Most of the development of the Mira-Bhayandar area had happened on the eastern side of the railway line, whereas to the west it was still covered by mangroves and salt pans. Rupesh brought the vehicle to a halt in the compound of a construction site on the east side. At this time of night it was empty.
Rupesh got out of the Jeep and signaled his subordinates to follow along with Bhosale. They passed cement mixers, earth movers, piles of construction materials, and stacked-up scaffolding beams until they reached a temporary construction elevator, which was little more than an iron cage boarded up with plywood.
Bhosale anxiously surveyed his surroundings, his eyes darting about like frightened mice, as the rickety contraption creaked its way up to the seventh floor — the last to be constructed thus far.
“Laundry time,” barked Rupesh. He took a large pinch of tobacco from his pouch and placed it in his mouth. The two constables removed Bhosale’s handcuffs, grabbed him by his underarms, and swung him over the side of the incomplete building.
“Hang him out to dry,” said Rupesh with a grin on his face. The constables allowed Bhosale to grasp the edge of the concrete slab with his fingers as his body dangled from the seventh floor.
Bhosale looked down at the distant earth beneath his suspended feet and felt a warm sensation in his crotch. He had peed involuntarily. “Help!” he pleaded, feeling his fingers losing strength. “I beg you to spare my life, sahib.”
Rupesh and his men watched Bhosale’s fingers turn white as he struggled to keep himself alive. Rupesh moved to the edge and gently placed one foot on the prisoner’s left hand.
“As of now, I have only rested my foot on your hand,” he said softly, enjoying the kick of the tobacco in his mouth. “In the next few seconds your fingers will feel my entire weight. I shall then step on your right hand. You will howl for mercy but I shall not listen. You are scum and I shall be overjoyed when you fall into your muddy grave.”
“Please, sahib,” howled Bhosale. “I’ll do anything. Mercy! Please!”
“I simply want your confession, nothing more, nothing less. Give me a full disclosure and I shall step away,” promised Rupesh. He then began to apply more pressure to Bhosale’s hand.
Chapter 50
The weather was hot and humid when Ragini Sharma, the opposition MLA — Member of the Legislative Assembly — from Alibaug constituency and a potential aspirant for the post of Minister for Women and Child Development, gathered along with thousands of women supporters at Chowpatty Beach and marched to Azad Maidan. The march was a protest against a violent gang rape that had taken place a few days previously in Mumbai. Ragini Sharma was demanding the resignation of the state’s Home Minister.
Ragini’s party only had permission to hold a protest meeting at Azad Maidan — an open area of ground in the heart of South Mumbai — not a rally. Ragini Sharma had chosen to defy that ruling and declared that her supporters would march along with her even though it would lead to road blockages and traffic snarls at several places during peak travel hours in the country’s commercial capital.
Addressing a crowd of over a hundred thousand supporters — men, women, and children — at Azad Maidan, Ragini Sharma took center stage with confidence and grace. After greeting her supporters, she said, “According to the government’s own statistics, a woman is now raped in India every twenty minutes. Even though the number of sex offenses has increased, the number of convictions is falling. Why do we have an incompetent Home Minister at the helm? Isn’t it time for us to send this spineless government packing?”
The crowd roared its approval as Ragini warmed to her theme. “Two days ago, a young woman of twenty was gang-raped by seven men from her neighborhood. Her attackers filmed the assault on their cell phones. Should we allow such monsters to walk the streets of Mumbai? When will we be in a position to guarantee safety and security to the women of this city?”
Ragini waved to the gathered crowd and raised her folded hands in a gesture of humility. She knew that this political rally was a reaffirmation of her own strength. Assembly elections in the state were less than a year away and Ragini realized that she stood a fighting chance of becoming an influential voice in the fractured political landscape.
She looked at her watch. She had to be back at her constituency within a couple of hours. She nodded to her team that it was time to bring the public meeting to an end. Toward the rear of the crowd stood a young man dressed simply in an open-collar shirt, jeans, sneakers, and cap. He realized that Ragini Sharma’s public gathering was winding down and decided that he needed to move quickly so that he could reach her destination before she did.
Chapter 51
The relationship between hunter and prey is unique. It’s almost like unrequited love because one party hardly feels anything at all. Ask a stalker about his relationship with the one he stalks and you will begin to understand the intense yearning that I have to live with.
I have been stalking you but you do not seem to notice my presence. What a shame! Later tonight, my face will be firmly emblazoned on the retinas of your eyes. You will be incapable of forgetting it — forever.
I was seated in the visitors’ gallery of the Legislative Assembly when you rose to address the speaker during question hour. I was among the crowd that listened to you with rapt attention at Azad Maidan. You have so much concern in your heart for the poor and downtrodden women of Mumbai! Your words almost brought tears to my eyes! You know that I’m fibbing, right? Just like I know that you don’t give a rat’s ass about the exploited women who live in this hellhole.
I was way ahead of your car with the flashing red beacon as I drove from the public meeting to your constituency home in Alibaug, on the outskirts of Mumbai. So very nice of you to drop in and check on your constituents. I wonder how many of them will attend your funeral, Ragini Sharma?
I am quietly working along with the team that is planting saplings in the front garden of your bungalow. Luckily, all the workers are temporary hires and do not recognize each other. I am wearing a casual labourer’s dirty clothes and my head is covered with a soiled cap to protect me from the harsh sun. I ensure that I keep my cap lowered so that my face remains mostly hidden from the prying eyes of the policemen in your security detail. I am invisible to you and your men.
Your arrival in the constituency results in a long line of people queuing up to request favors and dispensations. It is late by the time you retire for the night. By that time I have already moved into your bedroom.
You are completely unaware of my presence. A good hunter must wait patiently for hours, not allowing the prey to pick up the slightest suspicious scent. I am lying in wait for you — right under your bed — up toward the headboard so that my feet are not visible.
Your maid walks in to deliver your customary glass of milk and then leaves. You toss and turn for a while, reading a Mills & Boon in bed, but after twenty minutes you switch off the lights.
I wait for another hour to ensure that you are fast asleep before I crawl out from under the bed. In one rubber-gloved hand I hold a yellow scarf and in the other I carry a rolled-up wall calendar and a specimen bag. It’s time for me to get some work done.
Sleep, whore, sleep, slut... deeper... deeper... breathing shut.
Sleep, bitch, sleep, cunt... deeper... deeper... while I hunt.
Chapter 52
Yellow garrote strangler arrested, screamed the headline of the Afternoon Mirror. The byline was that of Bhavna Choksi’s chain-smoking editor, Jamini.