Chapter 91
They’d left immediately after breakfast, Isha, and Pravir, happy and content. Thankfully there had been no discussion of Santosh’s extended absence from home and they’d enjoyed a wonderful break at a resort recommended by...
Rupesh’s sister.
Yes, Rupesh’s sister. Santosh and Rupesh were the best of friends: Rupesh had been godfather to his son, even filling in for Santosh at school events.
They drove. The lush green hills were partially covered by monsoon clouds and the gentle spray of rain made the view even more magical. His son, entirely absorbed in his hand-held game, was seated in the rear seat of the car as Santosh drove, wondering why he had allowed himself to ignore the most important people in his life. He vowed that he would give more time to his wife and son, become more disciplined about his own habits and split his time more evenly between work and family. He needed to take care of himself too. Exercise, eat healthily, and cut down on the alcohol.
He cast looks at Isha, seated next to him. She seemed worried, almost as though she were trying to tell him something. When she noticed him staring at her, she smiled self-consciously. Her hands were in her lap, the fingers of her left hand fiddling with the wedding ring on her right.
“Papa, look at my score!” cried his son from the rear of the car. He crouched in the footwell and held the game through the space between their seats, urging his father to take a look.
And because the boy was excited. And because, even though it was just a silly game, Santosh wanted to be a good father and tell him well done, he took his eyes off the road to look at the game.
Just for a second. That’s all it was. Enough to miss the bend.
“Watch out, Santosh!” screamed his wife, and he stamped on the brakes and wrenched at the wheel and a million thoughts crowded his head but none were enough to save them and the car spun into the thick trunks of the banyan at the crest of the turn, its horn stuck and blaring like a piercing scream.
Santosh did not know how he reached the hospital or who took him there. He had a vague recollection of dark corridors and of being wheeled on a gurney into the operating theater. He lost count of the days and nights that he was in the hospital. He also lost track of waking and dreaming, the two states mingling effortlessly to make his dreams seem eerily real and his reality a jumbled dream. The only recurrent theme was of a policeman — sometimes at his bedside, sometimes running alongside his gurney, sometimes towering over him — holding a pair of handcuffs and saying, “You killed them, you drunk bastard!”
Both dead. Him the only survivor. What he would have given for it to be the other way around.
Slowly, Santosh returned to the present. He had been staring without seeing, his gaze on the barrel of the gun, but now his eyes rose slowly to Rupesh.
“You were the cop who accused me of being drunk?” he said dreamily.
Rupesh shook his head as though dealing with a fool. “You never had time for them!” he sneered. “I was the one who was always there for them. Attending your son’s school play, lending money to Isha when you disappeared for days, comforting her when your uncaring and selfish attitude was too much for her to bear. They became my life, and you killed them.”
“You were having an affair with her?” asked Santosh quietly. He was in a state of shock. Later the news would hit home, and he’d wail with the pain of knowing Isha had been unfaithful. But right now there was nothing. Just numbness and shock.
“She was going to leave you,” said Rupesh. “But before she could do it, you cut her life short.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Rupesh,” said Santosh.
Or maybe it was.
“Papa, look at my score!”
Rupesh scoffed. “You were never there. And when you were, you were drunk. You killed them before they died.”
“If you hated me so much then why did you visit me at the hospital?” asked Santosh.
“You were in a coma for days,” replied Rupesh. “I came so I could ease my own grief by blaming you. I would stand by your bed and tell you that you had killed them. I used to hold out my handcuffs and imagine myself cuffing you.”
“You killed them, you drunk bastard,” said the cop, holding out a pair of handcuffs to Santosh.
“Isha was the finest woman I ever knew. You didn’t deserve her. She made the biggest mistake of her life when she chose you over me.”
Santosh’s head was spinning. He had met Isha through Rupesh’s sister. They had all become friends and would often go out to movies or for meals together. Santosh had never realized Rupesh had feelings for her.
“Look at you,” spat Rupesh. “Look at you now. You’re a lame drunk.”
“The doctor says my limp is psychosomatic,” said Santosh. Rupesh gave a short, contemptuous laugh but Santosh continued, “He says I don’t need the cane, but I do. The pain in my leg is as real as the pain of their loss that I feel every single day, and none of the hatred you feel for me could ever be as strong as the hatred I feel for myself. You say I was responsible. Well, maybe I was, but not because I was drunk, Rupesh, you’re wrong about that. But I made an error of judgment, that’s right. I made an error of judgment and two people I loved died. If you want revenge, you’re getting it, because if you kill me now I suffer now, but by living I suffer every day.”
Rupesh gestured with the gun, backing Santosh further toward the edge of the pit. Overhead the vultures circled, cawing, dark shapes against a gray sky, around and around. Below them in the pit, the silence of death.
“I’m afraid I have a taste for vengeance, Santosh. You remember my sister, found dead at Andheri railway station,” said Rupesh.
Santosh remembered with a twinge of shame. Too wrapped up in his own grief, he’d had no room to admit more. Hadn’t contacted Rupesh; hadn’t attended the funeral.
“Two men had taken turns raping and torturing her. Turned out they were both seventeen. They would have served three years in a remand home. Just three years for what they did to her. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“So you went to Munna?”
“I did,” replied Rupesh.
“What did he want in return?” asked Santosh.
“Nothing,” answered Rupesh. “He said he valued my friendship.”
Santosh gave a short laugh. How many times had he heard that before?
“The warden was on Munna’s payroll,” continued Rupesh. “When the boys reached the remand home, they were picked up by Munna’s men. They were taken to his weekend retreat on the outskirts of Mumbai where they were castrated in front of me. Munna had them thrown into his private lake — infested with crocodiles.”
Santosh nodded sadly. “And now you’re in deep with Munna?”
“We value each other’s friendship.”
“Then you know he has links with the Mujahideen? They could be planning an attack, Rupesh.”
Rupesh nodded. “They are. Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night,” Santosh gasped. “Rupesh, we can’t allow this to happen. Please, why are we standing here when we should be out there?” He indicated across the city he loved and hated in equal measure, a city he’d once pledged to protect. And though he’d since left the Indian intelligence service, he had never rescinded that pledge, not in his heart. “We need to stop this, Rupesh,” he urged, rapping the point of his cane on the stone for emphasis.
Rupesh snorted. “God, you’re so arrogant. Why do you think I need your help? I’m quite capable of handling this myself, thanks for the kind offer. I can talk to Munna. I can talk to Nimboo Baba. They listen to me.”