The Turning Point

by Nikita Singh

  ‘Sir, that girl—Sonia, her relative is here.’

  Khanna scanned his uniform. The name tag read Inspector Jadeja.

  ‘Father?’ Jadeja solemnly asked, turning to Khanna.

  ‘She’s my niece, my elder brother’s daughter. I’m her local guardian. For God’s sake, will someone tell me where she is?’

  ‘Your niece has been shot. She’s been rushed to Bopal hospital.’

  ‘What? How did she—shot? Shot? With a gun?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  That piece of information rendered Khanna speechless. Twenty-five years of training and experience with the Indian Army wasn’t enough to face such an eventuality.

  ‘That is abso—how bad is it? It better not be fatal,’ Khanna said, rubbing his forehead with his sweaty palms.

  ‘No details yet. She’s in the ICU. That’s actually where I’m headed.’

  The perk of being in the army allowed him a ride in the jeep with Jadeja, who shared what might have transpired at the party. The Ahmedabad police had been religiously orchestrating a crackdown on all major farmhouses with a track record of liquor parties. Being a dry state, they had zero tolerance for those flouting rules. The investigators had lately been finding a huge stock of liquor and inebriated revellers from these parties where more than half the invitees were teens, Jadeja said.

  ‘Such a nuisance. They’re always up to something new. Is baar toh hadd kar di. The DJ brought in some Russian girls to perform fire-juggling stunts and God knows what else. Shameful,’ Jadeja reported, shaking his head in disbelief. Khanna wasn’t being an attentive listener, the anxiety of Sonia’s injury numbing him.

  ‘I still don’t understand how Sonia was shot. Or what she was doing here in the first place.’

  ‘Khannaji, from what we’ve gathered, an argument erupted between a guest and the party organiser. Led to a brawl. Sonia was somewhere in close proximity. When we raided the party, someone opened fire on us. Either the guest or the organiser—one of the two had a gun. She probably just got caught up in it.’

  ‘What?’ Khanna’s stared at him slack jawed. ‘Who are these people carrying guns?’

  ‘The same ones who’re trying to infuse drugs at these events. We found cocaine at the venue.’

  Drugs? Guns? And his little Sonia caught up in it? At fifty-two, Khanna presumed he knew a thing or two about keeping a child safe. How the heck had his angel gotten seeped into this mess? She had spent the Saturday before the fateful day at his house helping him harvest red guavas and pomegranates from his backyard, making a tangy fruit salad, cheering for him when he hit appalling shots at the golf course. They had concluded the day with cold coffee and ice cream after which he’d dropped her off at her hostel. She was a secondyear student. In two years, she’d be a trained architect. She wasn’t like other kids her age; she didn’t fancy movies or eating out or shopping or just chilling at popular hangout spots. Khanna often had to drag her out of campus and they would go watch a movie at the drive-in theatre. She would later complain about how it had turned out to be a colossal waste of time.

  Sonia was an incorrigible workaholic. The only thing that got her excited outside of her course work were the Ahmedabad Architect Association events. She had been volunteering for them for a couple of years and hosted all their high-profile events frequently. She never missed inviting Khanna to these occasions. ‘Chachu, come na, you won’t be bored, I promise,’ she’d say chirpily.

  Given the amount of time they spent together each week, he knew her intimately. This wasn’t a place Sonia would have willingly gone to, that much he was certain of. Who had dragged her? What was their motive?

  The jeep pulled up in front of the hospital. Khanna hurriedly walked alongside the cops. A constable waiting at the entrance saluted Jadeja, obsequiously filling him in. Panting, Khanna ran towards the inaccessible ICU and waited outside, scampering around in circles, hoping for someone to emerge from it and assure him that all was well with Sonia.

  In between the fast approaching panic attacks, Sonia’s entire life flashed in front of Khanna. The premature baby he’d carried in his arms soon after her birth had won him over instantly. She had breathing trouble when she was born, but her eyes were exceptionally sparkly and alert. One of the doctors had used vigilant in lieu of alert. Being the only girl child in their family, she was brought up like a princess. Gifted to him as a responsibility by his brother who was posted in Kochi. Shot at a party that had cocaine and alcohol. It was all too surreal and devastating. As soon as she was out of danger, he would get her transferred to the army hospital. Nothing short of the best treatment would do.

  Minutes had passed. Perhaps hours. Eventually the ICU door swung open and two nurses carrying equipment walked out. Khanna scurried to the door that was left ajar. A doctor signing a stack of papers blocked his view of the bed. Khanna was about to knock on the door when the doctor stepped aside. And there it was—the horrific scene of Sonia’s beautiful face being covered up by a white sheet. Khanna winced, momentarily losing all ability to process information. He ran up to her and snatched that fabric away, holding her fragile face in his helpless hands. Her eyelids sparkled from the makeup she wore. Her unsuspecting body lay there, cold and breathless. Her dreams, her promising future, her existence; all a thing of a past in a split second. Khanna held her tight, close to his heart, where she always had been, and wept like a child.

  A little past midnight, Khanna rose from his recliner, walked to the kitchen and poured himself some McDowell’s. He’d undeniably turned into an insomniac and the strongest of whiskeys couldn’t help. The guilt of failing as a guardian had thrown him into the dark recesses of throbbing agony, fury and failure.

  In Brigadier Khanna’s line of work, death came with the territory. The third Indo-Pak war had resulted in countless lives lost from his Kumaon regiment. The disgrace of being disqualified from combating due to a fractured spine had long played havoc on his psyche. He’d lost his parents shortly thereafter. The trail hadn’t ended there. A few friends and family in other branches of Armed Forces had departed within quick succession owing to continued tension at the border. He’d survived it all. The snowballing list only made him more resilient.

  But when he stood three feet away from the funeral pyre with Sonia’s dainty body covered in white, thrust between the combustible heap, unruly flames hungrily leaping at her, burning every bit of her, his hands trembled vehemently. His body went numb. The wind fostering those flames cut through his heart. The sight of his elder brother collapsed by the side of the pyre next to his fainted wife only made it more excruciating.

  When Khanna was capable of coherence, he held Sonia’s white gold pendant with an engraved Shiva’s image between his thumb and his forefinger, staring intently at the image, and made a promise to himself. He’d hunt down the bastard; the man who took Sonia’s life.

  The next rational step for Khanna was to involve an acquaintance, Manmohan Mehta, who was a PA to the Home Minister, Harikishan Bhatt. Khanna knew Manmohan through several government events where Khanna was often a guest of honour. Following up with the cops had led to police station rounds in an infinite loop. The Home Minister was the highest he could go in the hierarchy.

  Bhatt was a polite middle-aged man sporting a goatee and the quintessential politician dress code—a white kurtapajama accompanied by a charcoal khadi vest. Khanna walked into his clutter-free office at the Raj Bhavan in Gandhinagar. A peon shut the door behind Khanna.

  ‘Very sorry to hear about your daughter, Khannaji.’

  ‘My niece.’

  ‘Right, my apologies. Tell me, how can I help?’

  ‘Mr Bhatt, what has happened is unacceptable, unforgivable,’ Khanna began, ignoring the lump that was forming in his throat. ‘I’m not sure if you’ve been filled in on all the details. But shooting a teenage party doesn’t just seem—’

  ‘It wasn’t just a teenage party. I just had a briefing with the commissioner. It was a rave. Cocaine, hash
ish, heroin; you name it.’

  ‘And you’re telling me this with a straight face? How are these things happening under your nose? What are the police doing?’ Khanna asked, in an exasperated tone, seated on the edge of his chair.

  Bhatt paused for a moment, then gently removed his bifocals and placed them on the table.

  ‘I understand where you’re coming from, Khannaji. A lot has changed in this city in the past few years.’ He exhaled, his face melancholic. ‘This is an enormous drug racket. You may have read about these parties in the papers. There have been a series of these going on in Goa, Mumbai, Kolkata and several other cities. Ahmedabad is the new entrant it seems.’

  ‘And what exactly have the cops done to stop this?’

  ‘They have been launching a crackdown on all such parties. But this is all very recent.’

  ‘Look, Mr Bhatt, all I want to know is who shot Sonia. She hated parties. She did not belong to that party.

  There’s a lot more than meets the eye here,’ Khanna said emphatically, banging his fist on the table.

  ‘The police are working very hard on getting to the bottom of this. I am giving you my word. We shall have the details very soon.’

  Khanna shifted in the chair uncomfortably, his breath caught up in his chest.

  Bhatt stiffened and leaned in a little. ‘You please don’t worry. I’ll make sure we make some key progress in a few days. I’ll personally call you.’

  With uneventful days systematically giving way to futile weeks, Khanna was slowly but surely turning into a nonbeliever. He wasn’t built to rely on others in any case. When realisation dawned, he wasted no time in scouting for potentially useful information that could lead to clues. The police repeatedly came back with status quo but the young boys in Cantonment and his neighbour’s stoner son, Neil, in particular, had given him a unanimous answer. Hollywood.

  ‘I can’t do it, uncle. I’ve never done it before,’ Neil asserted, his feet up on the bean bag in his bedroom.

  ‘You bloody well can. Don’t give me that puppy face. You’ve been doing it for years.’ With his self-absorbed collegegoing appearance replete with funky hair and graphic tee, Neil fit the ‘ideal consumer’ image down to a tee.

  ‘Shh uncle, you’ll get me killed. Dad is outside in the corridor.’ Neil sprinted towards the door to lock it, then leaned against it, puffing.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t want me to share with him that I’ve seen you and your useless gang roll joints practically every other night on the terrace.’

  ‘Please don’t. Please. Dad will slaughter me.’ Niel looked petrified.

  ‘What’s bothering you?’

  ‘I—we buy from this dude, Benny, who sells stuff right around here behind the mess. I’ve never actually bought it from elsewhere. Never alone, in any case.’

  ‘Benny?’

  ‘Benny Machado. College dude. Does small-time business just around here.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Khanna evaluated that piece of information. ‘Why isn’t Benny on our list of people who can potentially provide clues?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Benny knows nothing. He is an insignificant player. He always tells us that he gets all his stock from Hollywood.’

  Khanna thought about it for a moment. ‘Okay then, Hollywood it is. And you’re going to do it for me.’

  ‘Uncle!’

  ‘I’m with you. You just have to bait this reseller. That’s it.’

  ‘What if I get caught?’

  ‘Oh, grow a pair. And do as I say.’

  The stretch between University cross roads and Gulbai Tekra was home to numerous shacks. It was a rare slum in prime real estate nestled between engineering colleges and luxury residential area, ironically named Hollywood. The slum dwellers had set up a primary business of creating idols of deities—from pocket charms to life-sized ones made from plaster of Paris. The surrounding streets often brimmed over with vehicles atop which deities and mortals coexisted.

  The next afternoon, Khanna dropped Neil at Hollywood and waited in his car inconspicuously. A couple of eager souls tried selling Neil handicrafts when he asked for asli maal. Some scanned him suspiciously. A seemingly vulnerable boy pointed Neil to a hut deep in the heart of the slum. ‘Look for Sanjay,’ the boy advised.

  Neil walked gingerly through constricted, fetid lanes flanked by garbage and water bodies, unclothed children running around, dispersed groups of elderly men and women with their heads covered, idly seated on the treacherous porches, some smoking beedis, others chewing on a twig, boys playing cricket, music blaring from electricity-challenged huts.

  After much asking around for Sanjay, Neil was outside the treasure shack. A gentle knock on the door educed no response. Eventually, a lanky boy wearing a torn ganji and tattered jeans emerged, his eyes heavy and swollen.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know Benny? Benny Machado?’

  With that name dropping, Sanjay looked at ease but didn’t respond.

  ‘I, umm, need some, you know, stuff.’

  ‘Charas ya ganja?’ Sanjay asked mechanically.

  ‘What else do you have?’ Neil put up a brave front.

  ‘Tell me what you need. I’ll arrange for it.’ Sanjay was emaciated, smelled like a weed factory and his front teeth were decomposed.

  ‘Assorted drugs. Ecstasy. Marijuana. Whatever else you can arrange. It’s for my birthday bash.’

  ‘How many people? When?’

  Neil put his hands in his pockets and straightened his back once the basic information exchange had happened. ‘Do you have the stock here? Let me see what you have.’

  ‘Boss, don’t worry. I’ll arrange for it.’

  ‘So you don’t!’

  ‘Arre sir, you please don’t worry.’

  ‘Look, if you can’t share details I’ll find someone else. I don’t think you can handle it in any case.’ Khanna had made him practice delivering the ultimate threat.

  ‘Don’t lose your cool, sahib. There’s a big distributor of designer drugs. Will send one or two boys at the party with mixed samples. Need 50 per cent advance.’

  ‘Benny? Please.’ Neil scoffed. ‘He hasn’t had good stock in a while. My friend got so many infections from his last batch of ecstasy.’

  ‘That Benny is a haraami. He buys from me and doesn’t pay on time. He’s no distributor. I’m talking about a big one.’

  ‘You all say that. Benny called you a big distributor. Ha.’ Neil faked laughter, a shiver running down his spine. ‘Who is this big distributor?’

  ‘Naam ka kya karna hai, sahib. Why get into that? Supplies are guaranteed.’

  ‘Dekh bhai, I don’t have time for this. I don’t trust fly-bynight operators. Had enough of those.’ With that, Neil turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait. Wait. Not a fly-by-night operator. He’s a biggie. Raghav Reddy. You must have read about him in papers. He supplies to all the parties in Ahmedabad.’

  That was all the information Neil was after. He created a fuss over the cost and left.

  Khanna launched a comprehensive web search on his phone on his drive back. It had been quick to dispense results. Raghav Reddy was linked with Tenali Cartel. As soon as he dropped Neil off, Khanna located a discreet area and dialled a Delhi number.

  ‘Bhatnagar, Khanna here. You have a few minutes?’

  Bhatnagar was a dear friend and had an office on the topmost floor of Sena Bhavan in Delhi where the Indian Army’s Military Intelligence operated from. The building was the closest India got to the Pentagon. Its tunnel of corridors and cramped offices helped India’s military spies maintain a layer of anonymity. They’d spent five years together when Khanna was posted in Delhi.

  ‘Hey hey, Scotch Doc,’ Bhatnagar responded with marked enthusiasm. ‘Still a double bogey player?’ Khanna needed no reminders of his disastrous golf game.

  ‘I’m well. Listen, I need some intelligence on Raghav Reddy. Drug Lord. Heads Tenali Cartel. I want to know his connection to Ahmedabad.
’

  ‘Cartel?’ Bhatnagar laughed heartily. ‘Since when did outof-work oldies start messing with drug lords?’

  ‘Bhatnagar, please. It’s urgent. And personal.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Don’t whine. I’ll see what I can find.’

  Time had become inconsequential. Nothing new had surfaced from the police investigation. No arrests. No key facts. No clarity on Sonia’s murder. Status quo ruled. The rage Khanna felt couldn’t be suppressed. It manifested itself everywhere; with the domestic help, with his colleagues, with stray onlookers.

  One day a headline hit Khanna in the gut. ‘Teen girl raped at a rave party in Kolkata.’ Fury rushed through his veins threatening to explode them. He scanned the details.

  A familiar name popped up, a monstrous laugh filling up Khanna’s space from the newspaper, or so he felt. Raghav Reddy. He tried to hold the anger in his fist but could no longer contain it. Khanna had to do something. Take matters in his own hands. He had to take Reddy down somehow. And for that, he needed to know about Reddy.

  Days later, Bhatnagar circled back with information on Reddy.

  ‘I’ll fax you a detailed report but listen to this. This Reddy guy is a different beast.’ Bhatnagar kicked off the introduction dramatically. ‘He heads up South East Asia’s largest drug trafficking organisation, Tenali Cartel. He even has a nickname, Chota Reddy, for his short stature.’ Bhatnagar giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘Let me see what else. Ah—’ he continued with striking eagerness, reading from what Khanna presumed was a bulky printout glorifying Reddy’s life.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Okay okay. So Reddy became India’s top drug kingpin in 2003 after the arrest of his rival Kafi Ali of the Gulf Cartel. Forbes estimated his net worth to be roughly US $1 billion. They also called him the “biggest drug lord of all time from South East Asia”.’

  Khanna tried to absorb the information, his brows furrowed, his legs crossed in his baithak in the veranda.