A Frenchman in Mumbai

The same story is also printed on Sulekha

Merd! She moved too soon this time from the intersection of the cross wires. I see her again, then she melts into the crowd, then I catch a glimpse of her flowing red dress from somewhere in the crowd as it sways in the breeze and then disappears. The heat up here is becoming too intense for me. This Turban in my head is not helping me either. I cannot wait to get back to my Chateau in rural peace of Southern France, once I complete this assignment. I have had my fill of skyscrapers and pollution, both abundant in this Indian city.

I have been pawed by beggars and street urchins, the moment I arrived at Santa Cruz. Guess these people do not see light shinned people that often. So they touch you, just to ensure that your skin feels like theirs and you are like them. I wondered then from their body odors, how often some of them took a bath. (I must admit that many of my countryman also have the same ‘aroma’.)

Why did I undertake this assignment? I love what I do for a living. That’s all there is to it. I like to believe that I am like those characters in a John Woo cinema, with all their style, but minus a trench coat. He really romanticized people like me, and what we do for a living. Who would have thought it would take a Chinese director from Hong Kong teach Hollywood, a thing or two in adding style to action flicks.

If this were not my calling I probably would have been a movie critic, like that flabby American who reviews movies every weekend. (I have seen his programs each time I visit the United States.) I could have been him, but this is my niche (I love that word.). This is my raison d’etre. I like the travel that comes into the job. I like the high life of expensive hotel rooms and loose women, so many of them, that I rarely buy my sex.

I am not particularly materialistic but there is one thing I take along with me. In fact, a large part of my reputation was built because this marvelously engineered implement. It was hand crafted by a genius in Geneva, a guy with an exclusive clientele. It is made of a special fiberglass and plastic both of which make it light and help me get through any metal detector undetected. One can trust the Swiss to handcraft anything, watches, knives or firearms.

The telescopic sight is not handcrafted by this guy. He imports them from Germany. They are scratch proof. I can vouch for that. I have carried this thing from country to country, and put it through enough torture but the sight is as clear as it was, the day I bought it.

Assignments come a couple of times a year, an email, and sometimes I even get snail mail that someone seeks my services. Mine is probably one of the few businesses that still use old-fashioned letter writing.

If I decide to take on the job, a payment should be made to a Swiss account and I collect. If the payment does not come, the payee becomes my next assignment. Surprisingly, there is honor among those who give me such assignments and only once have I had to go after such a deadbeat. This person was a government official of a third world country.

Well, how did I end up on a rooftop in Bombay, dressed as a Sikh? It began with a call I received a couple weeks ago. The guy on the other end said that he was an acquaintance of Vineet Modi.

‘Bonjour, I am Bill Gates. You are interrupting my dinner.’ I replied. Vineet Modi was the latest Sillicon Valley Computer Company founder who was featured in the Forbes richest person list this year. I keep track of these things. One has to stay informed, n’est pas?

‘Name your price, Monsier Fontane,’ he said.

‘How did you get my number, Vineet, I replied’

There was laughter at the other end.

‘Very perceptive, Pierre. Comment allez vous ?’Said Vineet. ’I made a few calls, came across your name, checked references and, voila!’

‘Ok, You can skip the French. If you’ve checked my background, you probably know that my mother was British.’ I said ‘ I charge a flat rate. ‘ I then quoted an obscene amount.

‘It will be wired to your account this Friday.’

Was this guy for real?

‘All of it?’ I asked, a failed attempt to hide my shock.

‘We both have one thing in common, Pierre, hope you don’t mind my calling you Pierre? Do you? Both of us take no prisoners.’

‘Ok, Tell me about the job?’ I said. “What must I do for you, Mr Modi? Steal the Mona Lisa?’

‘Not that hard a job.’ said Modi.’ I want you to kill my ex-wife. She’s turned out to be an expensive trophy. I must have let her off more gently. Anyway, you must check your email immediately for more details. And Bon Appetite, Monsieur Pierre, enjoy your dejeuner. I now have to bid you Au Revoir.’

‘Charming asshole,’ I thought, in English.

…..

I had to think of an entry strategy into India. It came to me, literally waking me up from sound sleep. I had heard of a lot of Sikhs who lived in Canada. I needed a name. After a quick search on Google, I came up with Mantej Lodi. Yes, I know. It rhymes with Modi. The Turban would be a nice touch. I would pack it with all the medium sized parts of my most priced procession. The rest of it would travel in my hand luggage, attracting no attention

I could easily get bullets in India, Modi assured me and also gave me a contact, a sleaze-ball I met on one dirty, deserted side street earlier this morning. I could have been mugged! My weapon could have got into dangerous hands! I laughed at the thought. The other reason I chose to be a Sikh from Canada, more precisely Quebec, was because I did not have to fake my thick French accent.

I have now stayed in Mumbai for three days. According to the email, Modi’s estranged wife, Rita was staying at the Taj, the one overlooking the India Gate. She was on a three-week vacation in India, the first week of which, she was spending in Mumbai.

I arrived at Santa Cruz two days ago. The customs check was, pardon the expression a literal Carte Blanche. I decided to book a room at the Taj and then to follow her and then …I’ll get a chance.

I took a taxi from the airport. The ride was an education in itself. The driver spoke good English and was an unemployed graduate who took to chaperoning to feed his family. As we stopped at a traffic light, there were guys carrying copies of ‘The Da Vinci Code’ and ‘Angels and Demons’. They were approaching the car, but the traffic light turned green and off we fled.

‘Bootlegged copies,’ Said the taxi man. ‘ at a fraction of the price. Dan Brown’s real enemies are not in the Vatican, but right here. He does not know the amount of money he looses from these illegal copies.’

The taxi man then told me that there was a small Jewish population in Mumbai, the descendants of some of the purest Jews in the world. He spoke of Zoroastrians, another small community that fled Iran during Arab invasions. They have a unique way of disposing off their dead. They used to feed their dead to vultures in a place called the Tower of Silence. But with the vulture population declining because of a certain drug, the tower of Silence is now equipped with solar panels to do the job. The Zoroastrians, he said worship fire and therefore cremation by fire was not an option.

He pointed to a sight. ‘That’s the Chatrapati Shivaji museum.’ he said. ‘It used to be called the ‘Prince of Wales Museum’, but they decided to name it after a great king who ruled this area.’

The next piece of trivia he gave me was absolutely fascinating. It was the puzzle of the Dabbawallas. These were a set of mostly illiterate people who ran a courier system to transport food from a residence to an office. It was as if they played a complex game of tag, where each guy carried a set of lunch boxes to a certain location and then the passed it onto another and the process continues until the lunch box finds its final destination. The fascinating part of this process was that they had almost a perfect success rate, and a lunch box almost never got lost or reached the wrong recipient. The mode of communication in this courier system is a set of symbols. Teams from Harvard and MIT had come to Mumbai to study the phenomenon of the Dhabbawalla.

Unfortunately, I had a job to do and decided not to get distracted from the task at hand. I had booked my room directly above Rita’s. After checking in, and setting my alarm, I crashed on the bed and slept like a baby.

I woke up the next morning and decided to follow my prey. I found her in the restaurant, having a continental breakfast. I decided to sit a few seats away from her, trying to get an earful of her plans for the next few days, when she spoke to one of the waiters. Tourists always do that.

I chatted a bit with the waiter, told him that I was from Quebec and had promised myself this trip to India. No, I told him. I spoke no Hindi. I wonder if she had heard me, for she was within earshot of my table. If she did notice me, she did not show any signs. After breakfast, went on a short walk by the waterfront, viewing the boats on the Arabian Sea.

Rita did a small sightseeing trip that morning, visiting the ‘Hanging Gardens’, a glorified park over a raised tank, and modeled after its namesake in Babylon. She then wandered off into another park beside the Gardens that had a tall tower, shaped like a shoe. This place was called ‘Old Lady’s Shoe’, apparently a tribute to the protagonist in a nursery rhyme.

The views of the sea from here are spectacular. ‘That’s Marine Drive.’ a man was another, pointing to the road that past along right next to the beach. You must see it in the night when lights light up the whole place. It looks like and therefore, its called the ‘Queen’s Necklace’. Rita returned to the Taj around lunchtime and did not seem to leave her room for the rest of that day.

Yesterday she took the early walk again. She took the very same route. This probably would be her ritual during her stay. This was an opportunity presenting itself. I had to find a rooftop that overlooked her route. A rooftop in Mumbai was as easy to find as snow in Siberia. I took the stairwell all the way to the terrace. I was the only soul around. It was the perfect spot.

That brings us to today. Here I am sitting in searing heat this morning, my brow full of sweat and the turban doing nothing helpful to make this heat bearable. I see her dress again and this time when she comes out of that crowd. I know I’ll have a clear shot. I see her again, but for some reason, she appears a little more heavy…

I suddenly hear a slight whizzing sound and then feel a searing pain on my shoulder blade. I drop my riffle. Then another whizzing sound and I feel another sharp pain on my lower back. I crumble to the floor, trying hard to stay focused.

‘So, how much is Vineet paying you?’ I hear a voice I had heard before. ‘The bastard did not have the balls to do it himself and so he sends you to do his dirty work for him.

I turn onto my back slowly to see Rita standing over me. Her hand cradles a ‘dressy’ gold pistol, with a tiny silencer on it.

‘How…’ is all I can manage.

‘ I was on to you, the moment I heard you talk to the waiter.’ she said.

‘You are not from Quebec.’ I went to school in McGill University in Montreal and know the Canadian French accent and you sir, don’t have one. I knew then that you were lying. My feelings were confirmed, when I noticed you following me. Then I decided to put myself in your shoes. This is something a slime like Vineet would do.

I took a shooting class at Vineet’s country club and know a little about guns and getting a clear shot. Had I been you, I too would have picked this exact spot to finish the job.’

‘Who is ..’ I struggle to mouth the word.

‘the woman in my outfit?’, she completes my sentence. ‘That was my decoy while I made it up here.’ she says.

‘And one other thing, I just thought I’d tell you. I have big plans for my husband. When I go back home, I am going to use the American legal system to take away all the things that matter to him. ‘

The piston is only inches away from my face. Time suddenly seems to have slowed down as it supposedly does in these moments. I can see her finger tighten on the trigger. At least, I learnt a lot about Bombay. I feel a silly smile spread across my face.

Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Modi, for a great vacation. I got to see and learn so much about Mumbai. Rita is coming there to thank you personally, on my behalf.

I hear Rita’s voice one last time.

‘Mon Cherie, your disguise sucks!’

Then I hear an explosion.

Read more...

Justice Beyond the Grave!

Part 2 of my 'Justice Series' on Sulekha.

Justice Beyond The Grave! by Rajiv Ramaratnam on Sulekha
.................................................
I have not met the grim reaper yet. I am beginning to think he is part of someone's creative imagination. Yes. I can still think. I can see too. If you can call it that. Seeing with one's eyes that belong to the material world. It belongs to the senses. I have no senses. However, I can see, think, remember and emote. I can see in the darkness of this casket, despite the absence of light. Philosophers and scientists argue that thoughts originate from sensations. In this realm, that simply is not true. My thoughts are only caused by my memories. Some are nostalgic. The others torment me. I cannot escape the latter. They are part of me.

Anger helps me rise. I rise effortlessly out of my body. I glance at my form without turning. I look so serene. I thank the undertaker. My charred corpse found in my decimated Corvette was not easy to restore. I rise through the wood of the coffin. I pass through the layers of the earth and view the cloudless blue sky. I have traveled at least a foot more than the proverbial six feet.

We are told that we are the sum of the choices we make. That part is true in this plane also. I am not ready to leave. All of Heaven's benedictions or Hell's fury will have to wait. My burning need for justice comes first.

I had more than a comfortable life on earth. I had achieved career highs and thought I had met and married the perfect woman. I could not have been a bigger fool. She was at this very spot, just a few hours ago. She played the grieving widow to perfection. Black suit, blood shot eyes, the works. Those tears would put any crocodile to shame. She finally left in the limo. My limo! The fury engulfs me. I have to use all the rest of me to fight it. I see a piece of paper several yards away. I see an image of her dropping it down when she was here. Unnoticed, it has stayed there, waiting for me. I can read it from several yards away, without moving even half a step closer to it. It reads, 'Serena Mystique. 9 pm.'

I know the handwriting. It belongs to Al.

I glance at it, burning with anger. A turbulent wind howls suddenly, blowing the paper into oblivion. Did I create that gust? I'll have to try it again later. There is work to be done tonight.

There is no waiting in this dimension. I simply move into the evening still several hours away. It is almost wondrous to see the sky change color from its azure blue through several shades of blue and gray into darkness.

I drift to the Mystique. It is resting a few miles into the ocean. I had paid a king's ransom to buy this yacht, just months before I met her at the fundraiser three years ago. We had made passionate love on the upper cabin from the very first time I had brought her on it. Even the thought of that night makes me sick.

Tonight, my manager Al and my 'grieving' widow have planned a rendezvous on my 'Serena Mystique'. “Leave it to Al,” I had said several times in the good old days when I used to have skin and bones. He sure took care of things!

They are both on the deck at the front end of the mystique. Only the railing protects them from the furious waters below. She is seated across him on this cloudless night. She is wearing that sexy red outfit, the one she wore that evening we were here together for the first time, the one that made me lust after her like a dog in heat. Her sensuous lips, the twinkle in her eye, her firm, round breasts and her round shapely hips. I did not stand a chance. I remember my heart skip a beat each time she turned to look at the waves behind her, as her naked back glistened in the moonlight.

I pulled her into my arms and kissed her full lips that night. She moaned and then it was our animal passions that got the better of us. Or was it just my animal passion? Anger floods my soul again. The ocean mimics the fury I feel. The wind howls. It speaks for me. It gives me a voice now. Did I just create this wind? Could my fury be a link to the material world? Could I summon those winds again?

She turns around and glances in my direction, seeing through me, at the murky water below.

“You ok?” Al asks her.

“Let's go inside,” she says firmly. Does she feel my presence?

He steps closer, placing a hand over her bare back.

“You must relax,” he tells her. He moves beside her. “I'll take care of you.” His fingers knead into the well-toned muscles of her shoulder. He spins her around and plants a kiss on the lips that I thought belonged to me and me alone. If I had hands, I could strangle him. I watch helplessly, crippled by the lack of existence.

She moves away from him.

“Have you taken the necessary precautions?” she asks him.

“Don't worry. I took the corporate jet from North Carolina. The pilot will take it back there. He is someone I trust…and take care of. I took a cab almost three miles from the hangar and got off about three miles from the harbor. I walked all the way here. No one will ever know. You must learn to relax now. As far as anyone else knows, I was never here.”

She considers for a moment.

“You're right,” she tells him. “Bring out the champagne.”

He steps into the cabin and returns, holding the champagne bottle and two glasses. He twists open the cork of the bottle until a loud pop is heard. He fills the two glasses and hands one to her. They kiss yet again and then sip the champagne.

“To us,” Al toasts.

“To us,” she repeats and sips.

She puts down the glass suddenly. She is gasping for breath. Something is not right.

“Asthma,” she gasps. “Get me the spray. It is in the little cupboard by my bunk.”

He steps inside again. She was lying. We had done a lot of rock climbing last summer. She had no breathing problems. Her hand moves underneath the table searching for something. Her fingers find a small bottle fastened to the underside of the table with duck tape. She tears off the bottle from the table, empties its contents into her palm and then drops them all in his glass. She has another bottle stuck to the dinner table inside. This is an added precaution just in case Al had agreed to go inside. Treacherous bitch.

The winds howl even more. The waves lash furiously against the sides of the yacht. The anger I feel now is very similar to the emotion in the material world. However, it is not the same. It is activated by strong thoughts. It is untainted by other human emotions like fear or jealousy. The roaring waves again speak my emotion.

As Al steps towards her, she offers him his glass.

“Bottoms up,” she says holding up her glass.

As they finish their drinks, she eyes him curiously. He watches her expression, his eyes growing smaller. He fights to focus and then realization hits him. In a sudden motion, he pulls her towards him and then pushes her against the railing.

Shocked, she glances for an instant at the furious waters below, her eyes mirroring the terror she feels.

“Al, what are you doing?” she cries.

“What did you put into my champagne, you fucking bitch?” he asks her, his strength slowly dissipating. His eyes are drifting away.

She senses this. She punches him hard in the face and then stabs him in the groin with one knee. He winces and lets go of her, tries to steady himself by holding on to the railing. She kicks him on the knee. Al crumbles on the deck. His knee barely intact, he holds onto the railing for support and slowly rises.

“I thought we were in this together,” he gasps. “All that I did was because I love you.”

He did not need to say more. The images appear before me. They are not like a flashback in a movie. They are more like intuitions than actual images that one sees. Al and I had this routine of Thursday evening tennis. This was an appointment I always kept however busy I was. When I was having my customary deep tissue massage, after a few sets, he had gone to the dark and empty garage and installed the bomb in my Corvette. He had an hour-and-a-half to get the job done. The bomb was set up to engage as soon as I turned on the ignition. Al was only working the plan. The credit for buying the bomb and masterminding the plan goes completely to my lovely widow.

She is no weakling. All those hours at the gym are more than adequate to take care of an injured dying man. As Al holds on to the railing to find his balance, she clutches his Adam's apple.

“Sorry, honeybunch, I have other plans,” she says in her mocking, singsong voice. “I do not see a future for the two of us.”

I survey the situation. Even if I had been in flesh, I would have felt little sympathy for Al. Nevertheless, if I left things to fate, only half of justice would be served.

I only have seconds before she hauls him overboard and walks away with my earnings scot-free. Unfortunately for him, Al had covered up his tracks too well. In this realm, a few milliseconds are an eternity. It is as if I can bring forward-moving time to a standstill. I think of all the times we had shared. I think of all the lies she had said. She had spoken of having children and growing old. The waves swell up as I try to focus on all her deceptions. I summon all my thoughts and feel their heat rise. The ocean grows more furious as I focus my thoughts. A single wave swells up. It rises from the water like a snake of myth, raising its monstrous hood several feet above water. It strikes the rear side of the Serena Mystique with all its fury.

The impact is sudden, swift and brutal. My wave has found its mark. For an instant, it looks as if the wave will topple the Serena and send it to the bottom of the ocean. My 'heartbroken' widow's body forcefully collides against Al, as his back strikes hard against the railing.

The two of them topple over the railing and are thrown into the icy waters. I know Al has lasted almost beyond all endurance and has little fight left in him. I let nature handle his fate and turn towards her.

She looks above the waters in desperation. The cold turbulent ocean carries her down as she fights in vain to reach the surface. Her eyes now stare at me in disbelief. For a moment she 'sees' me. I 'know' this. I see through her as water fills up her lungs. Her lifeless body travels down to the abysmal depths of the ocean. Finally it finds the bed. Her eyes are still open.

There is no light leaving her body. There are no angels from heaven or spirits from hell to take her soul away. The ocean is turbulent, still raging, but my serenity is finally here.

On the surface, I marvel that my majestic Serena has found her equilibrium. She stands with all her pride, victoriously over the very waters that tried to bring her down. I drift into the early hours of dawn, into an unknown destiny.

Read more...

Poetic Justice for Santa

Part 1 of my 'Justice Series' on Sulekha.
Click Here to read the same story on Sulekha.
feel the bullet pierce my chest. Time seems to slow down this instant. I can feel it enter me layer by layer. I look down to see the red fluid fill the floor. The realization comes first, then the pain, then numbness. I can't feel my legs; the rest of me goes down as my eyes seem to focus on the nozzle of the smoking gun. I feel my body and then my head hit the floor hard. The bullet was not even meant for me.

It was not meant to end like this. I should have, must have gone in a blaze of glory. I had fantasized about a shootout in my building. It was to be me against all of the city's law officers, several Davids against this Goliath. I am a legend, the stuff you read of in novels. I am in the league of all the intellectuals that every society shuns. Truly, and I hope they will discover my talents when they clear my room. I have left photographs of those works of art.

I lived in an old dilapidated building (if you can call it that) almost in the dead center of the shopping district. I am surprised that they have not yet knocked down this monstrosity. I had cons and druggies all around me, sharing this wonderful dwelling that fate had thrust upon me. Next-door lived a fine piece of work. I am proud to say that I did not create this one. It drinks at night and snorts during the day. Somehow it finds time and partners that help it procreate, giving this world and all our tax dollars a cause for charity.

Apparently our tax dollars were not enough for the creature's indulgences that those partners I told you about visited it often, uttering curses I will not repeat. Those partners all had one thing in common. They were all female, young, slim, actually undernourished and dressed in rags. Most of them sported a child in one arm and used the same limited vocabulary. It's a variation of the same set of sentences that bombard my esteemed neighbor each time. The vocabulary and expressions, amongst other things, include good-for-nothing, riffraff, deadbeat, 'not a real man' and 'Wish you were dead'.

I tried not to take notice but it is hard. Often, I was woken up in the dead of night by arguments that this man had with a new partner he probably picked up in some hole or trailer park. Even if he was by himself, he had one too many and beat the walls with his fists. My complaining about the noise was of little use. He just told me to fuck off. My only salvation was to focus on creating my works of art. I thought that maybe I must use male canvasses too.

Two weeks ago, I had completed what would be my final work of art. I had left it in a dumpster several blocks away. I hoped the law would find this one and give me a challenge for a change.

That night I stayed awake till 5:30 am hoping for a sudden newsbreak. I could afford to stay up late and wait. The following day was a Sunday and I was not expected to report to work at the restaurant until Monday afternoon. The news flash did not come until 3 pm the next day. However, I would say that it was worth the wait.

The well-dressed and sexy newscaster began. “Here is a newsflash. Police say a body was dumped in a dumpster in the heart of the shopping district. It is of a 21-year-old woman who has been identified to be Betsy Yokum, a graduate student who was on her way to evening classes. She had been stabbed four times in the chest and her throat had been slit from ear to ear. Police say that the horrendous crime bears similarities to the Santa Clause murders of last year and the year before. Police warn that Killer Santa is on the prowl again.”

This time, as with the last two times, they did not speak of the Christmas cards. I read somewhere that the cops hide a few details in crimes like this. I liked the name the media had given me. Killer Santa. It had a nice ring to it. Of course there were similarities to all those Santa Clause murders. They were all my works of art.

The newscaster said, “We have no idea who the killer is or what he looks like. Police have hired an expert criminal profiler who has presented us with these details. The killer is an intelligent male, who was probably abused as a child. The abuse to him may have been physical, psychological or sexual. He is traumatized by some event in his past that occurred around Christmas.”

I remember that Christmas vividly. My dad had struck me after striking my mom down unconscious. All this, because I asked for a remote control car that the girl next door had. She was no angel. She gave her parents so much trouble. Unlike me. I was the child my parents should have been proud to have. I was well mannered and mild tempered. Now close to thirty, guess how many gifts I've received from them for Christmas?

The newscaster went on. “He probably lives in the shopping district or close to it. Police have issued a warning that women must never walk alone near the shopping district after dark. Please take someone with you… And in other news today…”

I eyed the newscaster. She was all woman. Unlike my other works of art, she had full breasts, a little fat at the hips. Delightfully attractive. Maybe a work of art in the making. “Maybe I'll give myself that gift next year,” I thought. “I need to find out where she lives.”

A week went by. Time at the restaurant passed as usual. Renee, my boss, was her usual self. She loved talking about the news. Gory details and all. If only she was younger, I could use her to show the world my artistic talents.

The following Monday I sat in my bedroom, reviewing my progress. I had four trophies in the last three years. The first time was two holiday seasons ago. I was coming home as usual by bus. There were two of them and they sat in front of me. Two canvasses waiting for my masterstroke. Okay, a few strokes. Two canvasses just waiting to be painted upon. One was tall and slim. The other one also fit the same description. Except that canvas one was brown haired and fair skinned. The second one however was black haired and a little darker. I sat behind them listening. One spoke of a boyfriend she had dumped. The second spoke of her 'bastard' boss. Two naughty little girls. Santa was going to give them what they deserved. They got off the bus close to where I lived. This was my Christmas day. I followed them. They took the alleyway. Yes, the dark, empty alleyway. My heart skipped a beat. I was shaking with excitement. There was really a Santa Clause. He had not forgotten about Killer Santa!

They had no idea what has coming. I was upon them in a jiffy. Wielding two knives, I fell upon them. The brown haired one was tough. I must give it to her. She tried to fight me off. The other bitch panicked. If I had not brought my knife down soon enough, she would have woken up the whole neighborhood. The brown haired one bit my arm. A few drops of my blood fell on the ground. Thanks to her resourcefulness, CSI now had my DNA. I managed to fend her off and stabbed her a few more times. When it was finally done, I searched the other one's knapsack. I found a few Christmas cards. I threw the two corpses in a dumpster nearby. I wrote Christmas greetings on two cards, and tossed them into the dumpster. The two cards stuck to each of their faces, thanks to the clotting blood. I thought it was a nice touch. It would give me a new identify. It was then that Killer Santa was born.

The following year, on Christmas Eve, I got my blessing. It was as if God had recognized my talents and had decided to give me a gift. This walking canvas came to where I worked. Man, I loved God. The rest is history. I saw her leave, feigned an upset stomach with my boss and got off in time to track her down on the street and follow her. This time I'll spare you the details. Police found her and, once again, they found my Christmas card on her too. Quite rightfully, they gave Killer Santa the credit.

Well, that brings us to today. I was woken up early by one of my neighbour's lady friends. I heard her delightful language, and then there was the sound of broken China. Then I heard her say, “You'll pay for this, you fucking bastard.” I heard him yelling a few obscenities. Then I heard a door slam. All this was music to my ears at 4:30 am.

I got out of bed at about 6 am. (It was impossible to sleep after that episode.) I showered and made myself breakfast. I watched TV, mostly flicking channels, smoking the last cigarette in the pack. I had to go down to the corner store to get a refill. What do you know! It was Christmas. Programs on TV were all of the touchy, feely genre, happy families at dinner, kids playing in the snow, etc. One channel had 'It's a Wonderful Life' early in the morning. There was a reporter on TV talking about the ice sculpture contest that was happening in downtown Boston. It was unfortunate that my work would not even get that kind of recondition. I would be labeled sick and probably transported to some funny farm. Well that could only happen if they got me alive. I smiled at the thought. I threw a T-shirt on myself and fished out my wallet from the pile of clothes on the floor. I found a five-dollar note in my wallet. It would be adequate for a pack. As I walked towards the door, I heard my neighbour's voice. Was he pleading? Not unusual. He was always pleading with the landlord at this time of the month. I opened the door and stepped out, bracing for the bitter cold wind to hit me. I did not see the landlord but a young girl. Just like one of the canvasses of the past. It was not just the cold that hit me.

I still gaze at the nozzle of the gun. I still cannot accept that my life here is gone. I was to go in a police encounter. I was to be the man who almost held back the police force in my city. Now, the papers and televisions would say that a stray bullet, a bullet fired by an out-of-control teenage mother, a bullet that was meant for her deadbeat lover, killed an unknown man. I close my eyes finding solace that someone would find those photos and knives in my closets. I could salvage some respect that way. They could get my DNA too and make comparisons. Some wise guy would be laughing. Some wise guy in blue would say that God did his hard work for him. Some wise guy would call this poetic justice.

Read more...

The Final Lesson

This story that also appears on Indianest was inspired by Herman Hesse's 'Siddhartha'. Enlightenment can come from the most unexpected places.

Giridhar’s mind was a tug of war of emotions as he walked down the old beaten path. It was his turn this week to shop for vegetables and rice. Guruji was not happy this morning. He had flown into a rage and slapped one of the new pupils for serving food slightly cold. The sound of the slap still kept ringing in Giri’s ears.

Giridhar tried to think of the last week. His father had visited the Ashram. Guruji had told his father that Giridhar showed a lot of promise. He was respectful and asked very pertinent questions during the discourse sessions. With this kind of perseverance he would go far. A smile manifested itself on Giri’s face. Then again, should he be happy? Had the not the Upanishads preached, “Indifference in victory, indifference in defeat”?

He passed by Shilpa’s house. Shilpa was a bride of God. While her soul belonged to the Divine Lord, her body belonged to any man who had the means to pay for it. During each of his visits to the village market, Giri got the impression that everyone was obsessed with Shilpa, her lovers and her sensuous beauty. He had had glimpses of her whenever he passed her house. He had seen her move with the majesty of a peacock and observed her soft delicate features.

This time he did not see Shilpa. A carriage stopped by Shilpa’s house and out stepped a well-dressed young man.

“That’s the fiend, Mohan,” a passerby said.

Giridhar had heard so much about Mohan. Mohan was the spoilt son of the Zamindar. He had heard the villagers’ gossip about Mohan’s infamous reputation. Mohan was wasting away his family’s fortunes on gambling and women. He had his father’s backing and used it to his advantage. His carriage often sped through the village streets causing damage to the villagers and their property. His father had bailed him out of any mess that he, Mohan got into.

Giridhar proceeded to the village market. This time the villagers were talking about Neela, Shilpa’s young daughter. She had her mother’s good looks. Shilpa had guarded Neela from the lustful eyes of the men who came to visit her. Why would she do that? What other options did the daughter of a Devdasi have? Why was Shilpa fighting a lost cause trying to prevent her daughter from joining her line of trade? There were rumors that a childless family in Shilpa’s neighborhood wanted to adopt Neela.

Giridhar bought all that he needed. The villagers seemed more preoccupied with their gossip that shopping took longer than usual. After his shopping was done, Giridhar loaded his booty on his back and commenced his long journey home. The return trip was always harder, with the weight of his bags, bearing down on his thin back.

He was nearing Shilpa’s house. This time a crowd was gathering on that street. He recognized two law officials by their red turbans. They dismounted their horses and entered Shilpa’s house. Unable to control his curiosity, Giridhar asked one of the passersby what had happened here.

So much had happened while Giridhar was at the market. Mohan had got a glimpse of Neela during one of earlier visits to Shipa’s house. Overflowing with lust Mohan fantasized about her ever since. Mohan’s well-paid spy, a ten-year-old street urchin, had followed Shilpa for a few weeks. He had given Mohan an accurate report of her daily routine.

On this day, at this time, Shilpa would be going to visit one of her most valuable clients. While visiting men was not a common practice among Devdasis, exceptions could be made for the right price.

Mohan entered Shilpa’s house in the guise of meeting her at this time but all along he had set his mind on seducing the young and innocent Neela. He did foresee Shilpa returning earlier than usual that day.

When Shilpa entered her house, she was shocked to find the front door open. She then saw Mohan’s fancy umbrella resting against the wall. Then she heard her daughter’s shriek of agony.

After this everything seemed to happen in a fleeting instant. Shipa rushed to the kitchen and seized a large knife. She ran to the source of the noise. She spotted the vile creature in the bedroom. It had pinned her daughter on the floor. Neela was half naked crying out helplessly. Fate had planned Shipa’s return at the right time. Shilpa’s arm flew up and came down in a flash, the knife puncturing Mohan’s back and proceeding into his flesh. She raised the knife up and brought it down equally forcefully several times. The room reverberated with Mohan’s screams and Neela’s voice frantically begging her mother to stop.

The terrorized neighbors ran out of the street, spreading the news that blood-curdling screams were heard from Shipa’s house. The news spread like wildfire, until it reached the long arm of the law.

Giridhar then saw the two men drag Shilpa out of the house and onto the streets. He was amazed to see her shake off their strong hands that bound her and walked unaided as the men escorted her on the street. Then he looked at her face. He saw the impossible.

Shilpa looked so surreal. Her face was serene and pure. The serenity was infectious. Neela was crying out to her mother. Shilpa glanced once in her direction. Neela no longer cried. A transformation came over Neela’s face. Neela no longer looked like a child. She looked like a saint. She looked like her mother.

Shilpa looked like a Goddess. With short, dignified footsteps she walked away from the scene. She was walking into the harsh destiny that awaited her. She was a portrait of calmness.

As Shipa disappeared from view, the memory of her peaceful face from just moments before came back to Giridhar. He silently prayed for her. Then another image came to him. It was the picture of Guruji lashing out at the young boy earlier that day. Shipa’s face reappeared, spreading a feeling of peace inside him, drowning his discomfort.

Soon Giridhar saw the lifeless body of Mohan being carried out of Shilpa’s house. He saw the relieved expressions on the faces of some of the people in the crowd. Superstition had it that the sight of a dead body marked a new chapter in an observer’s life. A loud thud was heard as Giridhar dropped the bags he was carrying.

Read more...

The Boss

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
Click here for the same story on Indianest.com
I see the way he looks at her, the filthy bastard. She notices and flashes her dazzling smile. Does she like the attention? How dare she. Maybe it’s Ok. I am no saint. I look at other women too. Not like this S.O.B. He is ogling at her.

Just a week ago Tara and I celebrated our 12th anniversary. She gave me a nice card and the bowtie I am wearing today. She said that I could wear it with the Tux. The bowtie feels fine. It is these 12-year-old trousers that are torturing my waist. I am struggling to breathe. I also have a slight heartburn.

This guy looks prim and proper. He works out a couple of hours every morning, I heard. No wonder all the women in the office find him attractive. Is he my age? He’s probably younger.

I wish he would find himself a woman and leave my woman alone. He said he was ‘delighted’ when I introduced Tara to him. She seemed to be charmed too. Will he make a move? Is he so brazen to do it at the company’s annual dinner party?

Maybe he’ll call home in the guise of talking to me. Then he’ll do all he can to charm Tara. Then they will probably plan a rendezvous…

Shut up, man. All he has done is smile at her. Why am I making up these stories? I don’t think she feels the same way about me as she used to. I was young and attractive then. Now, my energy level has gone down. I have this ugly waist to add to my frustration. People here must be thinking that she is too good for me.

Will he ask her to dance? He probably will. I’ll try to lead her away to the pool tables. Have to do that quickly before the music begins. What if he follows us? What if he challenges me? I have not played in a while. What if he beats me?

That will be another point in his direction. God, why did you make this guy my boss? He seems to outshine me in every way! I have to start exercising again and start all that romantic stuff…

I must make an effort to come home early. I’ll surprise her with Champagne and roses. I need a drink now. If I leave her, maybe he’ll make a move on her. Why am I so paranoid?
When did I start being like this?

It must have been in college. That first year those guys picked on me. All because they were the seniors and I was new. Their ragging went over the limit. Wonder what that girl thought when I asked for her waist size! Did she know that those seniors made me do it?

Why am I thinking of ancient history now? That was more than 16 years ago. I am bigger and stronger now. I probably could beat up those guys now, if they dare pick on me…
Why do I indulge in all these thoughts? It’s my new boss. Ever since he’s come on board, I’ve been having these ‘pangs’ of insecurity. Maybe I could cross the border to Mexico, buy some rat poison and put it in his lunch box. They would never be able to pin me. Or maybe I can somehow sneak into his house and hide till he went to bed. Then in the darkness, I would creep out and stab the bastard…

All this for his smiling at Tara? How sick I am. He’s not done anything to harm me. He’s always been cordial and nice to me. It is all in my head. The problem is with me, my mind…

Something about the way he looks…

Yes, he has the same nose as Mr. Fitz from middle school…

Why the fuck am I thinking of that sleaze ball now? I must not. I cannot seem to get rid of those painful memories. Besides, didn’t Henry tell me Fitz died a couple of years ago?
He’s dead pal. Stop thinking about him.

I will ask Tara to dance now. That will stop this destructive thought process. She does look ravishing in this evening dress. Those earrings go well with it too. Wonder what she saw in me…

Why am I doing this again? I know I have this inferiority complex. Fitz, you pervert, what have you done to me? You exploited me you bastard. Focus of Tara! Focus on her! You can do it.

He’s looking over towards us. Is he looking at her? He’s smiling. He’s waving to us. She smiles at him again. Tara tells me that he’s real nice. She wonders why he is still single.

Fitz was single too. Yes. Women were not for him. He preferred little boys. I trusted him. He told me that I had promise as a basketball player. He asked me to stay back after school to practice with him..

I would file charges if he were alive. I want my revenge!

She asks me if something is bothering me. I tell her that I’m a little tired. She says that she’s ready to leave when I am. This is a Godsend!

I feel so much more secure now that we are out of there. Such a pity! The place was great. The food was delicious. Unfortunately I am wired in such a way that I cannot enjoy a lot of life’s pleasures. Wonder how Tara still stays with me.

I am incapable of half the things I want to do. I seem stuck where I am. I do not have the guts to nurture my ambitions or my sick desires. Maybe I’m lucky that I am too paranoid to carry out my evil designs. I know my designs are evil. It is probably this knowing that separates me from serial killers. I am probably as perverted as any of them. I know what Fitz did to me was terrible. I also know that it is high time I move on.

Thoreau was right. Indeed, most of us were meant to live our lives in quiet desperation. We carry our baggage and live with our demons throughout life. We simply cannot let go. There is little we can do about it. God, ignore all my previous thoughts. Bless my boss, for he is a nice guy. Luckily for me, as long as it’s all in my head, it’s Ok…

Read more...

Justice above the Law

Part 4 of my 'Justice Series' on Sulekha.
Justice Above the Law by Rajiv Ramaratnam on Sulekha

“Officer, isn't it cruel to handcuff me?” The lad said. “This is only a minor traffic violation.”

It almost broke my heart. The kid must have been fifteen or sixteen. I heard myself say, “Sir, you were driving without a license. I have to arrest you. Besides I don't know who you are. You could well be a serial killer. I have a family to go back to tonight, and every night.”

I expressed my regrets and nudged him into my car.

“Do I look like a serial killer?” The boy asked, on the ride to the station.

“I don't know what they look like,” I replied.

Later the boy was sent home after his mother angrily paid the $500 bail. He was to appear in court on a later date. I lay in bed that night, replaying that morning's incident. I was right. I did not know who he was. But I did lie about one thing. I did know how one serial killer looked like. He was as old as the lad I had arrested earlier that day. Maybe better looking…

Three years ago a sick killer christened 'Killer Santa' was found dead in a downtown apartment complex. He was never caught and was never brought to justice. His victims were found in dumpsters with their throats cut and Christmas cards stuck to them. Santa used his victim's own clotted blood as glue to attach the cards to their faces. A stray bullet fired during a domestic dispute involving his neighbors killed him by sheer accident. DNA evidence and other evidence found at the residence of the deceased helped confirm that 'Killer Santa' was no longer in our midst.

Then similar killings began to happen across our suburb. Another psychotic puppy followed in Killer Santa's footsteps. He proudly called himself the 'Copycat'. The variation in his style was that all of his four victims were teenagers and all the Christmas cards he used had a picture of a black cat on them. He proudly announced on each of them that this was his 'Copycat' autograph.

Our criminal profiler theorized that this was probably an intelligent young man with a high IQ. With mounting public outcry, our department was under constant media and political pressure to find this creature.

We finally got our break when an eighteen-year-old girl called us and let us know that her boyfriend had confessed to being the Copycat killer in a drunken fit, after striking her across the face. She also gave us some details of the murders, which we had withheld from the press.

The task of apprehending the suspect and bringing him in was assigned to my partner and me. Upon arriving at his apartment, I had little doubt that we had got our man. The apartment was a shrine to the likes of Ted Bundy, Charles Manson and of course, Killer Santa. There was a shelf, full of books on serial killers. There were news clippings of his heroes, with grotesque pictures of victims. The big giveaway was a desk drawer full of articles on the Copycat killer and a few Christmas cards, with the picture of a black cat on them.

My partner and I squeezed the kid into my car as we drove back to the station. We interrogated him for about an hour. He admitted to killing all the victims and explained his actions in vivid detail. His manner was defiant. His eyes swelled with pride. When it comes to corrupting souls, the devil does not indulge in age discrimination.

A brief hour later, his rich dad and lawyer arrived. I could see where the kid got his arrogance and hostility. From the looks of his father, it was more than evident that his father had not spent much time with this boy in the vital formative years. The old man wore his haughtiness on his sleeve and had passed on this legacy to his only child. Daddy posted the necessary bail and got his son out sooner than I could finish my lunch that day.

As the boy sat in his father's Audi he caught a glimpse of me starting at him. He gave me a devilish grin and then the finger. I felt a surge of anger fill over me. I immediately called the DA on my cell.

I reached the waterhole early that evening. The talk I had had with the DA had dampened my spirits even more. It was going to be impossible to try the boy as an adult. His father's attorney would ensure that the odds were in his favor. The boy's confession meant nothing as we had spoken to a minor, in the absence of his parent and his attorney. The judge would have the evidence thrown out. This kid was going to walk.

I left the bar at midnight. I staggered to my car. Instinctively, in a fit of sanity I reached for my cell phone and called a cab. A drunk driving charge was one crisis I did not need at this time. I reached home, walked past my nagging wife and locked myself in my study. I tried hard to concentrate and searched for a way to restore some sense to my world.

I looked through my stash of articles to find some way to bring the fiend to justice. I went through my journals of the past decade, looking for some direction. In the early hours of the dawn, a plan manifested itself. I knew what needed to be done. Immediately I found the sleep that had eluded me for all these weeks.

The following night the Copycat opened his 20^th floor apartment after a night of drinking. As he turned on the light, he saw me sitting on his favorite couch, brandishing my Smith and Wesson.

“Step in and close the door.” I commanded. He obeyed. “Are you going to shoot me here, officer?” He asked me mockingly. “My father will deal with you and you family,” he threatened.

“Tonight we are going to get you some therapy,” I said. “Rejoice, for your retribution is here.”

“You can't make me.” He said.

“Can't I?” I retorted. I gestured toward his bed. I had laid out all his knives neatly on the mattress.

“Do unto you as you do to your victims,” I said, philosophically.

As his face turned white, I paused.

“You will begin by calling your girlfriend and apologizing for all the abuse you gave her.” I said.

I recalled the next morning. In the absence of my boss, who was on vacation, I was called in to make a statement to the press. Taking a deep breath, I faced the microphones.

“We have now confirmed that the young man who jumped off his 20^th floor balcony, is in fact the Copycat killer. In addition to his letters of apologies to the families of the victims that he wrote and a call he made to his ex-girlfriend last night, some more evidence was found in his apartment that confirmed beyond doubt that this was the Copycat. This is an open and shut case.”

“Officer, why do you think he made these confessions and then killed himself?” An attractive brunette with a press badge asked me.

“I am not a psychiatrist.” I replied. “Maybe he found God or maybe he wanted to emulate his hero, Killer Santa. He probably wanted to die without serving a day in prison.”

I thought of those days as I lay in bed reminiscing. Three years had gone by since that incident. This had been a very easy day, with just one traffic violation. Having got into the mindset of burglars on more than one occasion, I became an expert at breaking into an apartment and cleaning up fingerprints and other giveaway evidence. My actions would never be condoned by any human court of law. I fell into a deep sleep soon after this thought.

When morning came, I walked into my teenage daughter's room, to find her fast asleep. I gave her a little peck on the cheek and descended the stairs for breakfast. I knew at least four fathers in the area who did not have that luxury.

Read more...

The Serpent Woman's Justice

Part 3 of my 'Justice Series' on Sulekha.
The Serpent Woman's Justice by Rajiv Ramaratnam on Sulekha

He saw her silhouette behind the curtain. He could make out her perfect hourglass figure, the slim waist, the shapely breasts. He moved slowly in her direction, savoring each second, prolonging his desire. Gently, he pushed away the curtain and extended a hand. As she took it, he pulled her close to him. His arms enveloped her in a hard embrace as his lips covered hers. With one sudden move, she moved her head up and quickly bit into his lower lip. He pushed her away, wincing in pain. Blood dripped from his mouth onto his silk kurta (a long shirt). Still in shock, he looked at her face for the first time. Her eyes were green. He remembered those eyes from a long time ago. That was his final thought as he slowly slipped to the floor...

*****************
“Why must I spare your life, woman?” asked Chanakya, King Chandragupta's trusted advisor, looking at the ravishing damsel in chains with a mixture of rage and fascination. “You have killed an officer of this court, an officer who has served this throne for several years.”

She looked back, almost defiantly. Her emerald green eyes met his. “An officer that this court could do without, my lord,” she replied, her voice firm like steel.

Before Chanakya could reprimand her for insolence, she went on. “This man was a drunkard, a womanizer and a murdering fiend. He was cruel and abused women.”

“She is right about his drinking and womanizing,” Chanakya thought. Mahadev's vices were well known. Several times he had showed up in court drunk or with a hangover.

“Did you say `murdering fiend'?” he asked, unsure if he had heard her correctly.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “The man killed the most valuable person in my life.”

Even if her accusations were true, who was this mere courtesan to take the law into her own hands?

Aloud, he said, “A crime such as yours is punishable and will be punished by death.”

“Please hear me out, my lord, for I have some information that will interest you. It concerns the future of this kingdom itself. If you spare my life, I will share it all with you.”

Chanakya was amused. What information did a mere woman have that could be so important? Even a man of Chanakya's wisdom was astounded by the human instinct for survival.

He examined her. How vulnerable she looked in those shackles. A lesser man would have given in, mesmerized by her hypnotic eyes. Chanakya was too spiritually advanced to be conquered by emotion.

“Regardless of what you tell me, your fate will be the same,” he said, his voice cold as ice.

Her flawless face finally showed some signs of fear. “At least, allow me to tell you my story,” she said, as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I could have escaped last night. I stayed believing in your sense of justice.”

“Go on,” Chanakya said. “I want to know how one could kill so viciously. I want to know how this crime was committed. Finally, I also want to know how such an act can be justified.”

Mahadev's servant had told Chanakya that his master was found dead this morning. This woman, who now stood before him, Chanakya, had made no attempt to flee the scene. Chanakya knew how the crime was done. He just wanted to hear her confession.

The maiden began her story. “I was born in poverty in a family that lived on the outskirts of the town. My father was a carpenter and my mother took care of my younger brother and me. When I was five years old, my father suddenly passed away. He was always sick, as far as I could remember. We were on the brink of starvation. Nanda Maharaj did little to help the poor.”

Chanakya knew this well. The wicked Nanda was a disgrace to all Kshatriyas (king/warrior clan) and deserved to be killed. Chanakya had strategically planned his downfall and had placed the noble Chandragupta on the throne.

She went on. “In desperation, my mother became a dancer and an entertainer for officials serving under Nanda Maharaj. All of a sudden, we had abundance in our lives for the first time. We wore good clothes and had enough to eat. We thanked God for the good fortune He had given us. One day, my mother had a new visitor. It was Mahadev. He visited every day. Slowly, we began to see his darker side. He started beating my mother. When my mother asked him never to return, he just handed her a necklace of rubies. He continued to give her expensive gifts. Seduced by his charms, she began to perform lewd acts to satisfy his perverted pleasures. He would tie her up, whip her, punch and kick her.

“One day, my brother and I were woken up by my mother's blood curdling screams. Mahadev told us not to dare come to her chamber. I can still remember his big, red eyes and wicked smile. The next day, our mother was found strangled in her bedroom. The other dancers who worked with my mother took up the matter with Nanda Maharaj. He merely gave Mahadev a slap on the wrist. All Mahadev had to do was part with a few rings and necklaces. My mother's sahelis (friends) shared this booty. They stole all my mother's earnings as well.

“My brother and I were once again on the brink of poverty. The burden of supporting my family now fell on me. I had no idea how I would do this. The thought of killing my brother and committing suicide came to me, but revenge is a strong motivator. I wanted the man responsible for our fate to pay dearly. I had no idea how I was going to bring down a man with his power and wealth. At that point, our survival was the main task at hand.

“I decided that taking up my mother's line of work was my only option. I figured that, sooner or later, I would cross paths with Mahadev and then have my revenge. I went to a house of ill repute down our street. The old woman who was the head of the house there eyed me from head to toe. She then said that she did not pay her girls too well and that I would do better to work for a friend of hers, a man who lived several miles away. The work her friend would expect would be far easier than what she expected. She asked me to come back to this house early the next day if I was interested.

“When I showed up the following day, a horse-drawn carriage picked me up from her place and took me to this man's secluded residence. A tall, strange woman welcomed me. She led me inside the palatial house. This woman had a very unearthly complexion. It was something I had never seen. She was dark but had a faint bluish tinge to her complexion.”

Chanakya looked at the woman in front of him. She had the faint blue tinge as well. However, an untrained, unsuspecting eye would miss it altogether.

She continued her tale. “As I entered the house, there were several other women inside with the same strange bluish tinge. Then I met the man who would be my employer. He was middle aged and said that I would be well suited for the job. He said that all I had to do was look seductive. The rest, I would learn from the other women. He also said that I must move into his house. He offered to employ my brother in his house as well.

“For the first several months, all I had to do was to learn to dance and look elegant. The older women taught me how to walk, smile and look seductive. I never saw a single man visit this house and wondered why our master paid us. We were fed lavish meals. Then I was given some colored milk. I was given half a glass at first, but then they gradually increased it to several glasses a day. It looked and tasted different each time. It came in several colors.

“The months turned to years and my brother and I were getting older. My master had contacts in high places. He managed to get my brother a job with Nanda Maharaj's army. My brother works for Maharajah Chandragupta's infantry now. I do not see him that often. He does not visit me at all.” Another tear slid down her cheek.

With moist eyes, she continued her tale. “One day, they told me I was ready for my first assignment. I had no idea what to do. I was told that all I had to do was visit some royal officer and entertain him until he took me in his arms and kissed me. I was supposed to let him do anything he wanted.

“I met the man that night. I sang and danced for him and finally he came to me and kissed me. It was hardly a few seconds before he dropped to the floor, dead. This was the first time I had seen anyone die from this close. I was in shock.

“I was taken back to my employer by carriage. He said that I had performed excellently. I did not understand anything then. One of the older women took me into her chamber and explained to me what had happened and what I had become. I had become a Vishakanya, the poison girl. They had fed me poison, first in small doses, and gradually increased its strength until my body would become immune to it. However, anyone who kisses me would die in a few seconds. They still feed me poisons now. They say that one day I will be so lethal that even touching me would be fatal. I had assignments a few times a year. Strangely, I wanted to rejoice in this newfound power.

“I decided it was time to track down my mother's killer. It was easy to find an officer of the throne. I heard from a reliable source that Mahadev visited a young courtesan who lived in the city. I arranged to meet with this woman. She had scars on her face. Those familiar scars I had seen on my mother made my stomach turn. I befriended this lady. She told me that Mahadev visited her a few times every month.

“Fate had delivered Mahadev to me. I gave her a generous bribe and told her that I would take her place when he came by her house the next time. At first she refused, but then agreed as I increased her reward.

“He arrived as expected last night. I had sent his mistress away earlier in the evening. I stood in the darkness of her chambers, waiting patiently for him. I first heard the sound of his carriage. Then I heard footsteps coming towards the house. Then I heard his voice call out for his mistress. Finally, I got a good look at his face.

“He had aged a lot since I had seen him. He had a big belly and his hair was white. He still had the same bloodshot eyes and the same devilish grin. This was going to be the night when Mahadev would pay for what he did to my mother. I felt sick as he walked towards me. I did all I could to stay calm as he took me in his arms and kissed me...” She paused for several moments.

“I got my revenge. He did deserve death, my lord. Your highness, King Chandragupta, and the rest of the kingdom are better off without him.”

Chanakya was touched and impressed. This woman deserved forgiveness. He marveled at her courage. He was speechless for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“Yes, you have convinced me that you were justified in killing him,” he said. “But now, tell me, what is this sensitive information you have that concerns the kingdom?”

“A few days ago, His Highness Rakshas graced our mansion. He has arranged with my master to have me sent to Maharajah Chandragupta tomorrow night.”

Chankaya considered. This information was more than critical. Indeed, it affected not only the kingdom but also the course of history itself. How was he to deal with Rakshas? Rakshas was late King Nanda's advisor and a brilliant mind. It was unfortunate that Rakshas was hell-bent on avenging his master and was trying to eliminate Chandragupta. Rakshas' plan was to kill Chandragupta and hand the kingdom to King Parvatak, the Mleccha king. Parvatak was known for his tyranny. Giving Parvatak the throne would be like handing the kingdom back to Nanda. Chanakya was not going to let this happen.

Chanakya's decision now would have a mammoth impact on the future of the throne and affect the course of Indian history forever. He instantly knew what had to be done. Rakshas would have to be beaten at his own game. Chanakya faced the serpent woman.

“From now on, you will work for me. I will send word to your employer now. Your first task will be tomorrow. You will still meet a king tomorrow night. King Parvatak. When you arrive at his palace, tell his guards that His Highness Rakshas sent you to entertain His Royal Majesty King Parvatak.”

Read more...