The Price You Pay

by Somnath Batabyal

  ‘Because I’ll set Ombir on you if you write a word about this.’ Both men chuckled and the bed creaked. ‘But really,’ Mayank said, ‘this is common knowledge. It’s hardly newsworthy.’

  ‘What you mean is, everyone else knows the boundaries.’ Abhishek was still smarting from Uday’s earlier attack.

  ‘Let’s not get into that now,’ Mayank replied.

  ‘Tired?’ Abhishek asked.

  ‘Yes, suddenly. Whatever happens, tomorrow is going to be a long day. Try to sleep.’

  A

  bhishek woke with a start. He had slumbered fitfully for most of the night but just as the dark winter sky had started to brighten, he had fallen into a deep comatose sleep. The first thing he saw was Mayank sitting at the foot of the bed, loading his pistol. It was 7 a.m.

  ‘They didn’t come?’ Abhishek sat up, instantly awake.

  ‘We have to plan as if they will. Get ready quickly. Breakfast in ten minutes.’

  They ate in the room while Rana, who had joined them, gave a quick update. ‘We are taking up positions in the hotel and outside. We’ll replace the suitcase in the room opposite. Abhishek, you stay here and keep a watch on the door through this keyhole. If someone comes up, don’t do anything. Do not go out, do not call anyone. Come, Mayank.’

  For the next hour, Abhishek kept his eye to the keyhole. The question resurfaced: What would happen if he were to remove a bundle or two of the cash? No one would know. It was a passing thought, a momentary deviation, quashed immediately.

  Soon his eyes started to wander from the keyhole. If the kidnappers came, there were others positioned downstairs who would take action. Rana might as well have asked him to go back to bed.

  The telephone rang, piercing the stillness of the room and startling Abhishek. It was past 9 a.m. Abhishek had dozed off for more than an hour, and his neck hurt. He sped across the room to pick up the receiver. It was Rana, his voice a low urgent whisper laced with panic: ‘A guy is coming up. We think he is the driver, so don’t stop him.’ The cop must have been really tense if he had imagined even for a moment that Abhishek would go anywhere near him.

  He resumed his position at the keyhole just as the man came up the stairs and entered the room, closing the door behind him. He emerged a few minutes later and Abhishek could hear the sound of the wheel-less suitcase scraping across the hall and bumping down the stairs.

  After ten pensive minutes, the phone rang again. ‘Come down,’ Rana said. Relieved at the prospect of joining the others, Abhishek rushed out. There were only five policemen at the reception. The rest, Rana explained, were tailing the man’s car.

  Abhishek suddenly found that his knees were shaking. He sat down on the sofa and Rana crouched next to him. ‘The man is probably just a taxi driver, sent to do the pick-up and settle bills. Ombir posed as the manager but couldn’t get anything out of him. He had to be careful not to make him suspicious, just in case.’

  The officer’s phone rang. ‘Yes, Ombir?’ He listened for a few moments. ‘Okay, I am on my way.’ He turned to Abhishek. ‘The driver has stopped the car a few kilometres away, in the middle of a market. You stay here. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  For the next four hours Abhishek sat alone at the reception, empty now except for one constable and the exhausted manager, neither of whom seemed keen on a conversation. Abhishek consumed three cups of tea and finished an entire packet of cigarettes before Surinder dashed up to him. ‘Come quickly. Sir is calling you.’

  They drove to the marketplace. It wasn’t overly crowded, though it bore signs that a great wave of buyers had recently passed through. Stray dogs fought in clusters over discarded food scraps, tired shopkeepers and their attendants had ceased to bother with the afternoon hagglers and an army of ragpickers systematically combed the dusty roads for what could be scavenged and perhaps salvaged.

  Surinder looked out of the window for a moment and pointed towards a lane of pottery shops. Up ahead, hands linked behind him, Rana was chatting with a shopkeeper.

  As instructed, Abhishek walked up the lane and passed Rana. He continued slowly, stopping at shops and looking at flower vases. He paused to watch a potter at his wheel.

  ‘Abhishek,’ he heard Rana beside him. ‘I am a bit worried. Listen carefully. The driver has been waiting in this market and no one has turned up. Ombir thinks that someone might have been watching the car and seen us lurking. So I’m pulling the team off the streets. All of us look like fucking policemen. You don’t. I’m going to ask you to keep an eye on that car. Stay close and if someone comes and talks to the driver or the car leaves, all you have to do is call me. We’ll be nearby, so don’t worry.’

  Abhishek was seriously worried. He knew it showed on his face and he made no attempt to hide it. This was no time for machismo.

  Rana saw his expression but ignored it. He had a kidnapped boy to think about. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, and was off.

  Abhishek looked around. There was no sign of any other policemen. He scouted for a tea stall from where he could watch the car. He could see the driver, stretched out on the front seat, his feet sticking out of the window. The man could not possibly know what was in the suitcase. No way would he sleep like that if he knew, Abhishek thought.

  An hour passed. He had finished three packets of Britannia biscuits when a man finally approached the vehicle. Abhishek froze. He watched as the man woke the driver, spoke with him briefly and, after scanning the market, got into the front seat. Abhishek pulled out his mobile. ‘Fuck!’ he swore aloud. No signal.

  He ran towards a phone booth and woke the man at the counter.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I have to make a local call.’

  ‘No local call. Only long distance,’ the man said irritably, upset at having been roused from his afternoon nap.

  ‘This is urgent,’ Abhishek pleaded. His one fucking task, and he was floundering like an imbecile. Anger, quite rare in Abhishek, took over. ‘Listen to me,’ he said in a different tone. ‘Delhi Police. Now give me the bloody phone.’ He grabbed the receiver and called Rana who took it on the first ring. ‘Someone just came. They have left in the car,’ he blurted.

  ‘Yes, we’ve seen him, and I can see you. Mayank is following the car. Ombir is coming to pick you up.’

  Abhishek threw down a ten-rupee note and rushed out. A Maruti van drew up and Ombir, sliding the door open, almost dragged him in.

  There were four policemen inside. Abhishek squeezed into the back seat between Ombir and Surinder. Not a word was exchanged as they drove through the narrow street until Mayank called to report that the car they were tailing had suddenly taken a U-turn. It would be crossing them any minute.

  ‘Bhenchod, what is he doing?’ Ombir punched the seat in front as the car went past. It re-entered the market and stopped at a fruit-juice stall. They followed and parked a hundred metres ahead.

  All five heads in the van turned to observe the two men who had wandered over to the juicewallah. ‘They are drinking fruit juice!’ Ombir was incredulous. ‘Motherfucker, I haven’t eaten the whole fucking day and this bastard is drinking juice. Fuck it, we are taking him. Turn around.’ He checked his pistol. Surinder grasped what looked like a sub-machine gun.

  A few metres before they reached the car, the driver switched off the engine and the van glided forward noiselessly. At the same time, Ombir slid open the passenger door.

  Both men had their backs to the street when the unmarked police van came up behind them. Abhishek saw Ombir reaching for the suspected kidnapper. One hand grabbed his belt from below, the other his jacket collar. The officer almost lifted the man off the ground, the juice glass flying in the air, and the next moment he was on the floor of the van. Surinder, meanwhile, had jumped out and bundled the driver into the back of the van.

  It was over in less than a minute and, before the astonished bystanders could react, the motley group was speeding away. The radio operator held the man down, while Ombir dealt quic
k, sharp blows to the man’s stomach and ribs. For a few moments, the only audible sounds were the man’s grunts and gasps, until Ombir hissed into his ear: ‘Tell me where the boy is or I’ll kill you.’ Abhishek absolutely believed that he would. So did the man, who croaked, ‘In Ghaziabad. He’s in Ghaziabad.’

  ‘Stop the car,’ Ombir commanded. ‘Abhishek, tell Rana sir we are heading to Ghaziabad. Bring him and Mayank sir there.’

  Once again, the reporter found himself alone on the street. He began to walk towards the market, trying to connect to Rana’s mobile. Suddenly he heard his name being shouted.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Rana asked, running to meet him.

  Abhishek explained quickly.

  ‘Oh fuck. They took him in without asking me. Okay, get in.’

  ‘Ghaziabad,’ the anxious policeman told the driver, climbing in the front seat. He turned to look at Abhishek. ‘Explain to me again what happened. No rush. Tell me in detail.’

  As he explained how they had followed the car, Mayank’s phone call to Ombir and the sudden decision to take the men, Abhishek felt sorry for Rana. Even he knew more than the team leader, who had simply been abandoned. Ombir had taken over and made the vital decisions.

  When Abhishek finished, a sardonic, angry smile spread over the policeman’s face. ‘So Ombir decided to attack because the man was drinking juice while he was hungry. Great. That’s fucking great.’

  Rana called Mayank and updated him. ‘Bring the rest of the team to Ghaziabad.’ As soon as he hung up, his phone rang. ‘Yes, Ombir?’ He listened for a while. ‘Make sure the boy is safe. Else both of us are against the wall.’ Cutting the line, he lit a cigarette. ‘The man’s confessed he has an accomplice, his older brother. Apparently he is not with the boy right now. If that’s true, the boy should be fine.’

  For the next half-hour, as twilight set in, they drove in silence, each lost in his own thoughts: Rana in helpless fury at being undermined again, Abhishek replaying the methodical ferocity of the violence he had just witnessed.

  As the car entered Ghaziabad, the police officer’s phone rang again. He listened for a moment and then let out a relieved, ‘Thank God. Shabash, Ombir, well done. Give me the exact address … okay.’ He hung up, and shouted, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ thumping the driver on the back and turning back to shake Abhishek’s hand. ‘The boy is safe.’ He called Uday.

  W

  hen Abhishek entered the darkened room, the boy was lying buried under a mass of blankets. He looked up fearfully, and sank his head back in the pillow. ‘Please don’t hurt me, uncle.’ The whisper was barely audible.

  Abhishek went and sat beside him. ‘I’m not going to hurt you at all,’ he said gently. ‘I’m part of the police team, Rudra. I’ll turn on the table lamp here so you can see me clearly.’

  The boy was sixteen, Abhishek had been told, but looked older now. Three weeks of captivity had left him with uneven facial hair and sunken desperate eyes, adding years to his face.

  He grasped the hand offered to him. ‘I can’t believe you’ve come for me. I never thought I would see my parents again. I really did not. I was so scared, so scared. They beat me every day.’

  Rudra had been locked up in the kidnappers’ family home, which had been empty for a few months while their parents were away visiting a relative. Ombir had discovered the boy, bound hand and foot, inside a tiny room under the staircase which served as the household shrine. ‘I used to look at Lakshmiji and pray to be rescued,’ Rudra told Abhishek listlessly. ‘They did not take me to the toilet. I was forced to do it there, in front of the gods.’

  He was fed once a day. They used to remove his gag but didn’t free his hands. ‘I ate like a dog. I felt like throwing up. They wouldn’t even wash my face.’

  Abhishek felt a pang of guilt. Should he let the boy be? Should he take him to the bathroom, get him to shower? He shouldn’t be the one hearing this; he wasn’t trained. But the interview with Rudra, moments after a police team rescued him, would complete the scoop.

  Rana and Abhishek had arrived ten minutes after the boy had been found. Ombir and Surinder had greeted them at the entrance, touching Rana’s feet as a mark of deference. Abhishek saw how quickly the officer forgot, or at least pretended to, their gross transgressions.

  Everyone had gathered in the living room: Rana, Ombir and Mayank on a sofa, Abhishek and the constables standing, and the kidnapper sitting crossed-legged on the floor, a pistol casually trained on his drooping head.

  Ombir updated the others on what he had learnt. ‘They are brothers, sir, Sandeep and Shekhar Chauhan,’ he said, addressing Rana. ‘Got the idea from the newspapers. First attempt; complete amateurs. The plan was hilarious. This fucker,’ Ombir slapped the man across the face, ‘pretended to be a girl when calling that idiot – arre, what’s his name … yes, Rudra. Poor fucker got conned. Ai, show how you did the girl’s voice.’ Another slap.

  Sandeep spoke in a nasal croak: ‘Hello. How are you?’

  ‘We’ll see how good a girl you are when you dance for us tonight,’ a constable sniggered.

  ‘Why did they target this kid?’ Rana asked Ombir.

  ‘This one’s son went to the same school as Rudra,’ he answered, knocking Sandeep on the head. ‘They heard of the fancy cars and clothes and birthday parties. First they scoped out the father’s shop and then got the boy’s number. Did you take it from your son’s phone?’

  Sandeep remained quiet and then as Ombir’s giant hand came towards him, said, ‘Yes. But I swear, he did not know.’

  ‘How long did you do this for?’ Rana asked.

  ‘He told me that he kept calling for over two weeks,’ Ombir replied. ‘The boy finally agreed to meet and they invited him to the All India Institute of Medical Sciences. They got him to come one evening when it was dark and busy. He approached the car as instructed, expecting a pretty face. Instead, these two jumped out.’

  The reporter posed his final question to Rudra. ‘Did you really believe it was a girl on the phone?’

  ‘It was. It was a girl. I am sure,’ the boy replied, sobbing.

  Enough, Abhishek thought. He had more than sufficient material in any case. Outside, he could hear joyous cheers. Uday Kumar must have arrived.

  ‘C

  ome, Abhishek, get into the car,’ Uday said, before issuing his final instructions. He ordered two policemen to remain at the house in case the brother returned. ‘Rana, Mayank, come to the office. Ombir, you too. Surinder, take that motherfucker to the Darya Ganj lock-up. And the driver too, but make sure he’s treated well. We’ll need him as a witness. I’ll see you all at the office.’

  Uday joined Abhishek in the back seat of the car. ‘So what do you think, Mr Dutta? I hope your opinion about Uday Kumar has changed now.’

  Abhishek looked at Uday’s smug face and smiled. ‘Great operation, sir. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. Where shall I drop you?’

  ‘I’ll go to the Express office, sir. I can get off at the police headquarters. It’s just past ten. Enough time to file the story tonight.’

  ‘Story? What story? I have to write the arrest report first. You can’t file anything before that.’

  Abhishek was stunned. ‘But tomorrow everyone will know.’

  ‘Yes, there will be a press conference. No exclusives on this one.’

  ‘My boss will be upset,’ Abhishek tried a weak, final plea. ‘He doesn’t even know where I’ve been.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Amir. I’ll talk to him. You stay in Mayur Vihar, don’t you? I’ll drop you there. Go and rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  12

  H

  i. Havent forgotten u. Coffee tomorrow? Monika xxx

  In the early hours of 30 November 2011, three days and three agonizing nights after meeting Monika Mathur, Amit Mahajan received a text from her.

  He had been close to despair, and had willed himself the previous evening not to go looking for her at the Sheraton. Instead, he had i
nvited two friends home and, over violent computer games, had dismissed her face; shot and lacerated it on screen.

  Late in the night, when Amit was alone in bed, she had come back to smile at him, unblemished, promising him unthinkable pleasures, her bosom heaving and comforting. He had sunk his head in, breathing the rich chocolate aroma of her skin, begging forgiveness for his earlier cruelty.

  As with everything that had happened between Archana, alias Monika, and Amit, the text message had been thought through carefully. The spotter outside the Mahajans’ house informed Imran that the boy had chosen to stay indoors. After a brief chat with Babloo, Archana had decided that her target’s misery should not be allowed to transform into something beyond her control.

  The absence of the boy’s parents had complicated the situation. Now everything had to be planned meticulously to coincide with their return to India. Babloo’s man at the Central Bureau of Investigation had informed him that the government would force the Mahajans to come back within a month. Until then, Archana’s game with their son had to be played out with care.

  She had wanted to understand the layout of the house, map the getaway, construct in elaborate detail, as she always did, every step of the operation. But Babloo had been adamant that she visit the house only once, on the day of the kidnapping. He did not want regular sightings of her by the house staff. By bribing a New Delhi Municipal Corporation clerk, he had instead procured for her the floor plans of the opulent two-storey house. He was also using his local contacts to plant men in the family’s security and chauffeur services, and hoped that the groundwork would be completed within a month. Until then, Amit Mahajan had to be kept interested and restrained. Archana knew of the dangers with the young ones: give in too easily and they lose interest; keep away for too long and offended pride finds succour in other distractions. The middle-aged were easier; they could not, for a long time, believe their luck.

  ‘You just don’t want me to fuck him, no?’ Archana had teased her mentor when refused permission to visit the house.