to meet me personally? And on his turf? After all, Right-dot-Comm is already a settled deal, so what’s this new angle?’ Karan didn’t ask the questions swirling in his head aloud. He just smiled. But the smile did betray his intrigue.
‘So, when should I tell Mrs and Mr Lakhani that you’ll be gracing their humble abode for dinner?’ Kheterpal asked, with his right eyebrow raised. The ‘humble abode’ of the Lakhanis was a thirty-three storey building called Xanadu situated in the heart of South Mumbai, the most expensive personal residence in the world—a home even the Sultan of Brunei might envy.
‘If Vanita Bhabhiji is so insistent, I must hit the road to Mumbai very soon,’ Karan said. ‘It has been weeks since I’ve travelled out of Delhi anyway.’
Kheterpal smiled. ‘Well, sometimes in order to complete an important journey in Delhi, one must take the road that goes via Mumbai.’
Karan tilted his head to observe his guest and then slowly, knowingly, nodded in agreement.
‘Mr Lakhani is a fine fellow-traveller, Sir. Remember, he doesn’t pick his companions lightly.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Karan replied.
Kheterpal’s words may have sounded like a puzzle, but his message was quite clear—and Karan had been quick to comprehend it. This was not merely a polite dinner invitation being extended. Karan was being summoned to Mumbai for an audience with the richest man in India. The man who had the power and resources to make kings out of nobodies. And, for some reason, he had suddenly seemed interested in Karan.
‘Mr Lakhani may not have met you as yet, but he has been observing you from afar. He has been very impressed with your work on Right-dot-Comm. With the way you conceived the program, the way you have steered it, and how you have been marketing it. You have succeeded in making a colossus out of thin air! It is a most remarkable achievement. Quite like what Mr Lakhani has done in his life. He sees visions of himself in you—the same fire, the same ambition. He thinks you can go far…’ the visitor said kindly. He paused for a response.
‘I am very flattered to know that he feels that way about me.’
Kheterpal smiled and nodded.
‘Do you think you can go far, Sir?’ Kheterpal then asked. His tone was very polite.
Karan was caught slightly offguard by the man’s odd question.
‘Of course, I can!’ he said, almost defiantly. ‘Right-dot-Comm is just the start of what I want to do in Delhi. I have to go far. I will go very far.’
Kheterpal’s right eyebrow perked up. Karan’s answer was exactly what he had flown 1,400 kilometres from Mumbai to Shastri Bhawan to hear. His lips broke into an understanding smile, and he said, ‘Then let’s see how Mr Lakhani can help you go where you wish to, Sir. In fact, I would even say—why not let Mr Lakhani take you…all the way? To your intended destination…?’
It took a few seconds for the full impact of Kheterpal’s words to sink into Karan’s mind.
‘All the way… to your intended destination!’ The richest man in the country, the kingmaker, the man who had the power to buy every Indian several times over, was offering Karan an opportunity to think big. Very big.
He was keen to help Karan go all the way. That could only mean one thing.
The Prime Ministership.
The meeting ended five minutes later with Karan agreeing to ‘drop by’ Mumbai next week. Karan did not discuss the contents of that meeting with anyone, not even his mother. He needed time to mull over what had just happened. A political coup against Satyendra Saran needed much more thought before even a whiff of it could escape the sealed confines of his head. So, Karan sat in his office for several hours, alone, revelling in intrigued anticipation. In fact, so intrigued was he that he had forgotten about the event unfolding in Mumbai that same night, an event that Karan himself had set rolling a couple of weeks ago. The spectacular failure of which was about to replace intrigue with mortal fear.
It was 12:43 AM when the jangle of his phone woke Karan up with a start.
Karan had never felt mortal fear of the kind he did when he got the phone call from Jazmeen the night his brother died. As soon as he heard her voice on the line, he knew something had gone terribly wrong.
‘Arty’s dead. Murdered,’ Jazmeen said, her voice strangely flat.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked. It was a strange question, but the gravity of it wouldn’t dawn on Jazmeen until months later.
‘No, his killer is here too. He is also… his brain is on the floor.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jazmeen said, trying to fill the awkward silence that had suddenly consumed the conversation. She presumed that it was the silence of shock and surprise on the other side. She didn’t know that it was the quietness of surgical planning and quick thinking.
‘Listen, don’t disturb anything. Touch nothing. Just pick up your purse and phone and leave. Can you go someplace for a few days? A hotel?’
Jazmeen nodded instead of speaking.
‘Go there. Lie low.’
‘OK, but…?’
‘Don’t worry about the rest. I’m coming right now. I will fix everything. There can be no scandal.’
‘But…?’
‘This is not your problem. Just fucking leave, OK?’
‘OK,’ Jazmeen said, hesitantly.
Karan sighed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, ‘Are you OK? Any injuries on you? I hope you don’t have to go to a doctor or something?’
‘No, there’s no rush now,’ she said. She told him about the loss of Sheetal. She felt she needed to. She did so plainly. The news was received with matching solemnity. No condolences were offered.
‘Look, do as I say. I will come to see you in a couple of hours. OK?’
Mortal fear. Yes, that’s what Karan felt as he ended the call. He wondered how he was going to break the gut-wrenchingly terrible news to his mother. Her most cherished son was dead.
After sweating for no more than a minute, Karan sprung out of bed and dialled a number. He wanted his private plane to be ready to fly to Mu
mbai as soon as possible.
Manjrekar had been having a relatively quiet evening with his daughter when his phone rang. He looked at Roshni once as he reached for the phone. He usually did that often just to make sure that the child was resting comfortably. Her eyes were on the television. There was a reality talent show on in which gifted kids of her age were demonstrating mindboggling feats of dance and acrobatics in front of over-excited adult judges. Manjrekar was suddenly stung by the inappropriateness of what was playing in front of his broken child. Roshni’s own eyes were impassive, but unblinking and alert. As if they were watching scenes of normal life in a foreign land—fascinating to see, yet too alien to matter in reality.
Manjrekar turned away and pressed the Call button on his phone. He had been expecting this call.
‘Hello, Suresh!’
‘Good evening, Sir! Sorry to disturb you so late, but I only just found time now to return your call. I hope you don’t mind. It has been very busy out here, Sir,’ said Manjrekar’s one-time assistant. Suresh had stayed on with the Dadar Police Station after Manjrekar’s transfer.
‘That’s OK, Suresh, I understand.’
‘Thank you, Sir. I am off-duty now. What was the task that you wanted me to look into?’
The Task. Yes, Manjrekar had debated that in his mind ever since his return from Delhi almost a week ago. The Training Camp there had been uneventful in itself, and had it not been for an accidental encounter with S Ahmed Rizvi, Manjrekar would have instantly forgotten about Delhi the moment he boarded the Mumbai Rajdhani Express for his journey back home. The young man’s tale of his dreadful boyhood at Innocent Dreams orphanage had been extremely poignant, something that no one in his audience that afternoon was going to forget in a hurry. In that real-life tale of triumph over adversity, there were certain specific elements that had piqued Manjrekar’s interest. Even days later, he had not been able to put them out of his head. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he had called Suresh that morning and asked him to speak with him once he was off-duty.
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