Avantika drew her breath in sharply and pretended to cough, when she saw the constables near them give her curious looks.
‘That’s where I remembered her from,’ Uday continued, ‘I remember reading her name in the Deccan Journal and wondering what idiot decided printing a rape victim’s name and photo was a good idea.’
After her rescue, according to Uday, Karuna had been too traumatized to talk for weeks and even when the police coaxed her to talk, she had refused to file a case. She had disappeared from the scene completely, resurfacing only a couple of years ago and starting her own legal practice. And now she was apparently representing Nalini, if not all of Dharini Farm.
‘I’m going to take a wild guess and say the people who did that to her are not around anymore,’ Avantika said.
‘Well, Sachin Ghorpade was found dead in a seedy theatre in Pune last year, with his throat slit, so … yeah.’
A constable chose that moment to politely beckon her to come to the table, where a sub-inspector was sitting. For the next twenty minutes, she gave her statement, answering his questions, trying to recall any details she might have missed. The sub-inspector then helped her fill out the FIR form. A few minutes later, he handed her a copy of the FIR report and she was done.
As she stood outside the police station with Uday, waiting for their Uber to arrive, she used his phone to call home. Her own phone had been found in her bag, which had been stashed away in a cupboard in Nalini’s office. The cops had returned it to her half an hour ago, safe, intact and totally out of battery power. Her eyes brimmed at the panic in Aai’s voice when she answered. But when the woman found out it was Avantika calling, her voice nearly cracked as she first laughed, then almost cried, then scolded her daughter, before handing the phone to her husband. Keshav Pandit proceeded to shout at his child with the fear-fuelled rage of a father who hadn’t heard from his only daughter for over twelve hours. Avantika bore it all stoically. For a moment last night, she had been genuinely afraid of not seeing her parents again. And had been wracked with guilt the remainder of the time, imagining their scared expressions as they tried to call her number again and again, only to get an automated female voice telling her she was not reachable.
As the cab arrived, she gently interrupted her father’s tirade.
‘Baba, I have to go. It’s Uday’s phone and … I’ll be home soon, OK? Don’t worry … Yes, I know … OK. Bye.’
She returned the phone to Uday, as she slid into the back seat of the Uber. He slipped in next to her.
‘So, now what?’ he asked. ‘After your visit to the doctor, I mean.’
Avantika considered her options. Her body ached. Her nose hurt. She was ravenous. And so, so tired. She closed her eyes for a moment. The air conditioning inside was pleasant, drowning out the sounds and smells of the slaughterhouse district as it carried on with its business. On the other hand, it was, what, the seventeenth? No, eighteenth July. Which meant in less than two weeks, Yash Reddy, whoever he was, was going to be killed. Unless she found out who he was and warned him. Or unscrambled this whole mess leading to him and stopped things from getting out of hand. And the story! Oh, God. She had to write about Dharini Farm or what had even been the point of this entire exercise? And Nathan! She owed him a cracker of a story after all she’d put him through. There was no time to lose. She took a deep breath.
‘Now …’ She rubbed her face, trying to wipe away the sleep and fatigue. ‘I need to find out who—’
‘Nope.’ Uday was shaking his head.
‘But, Uday, some poor—’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Someone’s trying to kill—’
‘And you?’ he demanded. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face looked drawn. ‘What about you, Avanti? Didn’t someone just try to kill you? Or did you forget?’ He shook his head. ‘You need some time to get over last night. Just to deal with it. It wasn’t a small thing …’
‘So that’s what you’d do?’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘If this happened to you, if you had a story to file and some poor guy’s life was on the line, you’d stop asking questions and hug a pillow and cry?’
‘I’d get some rest,’ he sighed, looking out of the window, ‘for some time, at least. Gather my strength. Especially if I knew someone’s life was on the line.’ When she didn’t reply, he continued. ‘You don’t fight wounded, Avanti. You’ll never win if you do.’
As much as she hated to admit it, the man had a point. It didn’t help that a part of her, the part that was exhausted and sore all over, was egging her to agree with him.
‘Yes, alright, sensei,’ she said, yawning.
She leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes. A moment later, there was a snore.
Sixteen
Avantika stared at the blank Word document open before her. She was in her room. It had been a busy morning. If busy was the right word for it. She had been to the doctor, who had announced that there was nothing wrong with her that some rest and a few painkillers couldn’t take care of. He had asked what she had been injected with, but since she didn’t know, he had only prescribed paracetamol. Who knew what side effects stronger painkillers could have, when mixed with whatever was already in her system. Then, Uday had dropped her home, where her parents had given what could only be called a mixed welcome. Aai had fussed over her, insisting on a second serving of piping hot vegetable upma, chased with a large mug of coffee. Avantika had eaten quietly, avoiding her mother’s eyes. She knew she had to tell her about Sapna’s death sooner or later, but didn’t know how. So, she had put off the subject, focusing instead on hearing Baba rant about behaving responsibly, acting cautiously and generally not going on suicide missions without giving your parents some sort of a warning. She would probably hear the same things from Nathan again tomorrow, probably at a higher volume, if that was even possible at this point. He’d probably given her the day off just so he could be properly prepared to lambast her the next day. She’d been thinking along these lines and had possibly rolled her eyes, at which point, like a forgotten landmine, Keshav Pandit had suddenly exploded.
‘Is this tiresome for you?’ he had demanded in Marathi. ‘Am I keeping you from something more interesting? Because I don’t think what I’m saying is so trivial and you shouldn’t, either!’
When she had tried to apologise, to explain what had actually brought on the eye-roll, he had interrupted her.
‘Bas! Enough!’ He had held up a hand. ‘I’m sure you have a thousand reasons and you think they’re all great! But you cannot imagine what Aai and I went through all of last night! No way of reaching you! Not knowing whom to call, what to do! A young woman all alone, all night, God knows where. You hear such things and—’
‘So, what are you saying?’ she asked wearily. ‘If I was a guy, you wouldn’t have worried?’
‘Of course, we would worry!’ he said, affronted.
‘But a little less?’
‘No.’ He saw the disbelief in her face and shook his head sadly. ‘You are my only child, chiu.19 You may never understand what that means to a parent. And you’re a journalist. You know what the world is like. We haven’t said anything about your job all this while, but now … after what happened …’ He gave her a pleading look. ‘Can’t you …?’
‘No,’ she said, turning towards her room. ‘I can’t. But I’m really sorry about last night, Baba.’
And she meant it. Guilt for what she had put her parents through last night still sat heavy on her. But she couldn’t give up now. A man’s life was at stake. There was a madwoman who was turning ordinary women into amateur assassins. But even as she thought this, another part of her wondered at the label. Madwoman. It was easy to label someone that. Anyone who did something that transgressed society’s sharply etched lines of propriety was automatically mad. It was unfair. Especially since the label could be so easily applied to anyone at all.
Her eye fell on the small wood and glass showcase nailed to
the wall of the corridor outside her room. It was full of tiny figurines, some glass, some ceramic, some porcelain. Well-meaning gifts from friends and relatives, who made up with emotion what they lacked in imagination. Fragile little statuettes balancing pots on their hips, delicate china shepherdesses cradling lambs, tiny transparent dolphins stood staring at her. That’s what human beings are, Avantika thought. An accident waiting to happen. A collection of breakable things. Bodies, minds, hearts. Push us hard enough and we break into unrecognizable pieces. Is that what had happened to Nalini?
She entered her room, banishing the thought. She owed her editor a story. Her editor, who had woken important people from their sleep, in the middle of the night, and saved her life in the process. And all for what? A story that every news outlet would get their hands on, now that the police were involved. Except, she knew more than the police did at this point.
But now, as she looked over her notes, she realised there were still glaring gaps to be filled. She looked out of the window where the rain was lashing the landscape. The rain truly unleashed its fury on Mumbai in July. Almost, as if, after hearing its citizens complain about the unbearable heat of May and the sapping humidity of June, the rain gods went, ‘Oh, you want it to rain, is it? Here!’ followed by a chorus of malicious laughter as thunder, lightning and rainstorms descended upon the city. She couldn’t help comparing the scenario to what had happened to Sapna.
The poor girl, abused by a stepfather, alone, helpless—had Radha known what her daughter was going through? Why she had run away from home? Seething with mute anger she had sought shelter at Dharini Farm—who had told her about it in the first place? Nalini had seen her misery, her fury, and said, ‘Oh, you want revenge? Here!’ And what had followed had been something the girl couldn’t have imagined. She had killed a boy. A boy her own age almost, who had done nothing to her. Did she imagine her own tormentor’s face when she killed him? Had it made the task easier? It couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have had second thoughts, if it had. She wouldn’t have sent out those texts that ultimately sealed her fate.
Avantika cursed herself for deleting Sapna’s number when she’d changed her phone last. Had she saved it she’d have known instantly who was sending the messages. Maybe Sapna had assumed she knew. What had she said when they ran into each other on Dharini Farm? Don’t say anything. I don’t know what they’ll do if they find out. Avantika had considered the statement typical of teenage hyperbole, where everything was a matter of life and death. She had thought Sapna meant that Radha and her husband would be livid with the girl, if they found out where she was. But in the light of all she knew now, perhaps ‘they’ referred to someone else. Sapna had thought … what? That Avantika would tell Nalini that she was getting texts from Sapna? Why would she have done that? How would she even have known it was Sapna who was sending those texts? The girl had signed off as Anu. Why?
With a grunt of frustration, Avantika pulled out her notebook and began making a list of all the questions popping in her mind. She might not find the answers to all of them. But seeing them written down before her was strangely calming. Almost as if she was dismantling the storm inside her mind, word by word. She stared at it now, this list of mysteries, and compared it to the one she had made all those days ago, the one with the names of dead men. She knew now why Tushar Prasad had died. But to conclusively prove the conspiracy, she needed to tie his murder to the others.
Nalini had said that Kanika’s mother had approached her. And if Nalini had told her the truth about the Ladies’ Murder Exchange Programme, then Kanika’s mother would have had to be involved in one of the murders. But which one? One of those that had happened before Sapna started sending the texts? The ones that had been planned for the future, like Sapna’s stepfather’s, for instance? Or could she have been involved in one of the murders Sapna had texted about?
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. Sapna had to enlist for Tushar’s murder before her own stepfather could be killed. So, if Nalini had been working on a payment-before-delivery model, as the management types put it, it was safe to assume that Kanika’s mother had contributed to a murder that occurred before Tushar was killed. That narrowed the field somewhat. To narrow it further, she had to at least dismiss the murders she knew about. She glanced again at the list of names before her. Derek Aranha, killed by chain-snatchers. Hasan Aziz, found dead on railway tracks. Viral Patel, pushed by a madwoman. Ashok Kadam, food poisoning from a dabba service. And Yash Reddy, still alive. She could leave him out for now.
She opened a search window and typed in ‘Derek Aranha, chain snatchers, Mahim, murder’. The first result was from the Mumbai Daily website. She clicked open the link and read. Then she read the coverage of a few other papers, adding to the notes. In the next couple of hours, she had repeated the same process for the other names, but found nothing that could tie Kanika’s mother to any of the other murders. Should she ask Uday to talk to the woman? But what would he say? Excuse me, Mrs Bhoir, but by any chance did you kill a random stranger so a group of vigilante women could avenge your daughter’s rape? What’s that? You’re suing us for slander? Yeah, kinda saw that coming.
She rubbed her eyes and stretched, groaning as her neck and shoulder muscles creaked in protest. She had nothing that would prove that anything Nalini said was true. Her only witness was Heena, who wasn’t likely to cooperate. And then, there was the Madam Heena had referred to. Who the hell was that? Someone who had got Heena to go against Nalini’s wishes. And from the way Heena had hesitated while talking about Sapna … It wasn’t the tone of someone who had masterminded the girl’s death. Was Madam behind that too? How was she ever going to connect it all? There were so many loose ends. Even if she wrote the story, what was she going to fill it with? Question marks?
She glanced at the list again. Well, there was one name on it that didn’t have to stay a question mark. She would dig through every Yash Reddy she saw online. The man was supposed to die in Versova. Perhaps she could see if any of these guys online lived or worked in the area or nearby areas. She had just keyed in the name and hit enter, when there was a meek knock on her door. Aai was standing there, an apologetic smile on her face.
‘You’ll have lunch now?’ she asked, in the soft, coaxing voice one uses with children.
Her search forgotten, Avantika nodded, then called out to her as she turned to leave. It was time to tell her about Sapna. As her mother sat on the bed next to her chair, Avantika told her everything. The texts from the mysterious Anu. Running into Sapna at Dharini Farm. The girl’s frightened plea to Avantika. The reason she had run away from home. And Heena’s revelations last night, which had led Avantika to believe that Sapna was now most probably dead.
Alka Pandit’s eyes had widened with every sentence her daughter uttered. Now, she sat staring in horror, her hand covering her mouth. Avantika watched her mother carefully, waiting for her to say something, waiting for the judgement in her eyes. Moments passed and she couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘I feel like it’s my fault!’ she burst out. ‘If I had known somehow it was Sapna sending the texts … I mean, I don’t know … she called herself Anu—why would she? But … or if I’d told you immediately after seeing her at that place … or … I don’t know, Aai, I feel terrible!’ Her eyes were stinging with tears and she was breathing hard.
Aai laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, then rubbed her back gently.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said thickly. ‘There was no way you could’ve known …’
‘But still … she’s dead, ga … she was just sixteen!’ Avantika rubbed her eyes and sniffled. ‘She was just trying to get away … and now …’
Her mother hugged her, sighing deeply. When she pulled apart, she cupped Avantika’s face in her hands.
‘You listen now, OK?’ she said, looking her in the eye. ‘Sometimes … there is nothing we can do to stop the worst from happening. Sometimes, we don’t realize what could’ve been done till it’s
too late. You have to understand that.’
Avantika nodded and sat up straighter, wiping her eyes. She knew her mother was trying to comfort her, but her words rang hollow. How could her mother ever understand the guilt churning in her stomach right now? Aai must have read her mind because she sighed and continued.
‘You remember Vrunda kaku?’ she asked, her voice heavy. ‘Did I ever tell you how she died?’
Avantika’s brow furrowed. Vrunda kaku was a distant aunt, the wife of her father’s second, maybe third cousin. Avantika had been eight or nine years old when she’d died suddenly. Avantika remembered her as a laughing woman with a short bob, always beautifully turned out and ready to help at family functions.
She shook her head.
‘He used to beat her up. Arvind kaka,’ Aai sighed. ‘Bad day at work? Wham. She changed the channel on the TV without asking? Wham. Too much salt in the dinner? Wham. Poor thing used to wear so much makeup to hide the marks. Then one day, it must’ve gotten too much. She took a bottle of sleeping pills into the bathroom and never came out.’ She sighed. ‘That very day I told your father I never wanted to see that man’s face again. We’ve not kept any relations with that family since.’ Her mother’s face was a picture of misery. ‘At first, I kept telling myself … if only I had said something … made her feel she wasn’t alone … helped her get away … done something.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘But I was scared. How to raise a subject like that? People get touchy. I didn’t want to offend her, I … I thought I’d embarrass her, she wouldn’t want to speak to me and things would get awkward.’ She rubbed at a wrinkle in her cotton saree and sniffed. ‘But now, when I think of it, I wonder if anything I could’ve done would’ve made a difference. Who’s to say she wouldn’t have done what she did, even with my help?’ She got up and patted Avantika’s shoulder as she made her way to the door.
Fatal Mistakes Page 14