It was unexpected to catch sight of Santosh strolling along the beach with an unidentified man. His companion was enjoying a kulfi — a traditional Indian ice cream — on a stick. The man was neatly dressed in a short-sleeved shirt, casual cotton slacks, and soft leather loafers. He wore all the accessories of a privileged lifestyle — designer sunglasses, expensive wristwatch, and pen. Such things usually acted like magnets for the pickpockets and petty thieves that dominated the Chowpatty stretch, but this particular man would never be a target. Every beggar, performer, and pickpocket in the crowd knew that it would be foolish to target the man in question.
There was only one peculiarity that made him distinct from the rest. It was the fact that his left arm had been amputated at the elbow. The story of the man’s rise to his present position was almost the stuff of legend and the street dwellers talked of it with awe.
Escaping from a drunk and violent father in the rural heartland, he had arrived in Mumbai on a train as an eleven-year-old boy. When he had got off the train at Mumbai Central station, he had been tired, disoriented, and broke. He had spent the next couple of hours begging for food until, miraculously, a middle-aged couple had approached him. They had given him hot tea and samosas, promising him that they would help him earn a better life. Unfortunately, he had not realized that the food was drugged.
He had soon been placed in a taxi and taken to one of the municipal hospitals of Mumbai, where a doctor had been bribed to amputate his healthy arm. He had been deliberately handicapped so that he could be used as an object of pity, begging at street corners, traffic lights, and the religious sites of Mumbai. This was part of an organized racket known as the begging syndicate, and the boy spent the next five years of his life doing precisely that. At the end of each day, his handler would round up the unfortunate kids he had put on the streets and siphon off the daily take, leaving them with next to nothing.
Unlike the hundreds of other kids who were mutilated, blinded, or maimed so that they could be used in this way, this particular boy had a unique talent. He was a great team leader. He was soon able to organize all the teenage boys of his area into a cohesive group and was thus able to send their handler packing. When the bosses of the syndicate got word of this, they sent in their thugs to intimidate the kids. It was the thugs who ended up with wounds inflicted by acid-filled bulbs flung at them by the kids. The boy who had started out as a victim had himself morphed into a gang leader.
The boy, however, had remained a Robin Hood at heart. Unlike the ruthless customs of the begging syndicate, the boy’s methods included sharing fifty percent of the take with each beggar. If the weekly take was lower than average, then the beggar would have to make up the loss the following week. Repeated drops in take meant expulsion from the group and being permanently barred from those areas that they controlled. In effect, it was old-fashioned carrot-and-stick theory, a management system of incentives and disincentives. The beggars who worked in his team were not allowed access to solvents, alcohol, or charras — Afghan hashish laced with opium — whereas under the syndicate glue-sniffing, drink, and drugs had been encouraged so as to keep the kids under control.
Over the next eight years, almost all key areas of Mumbai became his territory and the beggar unwittingly turned CEO. Santosh had met him while investigating a case during his days at RAW and had cultivated him as an important resource. The well-dressed amputee — along with his team of over ten thousand beggars — now constituted Santosh’s eyes and ears in Mumbai. He was the reason that Santosh could walk the streets at any time of the day or night without having to watch his back.
Santosh silently handed over a photograph of the cap-wearing individual caught on CCTV exiting Kanya Jaiyen’s hotel room. “Could you pass that around to the boys and let me know if this chap shows up?”
The man did not look at the photograph. He simply folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket.
“Any information regarding our mutual friend?” asked Santosh.
“That rascal Rupesh has tried everything in the book to break me but he has been spectacularly unsuccessful,” said the other man, grinning broadly. “He thinks that I don’t know about his dealings on the side with Munna. But I know for a fact that Munna wants to control not only Mumbai’s drugs, gambling, liquor, and prostitution but also the city’s begging network. I ain’t ceding my territory quite that easily.”
“Rupesh is on Munna’s payroll?” asked Santosh.
“Can’t be sure, but they have met a few times,” said the young man slyly, accepting a packet of cash from Santosh. “Munna met with a man who is known to be a member of the Indian Mujahideen. My boys told me that Munna told him to fuck off... almost threw him out of his car.”
Why would an Indian Mujahideen member wish to meet Munna? wondered Santosh as he continued strolling along the beach with his amputee associate.
Chapter 43
I allow the water to run. It fills the old tub noisily. The sound of splashing reverberates through the room. I shut off the faucet once the water reaches the brim and kneel down in front of the tub, placing my hands on its edge. I lean forward and allow my face to touch the water. I allow my head to be immersed entirely. I leave my eyes open so that I can see beneath the surface and feel the sensation. Baptism!
The truth is that human lungs were never designed to squeeze oxygen from water. But for someone struggling below the surface, it is an instinctive reaction to draw water into the larynx. The irony, of course, is that the water intake only serves to cut off the supply of life-giving oxygen, thus resulting in death. Birth, death, and rebirth... baptism!
I hold my breath to prevent the water from hitting my lungs and force myself to stay immersed. There is no struggle, no panic. I am fully conscious and entirely in control. I count the seconds quietly in my head. These days I can count to two hundred and fifty without passing out. I pull my head out of the water and suck in air gratefully.
One only realizes the value of air when one is deprived of it and one only begins to value life in the face of death.
I actually feel sorry for Jack Morgan. So many raging hormones within... desperately yearning for union with the warm, inviting body of dear Lara, only to be served up her cold corpse instead. Deprivation yet again. What a tragic turn of events!
I look up at my wall. The front-page story is fixed on it with sticky tape. I am in the limelight now... that gift to the editor did the trick. Someday I will be even more celebrated and they will worship me like a deity. My mother always predicted that I would be famous.
One day a neighborhood child snatched my toy. My mother held me to her chest and calmed me down. She then made me look into her mirror. “Do you see your face?” she asked. “It’s so very beautiful. It will take you places.”
But those moments were few and far between.
Yes, Mother, I am famous now. Just like you predicted. I am living my dream... or is it your nightmare?
Chapter 44
The mood at Private India was somber. The senior team had assembled in the conference room at Jack’s request.
“First of all, I must clarify the fact that I knew Lara from her days in LA,” he began. “My initial contact with her was on a case, but once the assignment was over we ended up becoming friends and soon we were romantically involved. There was absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do to protect Lara.”