‘About twelve years now. I met him during the launch of his second novel at a mall in New Delhi.’ Khalid replied in an adroit manner.
‘You partly funded his first film and then went on to produce his later films,’ she closed in on the producer and looked sharply into his eyes and interrogated, ‘why?’
‘I saw the storyteller in him, he was no ordinary author. His stories had a divine touch that had the power to move the masses as well as the class audience. I read his novels, liked them very much. My manager rang up the publisher and scheduled a meeting with the author, we met again after the book signing and this time I offered to buy the film rights of his first novel...’ Khalid paused losing himself in the sands of time.
‘...and?’ Pakhi asked.
‘And it turned out that he himself was a struggling filmmaker. He was willing to give away the rights to me on the condition that I would help him finish his earlier feature film that was shelved in between due to lack of funds. The film was in Marathi. I agreed and he finished the film in three weeks and later when the film released it generated a below average opening owing to lack of any known faces in the cast or crew. But at the end of the weekend, it picked up pace, and the collections rose by a miraculous 90% in Maharashtra. Within a week, I recovered all my costs, and another couple of days, the film started making profit. It went on to become the first blockbuster of that year and ran for over a hundred and fifty days in the region. The dubbed versions also became super hits in the Southern states. Manav Gandhi had made his impact and I knew I had my hand on the man with the Golden touch.’
‘You produced his novel adaptation?’ she tried to maintain the continuity.
‘Manav is a man of his word. We met a year later at my Juhu bungalow to talk about handing over the film rights of his first novel. However I had a different idea by then, I asked him if he could prepare a screenplay for his novel. He returned a month later with the boundscript, and after listening to his narration I told him that he would be directing his first Bollywood movie in three months.’
‘Was not there any other formalities between the two of you?’ her question clearly trying to unmask the ugly face of the big guns at the industry. Rohan Kapoor felt a little uncomfortable as he shifted on his chair. Pakhi ignored and gazed sharply into Khalid Abdullah’s eyes. Surprisingly Khalid did not seem to be affected by the gaze at all.
‘I might have not spared many beautiful faces,’ he gave a short glance at Rohan and then turned towards the reporter who was waiting for the big revelation, ‘but for once in my life I surrendered to talent. The Almighty had his hand on this man’s aura and I would have been a fool to have not seen that. I had bowed unto Manav’s capability as a storyteller and that is the truth which the both of us know.’
‘In the past twelve years, has there been any incident where the two of you have been shown the card?’ She asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Ever got into any arguments or quarrels?’ she eased her question for the producer to understand.
‘He was not the kind of person who would get into any arguments...’
‘...but he was known to lose his temper frequently on the sets, was not he?’ she interrupted with the most common rumour she had heard about Manav.
‘He was very particular about his shots. When he is directing, he is in command of the ship, he would not even let the producer or the lead actor make suggestions, no matter how much big their status were. He would lose his temper when his instructions were ignored or misinterpreted by the crew or cast. However, he never carried any personal grudges against anyone at all! He is a strict director but a very calm and simple human being.’
‘Ever had an experience of being rejected by Manav on the set, embarrassing you in front of everyone?’
‘Of course, though he did not embarrass me.’
‘Any recent ones?’ she punched.
‘None!’ He rejected.
Pakhi moved backwards on the couch, glanced at the notepad. She bit her lips as she skipped another couple of questions before reaching an important question. She raised an eyebrow. She looked at the top shot producer and asked ‘Is Manav having any illness that you are aware of?’
‘None that I am aware of. No, he never talked about anything serious apart from dust allergy.’ Khalid replied to a question that he himself wished to resolve.
‘There were rumors that he had schizophrenia.’
‘Bullshit!’
Pakhi looked at the time on her watch, she had been there for almost fifteen minutes and she would be shooed off the room any moment from now therefore, she decided to put through the most important question she had on her list ‘Do you believe... err... I am sorry... Do you know if he was threatened by the underworld?’
‘Ha ha ha...What? How would I know that?’ Khalid tried to fake a chuckle. He looked at the superstar beside him who tried to join in.
‘Everybody in the industry knows for a fact that Mr. Khalid Abdullah is the glittering face of the underworld that lies beneath the starry skies of Bollywood. Rumours say that the money you put into movies is actually money from the underworld, virtually reducing you to a mere line producer acting for the bad guys below.’ She stated boldly.
‘If tomorrow rumours say that a reporter named Pakhi Dutta once slept with Manav Gandhi for some reason, would that make it true?’ retorted Khalid Abdullah in the most commanding of tones he had ever put up.
The reporter recoiled on her chair; a pearl of sweat appeared on her forehead and poured down her face. Her eyes had filled up.
‘Your time is up. Please find your way out.’ Khalid concluded pointing towards the door, ‘And you are welcome.’
Pakhi jammed the notepad and recorder into her bag and collected herself out of the room. The last statement by Khalid had not just embarrassed her but shattered the blanket of rocks that she had covered her deeper emotions with. She left a piece of paper on the couch she was seated on and then exited the room with tears building up in her eyes.
Miah stood up from the dressing table and laid herself on the bed.
‘What was that? She came and asked questions. She leaves crying and no address! And you have met this cry-baby before?’
Khalid rose from his place and moved towards the couch, he picked up the piece of paper left by the reporter. She had written the address on the paper. He was not surprised to see the address. He turned towards his wife and pronounced ‘We are going to Matheran!’
9
Tarifa, Southern Spain
After walking in the rain for more than twenty minutes, Eva finally stopped at her chosen spot. They had reached the end of land, and starting from that point in front of them was the great Mediterranean Sea. She held a surgical knife in her right hand, hiding it behind her back, hiding it from the man towering in front of her.
The man, drowning in her beguiling brown eyes, had tears in his own eyes.
She had silky brown hair that wavered unto his chest whilst touching his white cotton shirt from the little distance that separated them. But the breeze couldn't move his long wavy locks. Drops of Rain washed the dull Sun down the horizon. The sky was orange and so was her mind. The rain poured down furiously; pinching the couple standing on the sandy shore of the Costa de la Luz, looking into each other, eye to eye. Hers were unmoved, and his were guilt-ridden.
The woman, pale as a ghost, spoke ‘Vamos a vivir juntos para siempre. Justo como lo habíamos deseado. Podemos, ¿No?’ She raised her face to look into his eyes, seeking an answer.
He spoke nothing nor did his eyes break the vow of his mouth. She looked downward in what was more a spiral penalty for being a woman in freezing rain and a tear dropped down on the beach. It merged with the water that came with the sea.
‘El Silencio… The silence explains it all’ She said, ‘you leave me no other option now,’ She wiped the tears off her face ‘This is the last time you are going to see me… You wouldn't see me again.’
He didn't
respond.
He couldn't.
She lifted her face again, looked into his eyes.
They were diluted by tears which she knew would go away as soon as the man returned to his virgin prey.
‘But before I leave, I would like to,’ She paused; her right hand paved a slight movement. Hidden behind her back was a surgical knife, packed tightly within the pack of her fist. She tightened the grip over the knife, preparing it for the final blow, ‘gift you,’ she paused again, drew the knife towards his chest screaming, ‘MUERTE!’
She was wild and furious on the spur of moment. She was parting with a gift of death!
The man responded with quick reflexes, caught hold of both her hands at one go and snatched the knife.
But she screamed again ‘Tus corazón es mío!’ She was insane; He could control her physically but couldn’t fight her speed. She was physically weaker, and that he knew very well. But she had the quickest of moves and most flexible body for she was a well trained Flamenco dancer. That was her strength and he had to rule over her weakness to bring down her strength.
He had to be strong and act wisely, swiftly. He closed his eyes, and raised his hand to stab her.
Once, then took out the knife.
The second time.
Then the third.
Finally, he let it rest there forever. She wasn't screaming anymore, the knife staked through her breast, drilling her ribs, boring into her Heart. Blood oozed of her breast, the white traje almost red from the left centre of her body.
They dropped on the wet sand, merging with the water though this time the combination resulted in a transparent red sea that spread like blood spreading through arteries inside the body, from one branch to the other and so on into the incoming waves of Mediterranean Sea.
She silently wept in pain, took her palm off her blouse where she had placed it, looked at her palms, they were red with blood.
She gathered courage and took in one last breath and whispered into the air ‘I am sorry that I trusted a tramp like you,’ she coughed, ‘God will see you on the Day of Judgement… God…’ And then came the moment, She lost consciousness and her body collapsed on the beach, an angelic white face hitting the wet sand, sending a huge splash of water over the man's head.
The man turned around and started walking away. Away from the woman who had lived for him and whom he had used just like the teenager in his room at the motel.
The body lay there… the sea kept covering her with blankets of waves periodically.
10
Mumbai
Pakhi held onto her tears tightly and as soon as the elevator’s metallic doors parted, she rushed out of it. Across the hallway she went past the reception without giving any notice to the dozen people staring at her, including the pretty receptionist who had envied the dynamic reporter’s beauty half an hour ago. Two minutes later, Pakhi was standing outside the heritage building. Narendra saw her and started his van, but instead of waiting for the van outside the hotel, she had already started moving towards the taxi stand. He dashed in front of the lady who was fighting hard from breaking into a heartfelt session of sobbing. He opened the door to the adjacent seat for her. She looked away from the van.
‘What’s wrong dear?’ A concerned Narendra enquired.
‘Can you please leave me alone?’ she replied while looking away.
‘Why? Didn’t the interview go well? Please get inside the van.’
‘Please! Mr Narendra, I can take care of myself. Could you give me some time alone? I do not want to be bothered right now.’ Pakhi begged, her eyes were red with tears waiting to be set free.
Narendra saw that very well. He nodded ‘Sure, just call me when you are ready.’ Saying this Narendra waved his hand and then drove away leaving the lady to herself on a busy roadside.
She called for a cab and got into it. It was damp inside the cab and smelt like pungent fern all around. She sulked in partly and then rubbed her eyelids with her hands. The cabby was an aged Sikh, who concentrated his senses firmly in his driving. She got half the privacy she had requested for.
That son of a bitch! Pakhi cursed Khalid Abdullah in her mind.
Khalid Abdullah had touched her at the place where it hurt the most without even moving a gold covered finger of his. It was her ego that was keeping her together. She would die under the pressure of concealing her emotions but would not cry in front of other people; even it was her own mother. She was a feminist, to the hardest core, and would never accept defeat from a man even if it were of the smallest gauge at the psychological level. There were certain beliefs that made her difficult to bend, the reason why she was so vulnerable to break. She sulked in again without letting the tears roll down. For the first time in her life, she had started to hate Miah Malhotra Abdullah. Miah who was her icon for almost a decade suddenly lost the tonnes of respect that she drew from herself.
‘You are the whore... but your husband calls me one! I will make each one of you pay for insulting me. Every single person who is insulting and mocking at me now, will be dealt the day I become a huge media person. The biggest ever! I will expose each and every one of you. Till then I have to be strong. I cannot waste my precious tears on such bastards and whores. I have already wasted much on someone before, but it never affected him because he had just one aim… one passion…’ Pakhi encouraged herself and wiped off the tear that was hanging on the edge of her lower eye lash. ‘These tears are my strength! I cannot let them go’ she said to herself.
Half an hour later, Pakhi called out to the cabby ‘Just around that corner, please.’
As instructed by his passenger, the old cabby pulled his ambassador to the corner and waited for the passenger to pay and get off.
Pakhi gave a crisp five hundred rupee note and got off the ambassador and walked towards a shabby apartment in front of her. The tears were wiped off her face. She wanted that time off from any known face to boost her morale and she got just what was needed. She eyed the barred elevator at the end of the floor and started walking towards it. As soon the door opened, she entered the concealed chamber and hit the button on the elevator’s wall. Unlike the elevator at the Taj, this one was a small one with no liftboy. This was just an apartment elevator, tacky at every inch of it, which clearly depicted the class of people who lived there. There was a sledgehammer lying on the floor in the corner with a spanner and a mechanic’s toolkit. Some mechanic must have forgotten his kit inside the elevator. The elevator’s movement upward was so much jerky that the spanner kept hitting the sledgehammer’s head making clinging sounds and Pakhi almost feared getting out of that place alive, but she was well used to the elevator. However, that was years ago, when she would come here regularly. Nevertheless, the elevator was no less shabby at that time either, only it smelt better at then.
The elevator stopped in between, but the door did not open. She stood inside, worried. She pressed the button on the wall, but nothing happened. She feared getting stuck inside the creepy elevator, but then it shook and came into motion once again.
The elevator finally came to a stop on the seventh floor and this time the doors parted and she came out of it. She walked towards the apartment right in front of her, the place which she used to come back during her college days. As she walked towards the door, strange feelings of nostalgia started building up around her; she could actually see things from the past happen around her once again. She liked what she saw, but those were the same things she could not run away from.
A haunting past!
11
Suffocation was something he had not wished for at this moment, at that place, because that was exactly what he was going through emotionally. For the past couple of weeks he could not find peace in anything that he did… anywhere he went he would be hear the voice, a voice so shrill and sharp that it scared him to the tip of the smallest hair on his body. Initially he ignored the voice as mere delusion due to work related stress and spending sleepless nights. However, with each day t
hat passed, the voice seemed to come nearer to him. He could almost hear things very clearly now and he knew it was not the stress or the sleep, for he had become an insomniac owing to the haunting voice. He had found other alternatives to curb the voice. But the voice would quickly catch up with him. The voice kept whispering into his ears and he had lost his sleep. He had not slept for the past six days ever since he had announced his untimely retirement from what he did best… making films.
Muyete! The voice whispered.
Manav screamed on top of his voice. He had administrated a powerful dose of sleeping pills into his nerves to get rid of the voice and find his way into the world of unconsciousness. Things had faded in front of his eyes; he hardly saw the tacky interior of his apartment. He could not smell the filth around him either. He heard nothing but the whispers of the voice. He cried out loud and tears rolled down his eyes like a great ocean during a catastrophic tsunami. Like a baby, he curled on the broken couch, with his knee bent up to his face, a tight string of metal binding his ankle with his thigh, to deregulate blood circulation to gain an induced state of trance.
Zeb mi vrom di yell! Bileez…. The voice quivered in the most haunting of tones he had ever heard. The syllables were not clear at all, he could not even identify the language in which the voice spoke. It seemed too far away from him, but it was approaching him for sure.
With all the consciousness that was left in him, he pulled the string to make it tighter. He shrieked like a tortured new born and then slowly passed out. The voice slowly faded away and into numbness did he go… slowly…
This was exactly how he had projected the thoughts fading into numbness at the time of death in one of his movies, but now it was happening to him for real. He was not sure if he was dying or if he was put to sleep successfully.
A Game of Gods: The End is Only the Beginning (The Anunnaki Chronicles Book 1) Page 3