The paneer patty!
That was the thought that immediately sprung in Satyendra Saran’s mind when he felt the bile rise up slowly from his stomach. With every millimetre that the ruinous acid rose up the food pipe, he lost a shade of pink on his face. Within ten minutes, Saran was too sick to continue sitting and pretending that he was admiring Jazmeen’s busty performance. Any other time, it might have raised his pulse (and maybe even other parts of his body)—but not right now. All he wanted to do right that minute was to throw up.
He turned his head towards his PA who was sitting next to him. The bald man had a gleeful smile on his face, clearly intoxicated by the sights on the stage. Saran snapped the man out of his horny reverie. ‘I’m feeling ill. We will leave now,’ he whispered. The next second, Saran stood up, immediately followed by his surprised PA. And then, in quick succession, Karan and Chandrachur Singh were on their feet too. All the four men had been seated in the centre of the front row.
The Prime Minister’s sudden move was noticed by everyone—including Jazmeen who missed a step in the middle of an intricate dance move. She slowly came to a standstill. The music continued to play full-blast, but the background dancers—confused—quickly reduced their enthusiasm down to lethargic movements of butts and busts. No one had given them a signal to stop yet. The scene on stage had suddenly transformed from a high-energy, sensual carnival of dance into something resembling a nukkad Ramleela, where amateur actors always look a bit unsure of what they are supposed to do. Eventually, the music stopped too, bringing all activity on stage to a halt. The lights of the hall lit up. The audience started to slowly rise to their feet.
The entire sequence of events had taken around two minutes.
Saran moved a step forward and gave a quick Namaste to Jazmeen, who responded in kind, but with a bewildered expression. The PM bid the audience goodbye by making a quick 180-degrees swirl, his hands still folded. Then, he briskly walked to the exit, his coterie immediately falling in step behind him. Saran’s SPG men were stationed at the exit door, and they were by their master’s side in no time. The VVIPs exited the auditorium together, leaving behind a heavy buzz of conjecture.
‘Did she give him a heart attack?’ someone asked.
‘I think he must have really hated Jazmeen’s suggestive dance!’ concluded another.
The media enclosure was in a frenzy too, considering they were as ignorant about what had just happened as everyone else. The media hates to be taken by surprise.
‘Did you capture all that?’ Ruby Verghese asked her cameraman. He nodded. She was already calling the number of the person who had just phoned her minutes ago. She wanted to know what was going on backstage.
Backstage, Saran was accosted by a concerned Jazmeen who had sped off the stage to check in on him.
‘What happened, Sir?’ she asked, touching Saran’s arm with concern. Her breathing was still heavy from the strenuous dancing. Sweat glowed over her face, neck and chest. Saran noticed several rivulets pouring into the tight passage between her breasts. Much of the breasts themselves rested atop the tiny choli. The worried dancer made no attempt to make herself modest in front of the most important man in the country.
‘I just have terrible nausea all of a sudden. I feel like I’m going to vomit,’ the white-faced man complained, trying hard not to sway his gaze any place other than Jazmeen’s eyes.
‘Oh my God, you had me so worried! Come, come to my room and rest for a bit,’ she said, now taking his hand in hers.
‘No, Jazmeen, I’ll leave now. I’ll be home in no time.’
‘Saran Sir, a quick 10–15-minute rest will do you good. If you feel like vomiting, better use the basin in my washroom than the floor of your car, na?’
The man smiled despite his discomfort. Now even his stomach had started growling dangerously. That made the decision for him.
Saran’s PA tried to say something, but the PM’s wrist flick shut him up. The entourage was now headed to Jazmeen’s makeup room. The large, white door with the big ‘4’ was opened by Saran’s SPG, who did a quick visual sweep of the room and then stepped outside. Jazmeen entered the room first, followed by Saran, his PA, Karan, Chandrachur Singh, and a male nurse who was a part of the PM’s convoy and had just come running from the ambulance. The door was closed behind them.
Obviously, no one had noticed the figure hiding in the shadows of the room’s walk-in closet yet.
17
The Endgame – Part II
The events unfolding at Siri Fort today had their roots in this phone call Jazmeen had received a month ago.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello… is that Jazmeen, the film actress?’
‘Yes, speaking. Who’s calling?’
‘Madam, my name is Babu Ram Manjrekar.’
‘Yes? How did you get this number? I’m sorry, this is a private number and I don’t entertain any fan calls here. Please reach out to me on my official Facebook fanpage. I read all fan comments there.’
‘Madam, I’m not a fan.’
‘Then what is this about?’
‘Madam, I need to discuss a very important matter with you. Can I have a private meeting?’
‘Look, Babuji… or Ramji… or whatever you said your name was, I am a very busy person. I can’t agree to meet just anyone who calls me!’
‘But this is very important, Madam.’
‘It may very well be, but I still can’t meet you. And please don’t call this number again to harass me, or I will report this call to the police.’
‘Trust me, Madam, you don’t want to report this to the police.’
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘Just a short meeting, Madam, nothing more I ask.’
‘But why the hell will I want to meet you? I don’t even know you!’
‘But I know you, Madam. And I know a certain Jasmine Bhatia. Do you remember her? I am sure you remember what you did to her. And to a few others.’
Jazmeen was silent
‘So, Madam, when can we meet?’
‘Didn’t I tell you, Sir, that people in Delhi should eat only kachoriyaan and samosay? These patties and cakes don’t suit you people!’ Jazmeen joked.
‘Maybe it happened because I haven’t eaten anything since morning,’ Saran lamented. He had rushed to the washroom the moment he entered Jazmeen’s makeup room. Even through the closed washroom door, everyone present had heard the PM vomit loudly for around five minutes, followed by dry retching for another ten. When Saran emerged outside again, he had looked much better. The nurse had offered him a tablet, but he declined it and dismissed the chap back to the ambulance.
‘I feel OK now,’ he said.
After a few minutes of polite small talk, it was time for Chandrachur Singh to again start worrying about the remainder of the awards ceremony. He mumbled something about the PM returning to the hall and presenting the prizes.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Karan admonished Singh. Then, looking at Saran he said, ‘Sir, I’d suggest that you return to 7 RCR now.’
Saran concurred with a quick nod.
‘Then I need to return to the stage and break the news to the audience,’ said Singh. His face was crestfallen.
‘How about I officiate the remainder of the evening?’ Karan offered.
Chandrachur Singh’s face lit up immediately. ‘I think that’s a splendid idea!’ he said excitedly. Then suddenly remembering that it would be proper if they first got the PM’s blessing to do so, he turned to Saran.
‘Yes, yes, go ahead. I’ll just go home and retire for the rest of the day,’ Saran said. He looked at his PA and added, ‘Get the car ready. We’ll leave in a few minutes.’
Karan looked at Singh. ‘Can you go on stage and calm down the audience and make everyone settle in their seats? The media will need a statement too. I’ll join you out there as soon as I see the PM off,’ he said.
Within seconds, Singh and Saran’s PA had left the room.
Satyendra
Saran was now alone with Jazmeen and Karan. With Manjrekar mere feet away on the other side of the closet door, his hand resting on his service pistol and his ears ready for the signal.
That signal came a minute later when there was a knock on the makeup room door.
‘That must be my assistant, Sareen,’ Jazmeen said. ‘Come in!’ The door opened briefly to let the thin, gangly man in. Saran’s two SPG bodyguards waiting just outside swept a quick glance inside the room to make sure their quarry was fine. Reassured, they resumed their positions.
Sareen entered the room and quietly locked the door after him.
The quorum was complete.
‘Fuck! When do you think you’ll be ready?’ Ruby admonished her cameraman through gritted teeth. They were inside the OB van parked about twenty feet away from Gate No 1. Ruby was annoyed that Gajanand had still not been able to loop the spycam footage coming from Jazmeen’s room to the channel’s live broadcast. And now she was sure the PM was about to leave the premises soon.
‘Fifteen bloody minutes of footage—lost!’ she said. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!!’
Gaj looked pissed too, not quite being able to figure out why the wireless signal from the remote camera wasn’t connecting with the OB receiver. Added to that was the pressure of the boss peering over his shoulder and chiding him every two seconds. He decided to reboot the system one last time. This was going to be the last attempt.
Presently, a visual flickered on the monitor. It looked grainy in the beginning but it soon cleared up. Ruby and Gaj looked at the footage and blinked a few times, as if unsure of what they were seeing. They turned to look at each other once, and then shot their eyes back at the screen.
‘No sound?’ Ruby asked, suddenly breathing heavily. Gaj fiddled with a few knobs hurriedly, but the continuous static didn’t clear. They both continued to stare at the silent visuals they were seeing for a few more seconds.
‘Never mind! Can you bring this up now? Live?’ she ordered.
Gaj nodded promptly. ‘It’s live… now!’ he declared triumphantly as his smashed his forefinger on a large green button.
‘Holy fuck! This is beyond gold!’ Ruby whispered. ‘Quick, fix me up for a side-by-side. Let me try to explain to the nation what I think is going on in there!’
Gaj quickly fitted a lapel microphone and an earpiece on the reporter. Within thirty seconds, the practiced duo was ready for live reporting.
‘This is Ruby Verghese reporting exclusively with some sensational breaking news from Siri Fort, New Delhi. The Prime Minister of India has just been taken hostage by a gunman!’
Manjrekar looked at his watch again. It said 6:59. He had to leave in the next 10–15 minutes if he had any hope of making it to 16th Street in Bandra by 8 PM. He didn’t want to show up late, but he knew that the evening traffic was going to be a killer.
‘She will just have to wait for me. She has no choice,’ he reassured himself, but that didn’t make him any less fidgety.
Manjrekar and his wife were in Worli, waiting at the swanky clinic of Dr Umesh Ojha, the renowned neurologist. They had been referred to him by the elderly surgeon at BMC Hospital at Vikhroli, who had been treating their comatose daughter for months. Dr Ojha was running clinical trials for a revolutionary new technique of rejuvenating damaged portions of the spinal column. There was a possibility that Roshni could be a good candidate to be included in his study, given her young age and type of injury. Dr Ojha had been reviewing Roshni’s files and had summoned the parents for a consultation at 5 PM ‘sharp’. Manjrekar and Archana had been waiting patiently for almost two hours for the specialist to see them.
Archana noticed her husband’s restlessness. ‘Do you have to be someplace else?’ she asked quietly. Manjrekar didn’t respond, but he stopped the involuntary shaking of his right leg.
Presently, the doctor arrived like a whoosh of air. He dove into the subject without useless small talk. He knew from experience that parents of sick children had no patience for it.
‘Your daughter’s case looks interesting, though obviously, no promises can be made as to whether there will even be an improvement,’ Dr Ojha said.
‘So, what happens next?’ Archana asked in her emotionless style.
‘Next, we don’t disturb her coma, but we start mapping the entire damage to her spinal cord and grade the injuries before we decide where to focus our energies. The entire process could take a few months.’
‘Months?’ she asked. Manjrekar understood what his wife wanted to ask.
‘What about expenses, Sir?’ he asked.
‘I would say around fifty to seventy lakhs. Would you be able to manage that kind of money?’ the doctor asked point-blank.
‘Yes, we will. I’m working something out,’ Manjrekar replied. Archana tensed hearing the confidence in her husband’s voice.
Her face was still ashen when they stepped out of the building complex. She kept waiting silently for Manjrekar to provide her some more information on where from they were going to manage when they barely had 25,000 in their bank account. They had already sold most of the land both their families owned back in the village.
When her husband did speak, it was about something else. ‘You go back to the hospital. I have something I need to take care of,’ he said, and spun off.
It was almost 9 PM by the time Manjrekar reached Bandra. Jazmeen opened the door herself. She looked very beautiful, even better in person than she did in the movies. They sat down in her plush drawing room. She said that she had been waiting for him for over an hour. Manjrekar apologised for his delay.
‘That’s OK. I would have waited for you for as long as it took. After all, what choice did I have?’ she said. Her face was smiling, but Manjrekar’s sharp police instincts could tell that she was fidgety with nervousness.
He had noticed that her right leg was shaking involuntarily.
Despite being the puppet-master behind the drama now unfolding in front of the entire world, Jazmeen was still taken aback when Babu Ram Manjrekar suddenly emerged from the walk-in closet with a gun in his hand. Saran, who had just started to rise from the sofa in preparation to exit the premises, was suspended halfway between seated and standing positions. His jaw dropped in surprise.
‘Sit down, Prime Minister Saahab,’ Manjrekar commanded curtly. Saran slowly obeyed the man in the police uniform, staring intently at the gun in the intruder’s hand. Karan and Sareen who were standing just steps behind the PM were gestured by Manjrekar to take the vacant chairs next to the wall on the far side. Jazmeen was already sitting on the three-seater sofa, where the PM also settled back obediently. Manjrekar stayed put next to the closet door that he had closed behind him.
The hostages appraised the man holding the small, black handgun. He looked reasonably tall because of his lean but solid frame, large forehead, mainly on account of the hairline that had started to recede, an average face strewn with a few faint pockmarks. He had tired eyes. The lips were pursed, unfriendly, seeming like they didn’t often curve into a smile. The man’s uniform didn’t look fake. The Maharashtra Police insignia on the shoulders and the belt buckle were unmistakable to those familiar with them. The hand that held the gun was firm. Taut, professional arm, lined with muscle. And confidence.
Saran knew immediately that the man meant business. After a full three minutes during which nothing transpired except every participant taking stock of the situation, it was time for the leader of the nation to take charge of proceedings.
‘Look,’ Saran said calmly, ‘there is no need to point the pistol at us. There is a lady here, at least show her some respect. Put your pistol away and tell us what you want.’ He sounded firm yet polite.
Saran’s comment made Manjrekar snigger. ‘Tell you what you want? Because you want to hear what the people of your country actually want? I thought our dear Prime Minister Satyendra Saran already had his finger on the pulse of the nation. Well, at least that’s what the media would like us to believe!’
�
�Bhai, calm down,’ this time, it was Karan who spoke. ‘Whatever your grievance, this is not the way to handle it,’ he reasoned.
‘Shut up, you fool,’ Manjrekar hissed.
‘But Karan is right, my dear man,’ Saran said, ignoring the man’s abusive comments for Karan. ‘Pointing a gun at innocent people is not civilised behaviour!’
‘Innocent? If the world got to know the crimes that folks like you have perpetrated, they would pelt you with stones until you bled to death!’ Manjrekar said, his face now mildly contorted in anger. His eyes moved slowly from Saran to Jazmeen to Karan to Sareen—and then back to Saran.
Saran looked unfazed. ‘Look, very soon the only crime that the world will see is the one you are committing right now. Soon, this place will be surrounded by the kind of security even you, with your background, cannot comprehend,’ he said, his voice even. With that, Saran made a slight move to rise from the sofa. ‘Why don’t you put the pistol down and we can talk?’ He was half up by the time he had completed the sentence.
Suddenly, Manjrekar rose his arm to the ceiling and fired the gun. The bullet struck the eleven feet high concrete at a million-miles-per-hour, rupturing it in concentric circles. A river of dust poured out of the hole in the centre of the pattern. A few things were caused instantly by the deafening sound made by the gun. There was a loud shriek by Jazmeen who shielded her ears with her palms, Saran plonked right back onto the sofa he was trying to leave, and there was immediate pounding on the outside door—incessant and urgent. ‘Sir! Sir!’ could be heard repeatedly.
‘Behenchod, when I had told you to sit down, you think I was making a joke?’ Manjrekar yelled at Saran, whose face was now ashen with real fear.
The reverberations of the visuals from the gut of Siri Fort were already being felt all across the country.
The news of the hostage drama was being reported live on IndiAction! through a spy-camera attached under a light fixture in Jazmeen’s makeup room. That reporting scoop, managed by Ruby Verghese, had already ensured that every eyeball in the country was now watching the astonishing footage of a lone policeman flaunting a gun at the faces of Prime Minister Satyendra Saran, Union Minister Karan Rathore, film star Jazmeen—and a man confirmed as her assistant. Those not in front of a television were catching the news via live feeds on the internet, on social media on their phones.
Pretty Vile Girl Page 38