by Vish Dhamija
You want my summary?
Heaven and Hell are both on earth. You choose where you want to end up. Do not even carry any belief other than this. This is it. This is life.
Justice. It isn’t something humans are capable of dispensing. That’s Shiva’s job. He is anything but fickle. Shiva solves all the mysteries about God and death, heaven and hell, truth and dishonesty. They’re all here, in this fucking world and he takes that weight upon his cosmic shoulders. As I mentioned earlier I was always only a speck of unwanted dust, irrespective of what I considered myself in my hey-years. The time had now come for Him to intervene.
Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva… Creator, Protector, Destroyer…
Shiva, supposedly, has a third eye on His forehead which He had opened for me at the right time and destroyed everything that I thought was imperative.
Remember Shiva does not wish for apocalypse, He does not destroy because He wants to; He destroys only when there isn’t any other option left to exercise.
I had lost it completely when He took over. My Karma had invoked Him to intervene to save me.
I have rehearsed these lines countless times since that ill-fated night, and if I ever meet Shiva the only question I would ask Him when I see Him: why me?
I know Anita had already answered it for me, but I still yearn to hear Him tell me: “why not?”
EPILOGUE
For a country that only treated politicians, cricketers and film stars as celebrities, it was quite extraordinary that every single newspaper — from The Times of India and The Hindustan Times to the useless, most insignificant rags that had any purpose to convey news — carried it as front-page headlines. Bad news, as always, was more titillating and better masala:
“NOTED DEFENCE ADVOCATE JAY SINGH SHOT DEAD”
Once a premier defence advocate, he was seated under the tree one afternoon when his Karma caught up with him. They pumped all six bullets into him, not leaving anything to chance. Someone wanted him to be silenced forever indeed. Unfortunately, if he had survived this attack there were many more who wanted him dead. Not surprisingly, he was only good for them till he was bad. His changing sides wasn’t acceptable; not to people who couldn’t afford to let their secrets be out in the open. Whether he would ever reveal anything about his former associates or not wasn’t a risk they were prepared to take. It was his ridiculous decision to give up everything that God — God? — had bestowed on him; it had to be him who would have to pay the price. It wasn’t anything new or unusual: people who live by the gun…
You break an agreement, you pay back. You pay back with interest. Compound interest. Jay Singh’s payback time occurred six months after he quit his flourishing practice of lying legally. The enemies caught up with him — the alleged connections or associates who he once protected and who, in turn, protected him. Ironical? Life is an endless series of fucking ironies in every respect when you look at it closely. When you turn your enemies into friends they make the most loyal of friends. Regrettably, the converse is factual too: when friends become enemies — by chance or choice — they become the fiercest of enemies. Logically, you don’t leave them any choice since you know too much about them. Jay Singh knew too much. A little man with big ambitions, what if he, someday decided to turn into a state witness, now that his conscience had apparently awoken. That he will always be on their side was a tacit agreement. And if one side had broken that agreement, the other side would end it too; unfortunately, they ended it in the only manner they recognised. You can call it vengeance or you can call it justice; it’s again a matter of perspective. In any event if he weren’t going to defend them anymore, what use would he be to them anyway? It was an occupational hazard. As they say, you can’t drown and die if your kismet says that your end has to come with a bullet.
Anyway, his jig was up. His life had met a purpose. He died on the spot, painlessly and contented.
A lot of people were around but apparently no one saw the killers. When it came to crime the city always slept. No one ever saw any crime happen let alone reporting it or testifying in a court. What have they done to the country? Why are people afraid of protectors and justice?
Shiva, the ever-friendly God, ensured Jay Singh didn’t carry the baggage in his next birth.
Bhīma could never absolve himself; he had only walked a few metres to get hukum a tea. He carried Jay’s ashes to Pushkar, as the latter had desired when the two had visited the Swamijee. He only returned to Delhi to pick up Sheeba. The two retired to a simple life in the shadows of the Creator: Brahma.
Yuvraj stayed in the hostel.
***
If there was one error of judgement on Jay’s part it was that he had assumed that in time Manavi would forget him. She is the only person who annually visits Pushkar to spend time with Bhīma and Sheeba, and to be in the place where Jay eventually found peace. She believes his ashes are still in the air, she can see him in the sunrise, she can see him in the lake.
Jay Singh might have gone for the rest of the world but he still lingers on in the memories of Sheeba and Bhīma and Manavi.
A NOTE TO READERS
To capture realistic viewpoints, to attempt telling you both sides of the story I’ve narrated Déjà Karma in two voices: a third person account of Jay Singh, one of the most vicious and powerful defence lawyers in action. His personal life, his realisations, his intimate interactions and his fears are narrated in the first person. I hope you can appreciate why I separated the two narratives when you reached the conclusion. Some of you might find the conclusion a bit radical, even far-fetched perhaps, but I can assure you that what I have presented is not merely possible, but is even evidenced in the annals of history.
From the concept to the research to the actual words on paper a lot of people helped me write and shape Déjà Karma; it would need a separate book to mention them all. My biggest critic is Nidhi, my wife; she is extremely ruthless when it comes to assessing (read: assassinating) my first draft, but that is in fact a good thing, as a mediocre attempt by me will never get to you. Like last time, I thank Sue Lacy for the first check on my writing. My editor, Debz Hobbs-Wyatt spent hours with me on the manuscript to morph it into what you have as the final story in your hands today.
I am blessed to have Patrick Whittick as a friend for proofreading the final document before it went to print. He doesn’t miss a missing quote mark or an omitted comma or an absent article or incorrect grammar. Thank you Patrick.
And finally, a big thanks to my publishers: Reekrit Serai, Radhika Panickar and the entire Rumour Books India team for giving me the opportunity to bring my work to you all.
I hope you enjoy reading Déjà Karma as much as I enjoyed writing it.
With love and best wishes,
Vish Dhamija
[email protected]
Or search for Vish Dhamija Author on Facebook
HAVE YOU READ BHENDI BAZAAR?
1982. Three teenage girls planning a flight from the Soviet Union to the West end up being sold in Mumbai’s red light area instead.
The murders start a quarter of a century later.
The victims are all men. All of them tricks, waiting for trysts with high-class escorts. DCP Rita Ferreira is quick to recognise the serial killer strain; the media isn’t far behind. The news sends shockwaves through the city. The first serial killer in living memory of Mumbai is out on the streets.
As Rita grapples to establish the killer’s pattern through BHENDI BAZAAR, the killer gives her 24 hours to stop the next murder. Can she do that before she becomes the next victim?
Pick up your copy today!
COMING IN 2016
Ron Jogani, a jeweller from Mumbai, is in Belgium to buy a consignment of loose diamonds worth over €10 million. Hours later he’s dead in his hotel room in Brussels: murdered. The perpetrators are extremely tech-savvy and have defeated all CCTV cameras in the hotel. However, a concealed camera in the elevator snaps one of the men. When one of the stolen diamonds gets sol
d in Mumbai, the Belgian Police reaches out to their Indian counterparts to catch the guy in the candid-shot.
The case is assigned to DCP Rita Ferreira.
But when Rita and her team track down the guy in the photograph provided by the Belgians, they realise there has been some slip-up: the target does not even have a passport; he couldn’t have travelled to Brussels. And then they discover that a private detective is already following their target…
RUMOUR BOOKS INDIA is proud to reveal that Vish Dhamija’s “DOOSRA – The Other One”, will release in early 2016.
It’s a fitting sequel to Bhendi Bazaar.
Read an excerpt of the new thriller in the following pages.
DOOSRA - THE OTHER ONE
Doosra – aka Googly is a term used in the game of cricket. It’s a kind of bowling delivery that promises to go one way after the bounce, but goes the other. The primary reason most batsmen succumb to it is because they are misguided by the illusion that the bawler’s arm creates. However, history is awash with batsmen who could look past that illusion by reading the seam on the ball. If any expert tells you differently he is not adept enough. Remember — an illusion can only work till something eludes you.
What you can see, you know.
Prologue
ANTWERP, APRIL 2nd.
Ron Jogani was ushered into the Aaron Diamonds with genuine courtesy. The light pat down by the jeweller’s security was perfunctory. After all, he had been picked up by Aaron’s personal chauffer right from Brussels Airport’s arrival lounge that very morning and driven straight to Antwerp. He had only arrived in Belgium at 07:50 hours from Mumbai on Jet Airways Flight 9W228 and unless he had surreptitiously arranged to pick up some ammunition or weapon from the immigration authorities themselves, there hadn’t been any opportunity, as he hadn’t stopped anywhere on the way or met anybody since. And, the Indian Airport Authorities wouldn’t have let him on board with any firearms, would they? They wouldn’t have missed it either, as there had never been any security lapse on any flight that had taken off from India in over fifty years.
Jogani wasn’t here the first time or the last, and he wasn’t a novitiate either to attempt a burglary. In fact, Jogani was one of the bigger players in the diamond trade that had been dominated for decades by Jewish and Indians — mainly of Gujrati ancestry — in Antwerp’s Diamond Quarter. For someone in the diamond trade in India a regular visit to Antwerp was sacramental; as such Jogani had been here numerous times but the purchase on this visit would be the biggest he had ever done. The diamonds were for a syndicate back in India. Instead of individually flying to buy the polished stones, they had entrusted Jogani to buy and courier for a few of them. This transaction could be in excess of €10 million, but it hinged on two dynamics: first, Aaron had to physically hold the inventory of the requisite stock — the specs had already been wired a month prior — for Jogani to evaluate, and second, and more significantly, Aaron had to be willing to undervalue the rocks to save on import duties and let unaccounted money change hands. Aaron had tentatively agreed to the condition, but didn’t want to discuss it any further on phone or online: the what-and-by-how-much was left open for negotiations.
Jogani was, of course, of Gujarati descent, but his clan had lived in Mumbai for generations. He was a large man, stood six-feet-one from the ground; he had recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday and a bit of paunch had only started to make an appearance. He wasn’t good looking, no. But he was loaded. Single — he was divorced at an early age and decided he was better off single given his predilections — and unapologetically promiscuous; diamonds and women were his only two weaknesses. His biggest skill was his knowledge of precious stones, especially diamonds. Even with a naked eye he could price a diamond and he wouldn’t be any more than five percent away from the real value. Oh, he knew his diamonds. It was for this very proficiency that he had been picked by the diamond merchants back home to carry out the transaction on their behalf in Antwerp.
Jogani had been comfortable when his driver dropped him at Mumbai International airport at midnight the previous day. He had had a couple of drinks, and looked forward to some free Scotch before the steward made his little bed in the Première cabin.
***
So comfortable, that he had missed some predatory eyes that had been watching him from the airport, all through the flight and he being picked up and driven out of the Brussels Airport to Antwerp. The sentience undoubtedly seemed lackadaisical; a consequence of having repeatedly done the exact job so often that it bred a false feeling of invincibility, the overconfidence. More notably it almost tangibly heralded the carelessness to those watching and sinisterly lying in wait. His travel plans, his movements were being keenly tracked.
***
www.rumourbooks.com