Second Lives

by Sarkar, Anish

  Then Sara came to me excitedly one morning and said, ‘You fool, she’s got a crush on you too!’

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘She really told you that?’

  ‘She made me promise not to tell you but how could I not?’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Two minds with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.’ Sara clasped her hands together in mock ecstasy. ‘God, this is so romantic!’

  The same day, she talked Rachel into meeting me after classes got over. We had a long walk and by the end of it, were no longer just friends.

  I felt euphoric. I had dated many girls but it had always been more about the conquest and then the necking. This was completely different. I was in love. It was like walking on air. I had thought things would be awkward at first but that wasn’t the case. The fact that we already knew each other so well actually made things easier. We had a hearty laugh recollecting the various ways each of us had tried to hide our true feelings.

  Within three months though, the cracks began to show. Rachel became more and more possessive, and would get suspicious if I so much as talked to any other girl. She went completely ballistic when one of my ex-girlfriends happened to be in the cast of a Teacher’s Day play I was directing. No amount of persuasion could convince her that she had my complete devotion and loyalty. I guess deep in her heart, she never believed that I could ever be a one-woman man.

  This went on for some time until I couldn’t take it anymore. It was very difficult for me to be in a relationship without any trust. I had left my past behind and saw no reason why I should have to answer for it on a daily basis. And we were only seventeen, for God’s sake. Much later, Rachel told me that what drove her to paranoia was the fear that if she ever lost me to another woman, it would kill her.

  One day, we had a huge tiff and broke up. I suppose it was for the best, even though we still loved each other. In hindsight, we were probably too young and immature to handle such an intense relationship—had we met ten years later, I guess we would have ended up getting married and living happily ever after.

  It so happened that soon after Rachel and I parted ways, I hooked up with an old flame on the rebound. It was the same girl who had acted in my play, the one Rachel had been neurotic about. It was just a coincidence but also the final nail in the coffin for her, as far as I was concerned. She must have congratulated herself on having made the right decision, and heaved a sigh of relief.

  Things remained strained between us for a long time. Neel and Sara made every effort to patch us up but we both still smarted from the unhappy end to our brief romance. It was only on the last day of school, the day we walked out of our alma mater as students for the final time, that we decided to bury the hatchet. It was the realisation that if we didn’t, we would never see each other again. And Rachel and I were too close at many levels to allow that to happen.

  I wish we had never broken up. Then perhaps my life would have been totally different. And Rachel might have been alive today.

  46

  I knew I would have to feed the voracious beast inside me for the rest of my life, now that it had tasted blood. God had been kind enough to provide me with ample resources to cover my tracks but I still had to be very careful. The smallest error could trip me up, and then it would be curtains. Fortunately, I had developed the ability to plan meticulously and I used that to full advantage for each “event”, as I referred to the killings in my mind.

  The first thing was to avoid random encounters, which would be difficult to cover up later. I was lucky with Bholi because none of the other children who had seen me reported anything. I guess they couldn’t imagine a young boy like me being capable of something like that.

  The second and more important part of my modus operandi was to plan as much for the aftermath as for the actual event itself. This is where many of my illustrious friends have slipped up. I have always chalked out escape routes and alibis for myself, planted red herrings for the authorities and distributed adequate compensation to the right hands, all well in advance. It usually takes me months to prepare for each event. I don’t go ahead unless I am absolutely sure of a clean kill, as it were. That’s what has kept me out of harm’s way.

  Last but not least, I always prefer to choose people I already know, rather than strangers. My own experience has shown that not only does this make the whole process much simpler but paradoxically, it makes it easier to create diversions and avoid suspicion. And I find the change of expression on my victim’s face quite priceless—disbelief, shock and horror in that order.

  I realised this early on, when I killed someone I knew pretty well.

  There was an unrelated chain of events which led to the whole thing. Anyway, I managed to get her out on a Sunday, even though there were exams starting the next week. It was undoubtedly curiosity which made her agree to come.

  She had taken care to look good, as she invariably did when I was around.

  In her lilting voice, she asked, ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘Don’t you like the place, Jo?’

  She looked around and shrugged. ‘It’s nice but so desolate. Are you sure we’re safe here?’

  I smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’m here, aren’t I?’

  She nodded vaguely. ‘What is it you want to tell me that’s so important? I can’t take the suspense anymore.’

  I pointed towards a large tree. ‘Let’s go over there.’

  She was wearing a skirt which ended above her knees, and a tight sweater with nothing beneath except her bra. Her boobs were quite magnificent. They jutted proudly on her otherwise slender frame. As well-endowed women often do, she had a habit of thrusting her breasts out while walking, daring the world to ignore them.

  We sat down on a bed of freshly fallen leaves. She tucked her legs to one side but didn’t bother to pull down her skirt, which had rucked up to reveal her creamy thighs. I had anyway seen them many times before.

  She pointed to my rucksack and said, ‘What do you have in that?’

  I opened it and took out the knife. The broad blade gleamed dully.

  She laughed. ‘I know we’re inside a forest but are you planning to hunt here?’

  I placed the knife carefully next to me. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then why are you carrying that?’ I detected the first note of uncertainty in her voice.

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  She started to get up. ‘You’re really behaving weirdly today. Let’s just go back.’

  I held her hand and pulled her down gently. ‘Wait.’

  She sat down again, confusion and annoyance on her face.

  I continued. ‘I’m very sick, Jo.’

  Her expression immediately softened. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s becoming worse with each passing day.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  I gripped her arm and pulled her close. She screamed, ‘Stop! You’re hurting me.’

  I released her and said, ‘I guess I don’t know my own strength.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you like this. What’s wrong with you?’

  I quietly took the knife in my hand. The blood was pounding in my ears. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stretch this any longer.

  She grabbed my shirt. ‘Answer me!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jo.’ I brought up the knife in a scything motion and felt it slice open her belly as easily as gutting a fish.

  Her mouth opened in an O but no sound came from it. She looked down incredulously, and saw her intestines spilling out through the wide gash in the sweater. Reflexively, she tried to push them back in with both her hands.

  I unzipped my pants. She looked up and watched in silent horror. Then a low moan escaped her lips, and she sank to the ground in a heap. I walked up to where she lay. Turning her over, I gently arranged her
arms and legs in a cross.

  I stood between her spread legs and watched her blood seep into the ground. Her eyes were open. Even as her life ebbed away, she stared at me defiantly. Shock had numbed the pain and she was drawing on her last reserves to die bravely. I savoured her final moments but one part of me felt admiration for her. I had always liked her spunk.

  ‘I feel bad for you, Jo. I really do,’ I said, as I came.

  Her body convulsed one final time and she died.

  It took me another half hour to clean up and put the finishing touches. I then dragged Jo’s body the short distance to the lake and pushed it in.

  Everything was in place. I wouldn’t even be a suspect.

  47

  Neel

  I had decided to go for a few days to our family bungalow in Kumaon. It’s near a quaint village called Malla Ramgarh. There was no one there at the moment. I figured that after the recent happenings in Goa, the proximity to nature would do me good. I could maybe take a few photographs in the surrounding forests. Something I hadn’t done in a long time.

  But there was a job I needed to do first.

  Mrs Iyer had told me that the widow of Jo’s killer lived in Dharamsala. After her husband’s conviction, she had been ostracised in her native hamlet. It became impossible for her to live there. She took her children and moved around for a couple of years. And finally ended up in the town made famous by the Dalai Lama. She took up a job as a cook in one of the holiday resorts dotting the place. There were decent quarters on the premises for her to live in. The children were enrolled in a nearby government school.

  I wanted to meet this woman. Get her story firsthand. More importantly, I wanted to verify my hypothesis that Rachel had contacted her as well. The easiest option for me, logistically and otherwise, was to book myself in for a night at the resort. It was a nice property. Comprising a few cottages situated on a flat piece of land overlooking a deep valley. In the reception area, there was the customary photograph of the whole place covered in snow.

  I reached in the afternoon. It was only after dinner that I could meet the woman. She looked around fifty years old. I learnt later that she was just thirty-eight. The traumatic events of her life had understandably taken a great toll on her. Mentally and physically.

  When I introduced myself, her first words were, ‘My husband didn’t kill your friend, I swear to God.’

  I nodded and said, ‘I know.’ It seemed to put her a little at ease.

  ‘Your other friend, the girl, had also come to meet me. I told her the same thing.’

  ‘Was her name Rachel?’ She had answered my question without me having asked it.

  She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t remember. But she was very nice and listened patiently to everything I had to say.’

  I leaned forward. ‘Can you please tell me your story again?’

  She looked around. We were sitting in the restaurant. There was no one there except the two of us. I could hear someone washing dishes in the kitchen at the back.

  It took her twenty minutes to complete her sad tale. I didn’t interrupt. She spoke in a low whisper. The words came out hesitantly. Luckily I knew a smattering of the local dialect. Otherwise it would have been difficult to understand what she was saying.

  I knew most of it already from Mrs Iyer. But there was one interesting detail I wasn’t aware of. Apparently, the deal hadn’t been for a one-time payoff only. It also included a monthly allowance for the rest of her life. Which increased by ten per cent every year. Whoever was behind this had planned it well. Right down to adjusting for inflation.

  ‘How does the money come in?’ I asked.

  She said, ‘A packet of cash is left outside my doorstep on the first of every month. I have no idea who puts it there.’

  ‘Even here?’

  ‘Yes. I was told to send a postcard with my new address, every time I moved.’

  I was suddenly hopeful. ‘And where do you send it to?’

  ‘It’s a PO Box in Delhi.’

  He had taken great pains to keep his end of the bargain. And ensured that there wasn’t a trail to follow.

  ‘I now regret every penny I’ve taken from them,’ she said. ‘But what could I do? I have to bring up my five children.’

  ‘If the money is enough, why are you working?’

  She sighed. ‘I’ve stopped keeping it for over two years now. Every month, I take the packet and deposit it at the Hanuman temple nearby, unopened.’

  I thought desperately. Here at last was a link to the killer. I asked, ‘Do you have any idea at all who might be behind this?’

  She shook her head. ‘The man who had met my husband and talked him into this was definitely just a go-between. He didn’t even tell us his name. After the arrest, I never saw him again.’

  Something struck me. ‘Tomorrow’s the first of the month, right?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve no doubt that when I wake up in the morning, the money will be lying outside my door. It’s like clockwork. They’ve never forgotten yet.’

  I figured that her attempts to blow the lid off the whole arrangement were not yet known to them. Otherwise the money would have stopped coming. And her life wouldn’t have been spared. It seemed strange to me that a loose end like this had been left open. It would have been so easy to just bump off the woman.

  A crazy idea came to my mind.

  It was a stroke of luck that I happened to be there at the right time. I decided I would stake out her house that night. And see who came to deliver the money.

  I didn’t tell the woman anything, of course.

  48

  Omar

  After Roy disappeared, the school authorities duly informed his mother, and she took the first flight out of Germany. None of us had ever seen her before. I was expecting a tall, blond woman but she turned out to be auburn-haired and surprisingly petite. She had the same eyes as Roy.

  She was naturally heart-broken but remained stoic throughout her brief stay in India. Principal Marshall personally received her and explained to her exactly what had happened. She spoke to us separately, and we recounted the details of our trip to her again. I was worried about her reaction when we told her about getting Roy drunk but she didn’t say anything.

  The only time she broke down was when I went with her to clear out Roy’s things from his dorm. As we packed all his clothes and other items into his old trunk, she began sobbing. It was awkward, and I was unsure of what to say or do. Thankfully, she recovered after a few minutes and took out a tissue from her handbag to wipe her tears. She said, ‘I should have taken my boy with me to Dusseldorf when his father died. Then this wouldn’t have happened. If only I hadn’t allowed that old bitch to walk all over me…’ I presumed she meant Roy’s grandmother, her former mother-in-law.

  The bursar and I were with her when she met the police inspector in charge of Roy’s case. It was the same officer who had interrogated us. He was a coarse man with a huge belly and cunning pig eyes, chewing tobacco constantly. Since he couldn’t speak much English, I had to act as translator.

  The inspector began by saying that the police had conducted a thorough investigation—his team had examined the campsite for hours and questioned everyone connected to the event for days. He glared at me as he said that. He stated that he was convinced Roy had drowned in the river. The body would wash up somewhere eventually but there were so many corpses and animal carcasses floating in our rivers that there was no point hoping someone would report it. He spat out a mouthful of tobacco.

  I didn’t translate his last comment.

  Roy’s mother was quiet until the inspector finished. Then she said simply, ‘I know my son is not dead. I want you to find him for me.’ I still remember the way she said it, with absolute certainty. Her voice was strangely calm and confident—there was none of the hysterical irrationality that profound grief oft
en brings.

  Even the inspector was unnerved by her statement. He bowed his head and said in broken English, ‘I’m sorry, madam.’

  The case was closed and all formalities were completed. No death certificate was issued since the body hadn’t been found but Roy was considered dead for all practical purposes. Just before leaving, his mother left her address and phone number with me. She said, ‘If my son ever gets in touch with you, please contact me immediately.’

  After all these years, I thought about that again. How had she been so sure that Roy was alive?

  On an impulse, I decided to call up a friend.

  His name was Kabir Ahmed and he was a pretty senior guy in the Mumbai Crime Branch. I knew he had played a big role in cracking a major terrorist plot recently. He had told me that he got shot after a dramatic car chase in Colaba, and only his body armour had saved him. It was all over the press, though his name was never mentioned. That was so like him—he was a brilliant cop but shunned any kind of publicity.

  We met at a McDonald’s in Bandra. I would have preferred a bar but Kabir didn’t touch alcohol, not even beer. On the other hand, he loved fast food. I enjoy the occasional burger myself but don’t much care for the Indianised menu they have here.

  I was slightly late and Kabir was already sitting at a table, munching on a portion of fries. The place wasn’t as crowded as usual. He got up when he saw me and we shook hands rather formally. Kabir was a dour kind of guy but he looked genuinely pleased to see me.

  I smiled at him and said, ‘I’ll never understand your fascination for McDonald’s.’

  ‘Omar, on my policeman’s salary, I can’t afford all the fancy restaurants you go to.’ He waved his hands. ‘This is quick, tasty and cheap. Perfect for me.’

  I looked at him. He was tall and swarthy, with a hooked nose and thinning hair streaked with silver. He was almost fifty and must have been very fit once upon a time but had developed a small paunch now. He was dressed casually in a checked shirt and dark trousers.