A Game of Gods: The End is Only the Beginning (The Anunnaki Chronicles Book 1)

by Kumar, K. Hari

  ‘Calm down, Miah!’ Rohan spoke, ‘He is just doing this for some freaking publicity. Remember… this is his biggest venture, the one that he wrapped up couple of days ago. He is just trying to get that extra attention.’

  ‘Of all men, you think, Manav Gandhi needs to do something as freaky as that to garner attention of the masses? Are you freaking kidding me? He is the Manav Gandhi, he simply sneezes on twitter and the twitverse prays for his health!’ Miah spoke sharply, with an eyebrow raised higher than the other one.

  ‘Exactly! That is what he doing now. This is the most expensive Bollywood film, and a science fiction, a huge risk in a country where the majority still people prefer to digest spicy masala. He had to do something like that to drag all the attention with a tinge of sympathy,’ Rohan explained and then looked towards Khalid who was standing near the closed window, ‘I have been trying to tell this freak husband of yours the same thing, but he doesn’t understand either.’

  ‘It is three hundred crore rupees that I have spent on this so called dream venture of Manav! Three hundred fucking crore rupees, do you even know how many zeros come in this big a figure?’ Khalid blasted at the superstar once again.

  ‘Why are you both throwing up on me? I am not the one who gave up, am I? Just give the guy some time.’ Rohan surrendered.

  ‘Darling, if the jerk doesn’t come back, and for the worse, the film fails at the box office, we are doomed... forever!’ An anxious Miah reminded her husband, Khalid.

  ‘He can either come back, or he is never going to come back anywhere again... ever!’ There was a clear indication of a threat in Khalid’s last word. He had money and he had power, he was surrounded by the richest men and women of the industry and the most notorious ones they were.

  The smartphone on the bed started ringing.

  4

  The phone was answered on the spot, the tense journalist spoke into her cellular phone ‘Hello, this is Pakhi Dutta from Manorma 24x7. May I speak with Mr. Khalid Abdullah please?’ she requested.

  There was slight shift in voices as if a minute group discussion was being held at the other end, Pakhi awaited for the person to answer. Finally, a shrill voice answered ‘Yes, tell me what do you want?’ There was a clear sign of irritation in his question.

  Pakhi had already expected such a reaction from the big shot producer, she stayed calm and said ‘Good afternoon Mr. Abdullah, I am covering Manav’s story for Manorma 24x7 and wanted to do an exclusive interview with you as part of the story. Could you give me some time?’

  Khalid Abdullah didn’t like young people like Pakhi addressing him as Mr.Abdullah or Khalid, it melted out his ego. With a nonchalant tone he refused ‘Go away, you little pest. Don’t bother me with your crap!’

  Pakhi had two options, either she could do what Abdullah just said or fight it out. In a splurge of a second’s thought, she poured, ‘If you give me an interview, I will tell you where Mr. Gandhi is at this very moment!’

  A blackmailing bargain. Narendra, who was still driving the rusty vehicle, was taken by surprise. His eyes popped out because even he had no idea that of all the people Pakhi knew about Manav Gandhi’s whereabouts. Same was the facial reaction on the other side of the phone. Abdullah had his eyes wide open in surprise. He ordered her, ‘Tell me where he is…’

  ‘Uh... uh! Not like this. Interview first,’ Pakhi demanded like a terrorist who had taken an aircrew for hostage, ‘then I reveal where he is.’

  Abdullah’s voice again shifted, Pakhi could hear some discussion going on and finally Abdullah came back on line and said ‘Fine! Hotel Taj Palace, ask for Miah Abdullah. 5 pm!’

  ‘I will be there, 5 pm, sharp!’ Pakhi confirmed.

  Abdullah had already hung up the phone, Pakhi didn’t mind. This was exactly what she would expect from a filthy rich Bollywood producer. She smiled at her little victory and then turned her face towards Narendra who was still looking at her like a statue.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘You actually know where Manav is?’

  ‘Not really.’ She replied.

  ‘Then why did you tell Khalid Abdullah that you knew?’ Narendra asked, tension growing in his speech.

  ‘Well, I needed an interview to build this story, so...’

  ‘... so you lied to Khalid Abdullah?’ He stressed, ‘Do you even have the slightest of hints what he could do to you when he finds out that you had exchanged a lie for an interview with him?’

  ‘Well, I will tell him where Manav Gandhi hides when he wants to get away from the crowd.’

  ‘Oh Really?’

  ‘Yeah! In a sappy wooden cottage.’

  ‘And where would that be, madame?’ Narendra asked.

  ‘Matheran.’ Quick was her reply.

  ‘Are you fucking serious? You are going to give him this crap?’

  ‘Oh no! This is not crap. It’s true, hundred per cent. Manav has a wooden cottage in the Konkan forest. He would go there everytime he wanted to find solace. Nobody else in this world knows about such a place apart from him. That’s his safehouse. Away from the world... away from the noise... the applause... the critics...’

  ‘And how do you know about this safehouse?’ He queried curiously.

  ‘Uh... err... I ... I was there once...’ she stammered.

  ‘For?’ He asked.

  ‘An interview!’

  ‘You took Manav’s interview and I never knew of it? How can this be possible?’

  ‘Oh! This was long before we joined. I was a stu... student then; the interview was part of my university cur... curriculum.’ She stammered with every recurring word.

  ‘Well, and how are you so sure that he would be there?’ Narendra’s interrogation continued.

  ‘Uhm... I am sure they will at least find his pen and pairs of underwear inside the room. I guess technically I would not remain a liar in that case. Would I?’

  ‘Oh brilliant! Damn you are going to be one of the best journalists ever, girl! Write that down somewhere! Better than your boss.’ He declared. Pakhi passed a mild smile. She knew she was going to get somewhere. Narendra poured out again ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe what?’ She asked.

  ‘You were with Manav Gandhi when you were in college at his secret lair! Maybe that’s how you got that little crush on him.’ He grinned.

  ‘You don’t know anything about me, dear. You will know soon. For the time being, would you mind concentrating on that creep heading towards us?’ She said pointing towards the road ahead, as a milkman on bicycle dashed across the vehicle’s path, Narendra quickly steered towards the right, missing the bicycle by an inch.

  The rider on the quaint bicycle cursed on top of his voice, but the van moved ahead without paying any heed to the man’s curses. They had to move ahead.

  5

  The luxurious room was aesthetically illuminated by candle lights and low power halogens which gave a classy feel of aristocracy to the place. However for the trio of Miah, Khalid and Rohan, the room was nothing but a dull place of tautness and grimace. Miah, who was recently voted by a fashion magazine as the most graceful diva in Bollywood, had lost all her grace at the moment. Her face carried negativity and soreness of confronting her worst fears.

  ‘Why did you give in so easily?’ asked a frustrated Miah.

  ‘Of all people, you are the best one to know the reason, Miah. You spend maximum time with him… on bed.’ Rohan jerked into a sarcastic tone.

  ‘You were no exception, butthead,’ an angry Khalid shouted at the superstar Rohan Kapoor, ‘you, like all those freaking flies, rode on me to get a shot in this industry,’ He leaned into the superstar’s face and warned, ‘Don’t forget that I created you out of shit. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Cool down man, you are literally spitting on me now!’ Rohan blurted.

  ‘You son of a whore...’ Khalid raised his hand to slap Rohan on his face, Miah instantly stopped him.

  ‘What are you trying to do
here? We have to be there for each other at this time, and you are trying to rip off each other?’ she scolded her husband as if he was a six year old who was punished in classroom for picking on his classmate. She asked ‘Just tell us why did you let her in?’

  Khalid got up, took a deep breath and then spoke ‘I believe she is right.’

  ‘People of her kind are pests who sell lies out to people who are foolish enough to buy them. All they want is a sensational story on the primetime slot for the news channel. She will put you on air, make a good name for her and get a boost in her career and will leave you with a thank you Mr. Abdullah for joining us tonight! Don’t you know how these journalists are?’ Miah cried.

  ‘I do not know about other journalists, but I am well aware of this particular journalist. She might lie, but she would not lie about Manav.’ Khalid assured.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Miah tried to confirm. Rohan Kapoor, though sitting there as if nothing really mattered, raised his eyebrow.

  ‘She knows Manav much better than all of us put together.’ He pulled down the string that controlled the curtain on the window with his right hand. The curtain pulled up and a fresh deal of bright light entered the dully illuminated room, ‘It is time to shine some light...’

  6

  Tarifa, Southern Spain

  The rain was breezing down on the coastal town of Tarifa as a tint of hope and gloom hovered on the horizon of the blissful town to the south of Spain. The town located on the Costa de la Luz or Coast of Light is the gateway to the mystic lands of Morocco or Marruecos as the Spaniards would call it. The sun placed itself deep inside the chest of the horizon as the bright oil lamps sparkled into illumination around the Castle of Guzman, as the historic monument prepared itself to showcase the first ever annual Flamenco festival. Hundreds of professional Flamenco dancers had arrived to take part in the inaugural festival and the stage was set for the first performance of the evening. Flamenco, the traditional dance form of the region of Andalusia, has a deeper root in the Romani culture or the culture of the gypsies. A female dancer wearing the traje de flamenco moved her body gracefully on the brightly lit stage. The audience waved their attention with her moves, as the mystifying rhythm coming from the guitar and handclaps took the audience by a trance that never seemed to end. Her long dress adorned with ruffles was blood red in colour.

  Meanwhile, Marquez pushed open the door to his room at the motel where he was staying with his wife who was performing that night. He rushed towards the neatly packed colt and threw the young girl he was carrying in his arms on the bed. He unhooked the crispy trouser he was wearing and it sliced down his legs, he shook it off his feet and it fell on the floor. He pounced lustily on the teenager just like a hungry tiger pouncing on a tender deer. She was wearing a red satin gown only; Marquez slid his hand through the slit opening near her thigh and touched her navel from within.

  ‘Yo te haré famosa, si tu me haces feliz.’ He took a deep breath as he pressed his thumb into her navel sending a quick shiver across her tender body. He hissed in Spanish, ‘Compromiso conmigo.’

  ‘Si!’ the girl affirmed in Spanish.

  ‘There is nothing more satisfying than a fifteen year old virgin. It gives me the hell of a time in heaven…’ he laughed like an evil cobra. The girl didn’t understand a word he uttered for the poor creature didn’t know any other language than Spanish. There was a fear in the girl’s eyes for this was her first time, and such violent were his actions that she closed her brown eyes for it to get over real fast. He had promised to make her famous, if she made him happy, and she was trying to make him happy. She awaited the fame of her lifetime at the end of it. Marquez took his wrinkled hand out of her gown and then gently swivelled it over her face and ran it down softly over her nose, lips, neck and all of a sudden tore of the red satin gown from the collar and her pulpy breasts were exposed. Marquez threw away the cloth from the gown behind and bit the nipple on the left breast.

  ‘Bastardo!’ cursed a woman who was standing at the door which Marquez had left open.

  Marquez recognized the voice immediately and got up from the bed in the greatest state of shock. He said bumbling ‘Eva… I thought you were p..p…performing tonight…’

  ‘I wish to talk to you… alone… outside… por favor!’ Eva said blankly, as if nothing had happened at all. Eva stepped out of the room quietly.

  The girl on the bed looked more worried than scared now and questioned with her eyes if she should stay or leave.

  ‘Más tarde!’ Marquez whispered into the girl’s ear as he gathered his trouser and wore it quickly. He tried to catch up with Eva who was already on her way downstairs. He took longer strides. ‘Eva, you know I love you so much!’ he tried to make up an explanation.

  ‘Shhhh…’ Eva said, ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, dear. Just follow me quietly. We’ll talk there.’

  ‘Where?’ He enquired.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ She asked unjadedly.

  ‘Yes of course! I do, completely.’

  ‘Then don’t say anything more. Just come with me.’ She said and walked out of the door and into the street. Rain had started to drizzle down gently. The woman walked gently in her white traje de flamenco and the man followed her in the greatest confusion and a temporary guilt developed out of the shock of getting caught with a virgin by his wife.

  7

  Taj Palace, Mumbai

  The phone inside the luxury suite rang and an impatient Miah answered it unwillingly.

  ‘Good evening Mam, there is a visitor for Mr. Abdullah at the reception, may I send her in?’ the receptionist asked politely in her sweet female voice.

  Miah held the receiver away from her mouth and turned towards Khalid and informed him ‘The pest is here!’

  Khalid nodded and Miah spoke into the receiver ‘Let her in!’

  ‘Of course mam, have a very good evening.’ She greeted and placed the receiver back on the console. She looked at Pakhi Dutta who was standing in front of the receptionist’s desk. She was dusky in complexion and her skin glowed under the chandelier’s simmering light. Her eyes were black and sharp at the edges, pitching in a very attractive face that no man could turn down. The receptionist was fair and beautiful herself, yet she felt a wave of envy run through her spine at the sight of this Bengali beauty.

  ‘You may see him now. Third room on the Fourth floor.’ The receptionist told her.

  ‘Oh Thank you very much.’ Pakhi passed a grateful smile and helped herself towards the elevator.

  Pakhi was tense, but she knew only one thing could save her when she was purchasing something at the cost of nothing, and that was her sheer confidence.

  She entered the elevator, ‘Third floor.’ She told the service boy inside the elevator who immediately pressed the needed button on the elevator’s wall. Within a minute she was out of the elevator and was heading towards the room where Khalid Abdullah was putting up that evening. The richest producer in the Indian film industry, perhaps the man with most coveted head among those in the city’s bad ass underworld. This was the second time she was going to see the man who had produced all Manav Gandhi films, the last time she had met him at a party where Manav introduced the two. That was a good meeting, but not this one. The tables had turned and the moods had swung around, Pakhi prayed for the best while taking deeper breaths as she stood in front of the door that led to the room where Khalid Abdullah was supposed to be. She pressed the door bell and waited.

  8

  Miah opened the door for the reporter to come in. Pakhi had never missed Miah on television or cinema, her graceful moves, long nose, thin lips, fish like eyes and skin as smooth as silk had been an inspiration for the naive reporter since the first time she had seen Miah dancing to a folksong on top of a train in a south Indian movie way back when Pakhi six. A smile sprang on her face instantly, but the seasoned diva hardly bothered to smile back, for her the reporter was not a fan but a bug she would rather crush under her t
oe. Miah turned around and went inside leaving the door open for the pest to come inside.

  ‘Shut the door when you come in.’ the diva commanded as she walked past her husband who was sitting on the bed.

  Pakhi stepped inside the room, saw the other two big personalities seated on the bed and a chair respectively, one of whom she had met earlier. The same person she was here to interview. She greeted the two with a pleasant smile. The superstar Kapoor responded with his signature smirk which had robbed the hearts of an entire generation of girls, while Khalid Abdullah ignored the gesture like his wife. Miah went and sat in front of the mirror on the dressing table and feigned getting ready for the evening. Pakhi gently pushed the door behind her making sure that the sound of door hitting the latch did not get any close to a disturbing thud. Khalid showed her the couch, Pakhi sat on it.

  ‘Good evening Mr. Abdullah,’ she said trying to adjust to the hostile circumstance that was thrown at her by the hosts, ‘We have met earlier at the party org...’

  ‘...come to the point girl, I do not have the whole evening.’ Khalid interrupted nonchalantly ‘the questions please!’

  ‘Of course, I have prepared few questions for you. Twenty to be precise.’

  ‘You have fifteen minutes!’ Khalid looked at his wife and made his excuse, ‘we have to get to an inauguration at Bandra.’

  Pakhi quickly took out her notepad and ran through the questions she had prepared while she was in the car with Narendra. She knew the important ones that dealt with his relation with Manav Gandhi. She cleared her throat to ask her first question.

  ‘How long have you associated with Manav Gandhi?’ she asked as she punched in the record button on her voice recording device.