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.

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My poetry on Sulekha

The poems below are featured on Sulekha.

Maya

From the windows of mine earthly existence, I view this illusion of reality.
In vain has been my persistence, in a harsh world to find serenity.
Often does this mind of mine, torment my soul like a turbulent ocean.
In spite of its youthful vigor, my system crashes, reduced to debris, in
exhaustion.
There is but only an iota of solace, in watching a deluge of tulips in bloom.
Happiness, where art thou? Come to mine heart and redeem me from this
eternal gloom.
Love is but a fantasy wandering haphazardly in the mind of an optimist.
The 'joy of living' is an eyewash for a fool who no longer wants to be a
realist.
Mercilessly strike the whiplashes of life, taking away the moment, leaving
only strife.
Wake me up O Divine one, from this ghastly nightmare,
into a reality of clear blue skies, where life is fair.
Where prayers get answers and peace is in plenty,
Where awakenings are commonplace and conflicts are scanty.

Murder By Rhyme

The moon shone over the Westons' house like a torchlight from the heavens.
The wind whistled but a sensitive ear could hear the cry of a raven.
There were three cars outside, and six people at the party,
Linda and Jack Weston, Mary and Jim Evans and Jill McCarty.
The men had Scotch on the rocks, the women had shandy,
Said Jill with a joyless smile, I would have preferred Brandy.

The tension was thick and the voices were low. The talk proceeded
to corporate politics and the firing of Chairman Oslo.
'It isn't fair on him' said Mary. 'Good men are so few.
Sack the poor guy and what one earth will he do!”

'Well, that makes you chairman,' said Jim to Jack. 'You were Oslo's great
adversary. Good for you he got the sack.'
Next dessert was served with biscuits on a tray.

Jill thought that the dessert was bland and as always she had
something unpalatable to say.

There was evil in the air and cyanide in a cup.
Thanks to the work of a fiend, Jack never got up.

The cops came early and examined the place.
Jack lay in the settee. There was froth all over his face.

The inspector questioned them all, one by one. About Jack's enemies all
said that there were none.
'Yes, we were Jack's colleagues.' said John and Jim. 'At no point were
either of us ever jealous of him.'
'Its true that Jack was my high school sweetheart.' Recalled a shocked
Mary.
'I am over it now. I am not responsible for his fate.'
'We were neighbors once, but little of his activities I knew.'
Jill went on to say,
'He may not have had enemies, but friends he had few.'

The inspector turned to Linda. 'Ma'am, its your turn.'
To everyone's amazement, Linda's eyes began to burn.
'I loved the man. I loved his brain. I searched for a conscience, but it was all
in vain. Money was all he cared for. Power he always wanted.
Friends loved ones and foes were all the same.
He took them all for granted.
It was me, inspector, who put the cyanide in the cup.
Tolerating this devil became unbearable. I know that my game is up.'

Zen And A Stormy Night

Driving through a thunderstorm, suddenly getting off in the rain,
I can't recall being here before but I shalln't be here again.
I feel the water drip off my head. I hear the gusty winds scream.
On other days I would be safe home, sipping coffee with whipped cream.

Distant cries from the wood I hear, bring thumps to my heart.
While imaginary beasts I fear, there is no denying, tonight's a work of art.
Is there ever joy in security? This I sincerely doubt.
These thickets stretch into eternity. Into them my soul reaches out.
The jiving leaves, the singing rain, the hush of the breeze, all a musical
symphony.
This strong temptation from which I refrain, guides my mind to harmony.
This beauty tells me to linger here, ignore my daily chores.
Feels like the meditation I did on my lawn, several decades before.

I'd rather be here than any place else, ogling at these dark clouds.
Disgust for the mundane clouds me, raising the usual doubts.
My conditioned mind prods me on to join the rat race.
Society often reminds me that it is a reality I must face.
We are taught to sit and plan for a future, only God knows when.
I wish it would dawn into everyone, how little she knows of Zen.

Meditations Of An Eagle

This breeze is gentle, my wings taut, my mind is completely aware of this
buoyant harmony.
Rectangular shapes I see below, created by man, for reasons beyond me.
This glorious sun contrasts this serene blue sky, on which the Lord
doodles upon with shades of white.
On the earth, man's geometric patterns contrast with nature's own, creating
a spectacular sight.
The wind is strong now and as I look down I see large black crisscrossing
serpents.
On their backs, move square bugs in straight lines, emitting black ugly
smog.
Lush green meadows, I suddenly pass with no human in the vicinity, for a
change.
Pecking on the grass are grazing cows, some pure white, some with
specks of brown.
Hills appear in close proximity, I streamline my body to move further into
the heavens.
The white toupee of the hills did fool me, for it is warm. Grateful am I for
the spring season!
Down below flow a green ocean of pines, on either side of this gorgeous
valley.
A mountain goat, probably lost solemnly walks his way quietly.
There is suddenly a noise of water against stone. It gets louder
Then I see it, from the cliff as it falls down on the rocks below, the pearly
white water.

Soaring below I go, my body responding reflexively to this parched beak I
had ignored until now.
I hit the water, feeling the shock.
Refreshed I rise as a large branch beckons me.
It is time for an overdue rest.

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A Tribute to Chitra Parayath, friend and mentor

An open letter to the Editors of Lokvani
Words cannot express how I personally feel to know that Chitra is no longer in our midst. I am, like you all, still coming to terms with her loss. Though I've only known her for a short while, I think of her as a friend, mentor and guide who was always ready to offer advice on my writing, print articles on Lokvani, even if they were sent close to the deadline or even just listen to my stories when we spoke occasionally on the phone. She was always there to encourage me and offered tips on where to get my works published. She always enquired about my family everytime we spoke.

The first time I met Chitra in person was at Nirmala's house at Indu Sunderesan's book reading. She made me feel comfortable almost instantly. Chitra's broad smile, open-mindedness and amiable personality will be missed by all of us. Then, of course there was her sense of humor. She was unafraid to polk fun at herself, a trait she claimed her daughter inherited. She spoke proudly of her son's writing and even claimed that it was better than hers. I cannot imagine how her family can cope with her loss and hope thatGod gives them the strength to do so.

I loved reading her film reviews even on films I knewn nothing about, because she had a way with words that would keep me engrossed and wanting more. Her forthrightness would always cause some hostile reactions from her critics but she knew how to diffuse them with clever repartees. "Bring it On!" was her attitude.

One of my articles on Sulekha said that we must do away with respecting elders just for age. I got a lot of hate mail for it. However, here is Chitra's response:

Great going, Rajiv...and to think that I am slowly turning into the 'elder' (shudder...god forbid) that I rebelled against when I was young(er).Good thing, then that I have two brats who love to put me in my place, gently but firmly.We desis are too 'hung up' on this issue anyway.Keep this up, you have the 'write' stuff, pal!....

Chitra was always eager to know about the VridavanaPreservation Society and always asked very pertient questions about it. Here is another email she sent me on our Tsunami efforts:

Congratulations for all the good work that you folks are doing, here and in India.We at lokvani.com would love to have a write up about your teams' efforts to help the victims in India. Maybe you can also tell us about the service that is being held this evening. Please call if you have any questions....

VPS plans to have a moment of silence in Chitra's honor at the beginning of our Yogathon on the 21st ofMay. On behalf of VPS, I would like to invite all of you to attend the event, atleast the start of the event, so that we can all cherish her memory. All of us at VPS offer our heartfelt condolenses to all of you at Lokvani and her family.

One of the best lessons I've learnt from Chitra is to be true to myself and express my heartfelt opinion, fearlessly. She was unafraid to express her views and ideology. It is an honor that she considered me a colleague, and said so in one of her articles.

The writing world is now missing a versatile author.Her family, friends and well-wishers will miss a great friend. Please convey our condolenses to her family.To put it in her own words, Cheers to you Chitra, we will never forget you.
Sincerely,
Rajiv

On Lokvani
http://www.lokvani.com/lokvani/article.php?article_id=2450

On the Hindu
http://www.hindu.com/thehindu/holnus/001200504202128.htm?headline=US-based~scribe~covering~tsunami~devastation~in~Andamans~dies

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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.

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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.

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Elders, advice and respect

What do you call people who give unnecessary free advice? In India we call them elders.
This is an essay that caused a lot of grief on Sulekha.
Warning! This article is not for the easily offended.
Click here to read the same article on Sulekha.
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When I was a kid I got no respect. The time I was kidnapped, and the kidnappers sent my parents a note they said, "We want five thousand dollars or you'll see your kid again." - Comedian Rodney Dangerfield

I got no respect when I was young. Growing up an angry, rebellious, Indian, only child, I've often wondered if 'respecting elders' is a timeless Indian value to be preserved and passed on to future generations or a useless artifact of the past that must be completely dropped. Who first came up with this concept? It is hard to imagine that this person could have been a youngster. It had to be an autocratic egotistical 'elder'. Most probably it was a 'he' in our male dominated society.

Quite likely that this was a person past his prime. He was desperately clinging to straws to impose his authority on someone younger. This was a person with a self-esteem problem. The 'age card' was the only weapon left in this person's arsenal. If you have had an Indian upbringing like me, you need not search hard to find this person in your family, quite possibly your immediate family. This is a person who deserves to be shunned until he learns humility. Shipping this person off to Florida is also a viable alternative.

It is true that oftentimes, particularly in the west, seniors are not given enough voice or dignity. Horror stories abound of grown children forcing their aged parents out of a house, a house that belonged to the latter. Insurance companies and unscrupulous sales people have mercilessly taken advantage of defenseless old people by threats, false claims or even forging signatures. It is indeed the duty of younger citizens of the free world to prevent these horrific things from happening to the elderly. There have been notable cases of senior abuse in homes, hospitals and the workplace. Age discrimination unfortunately is still an existing evil in the corporate world today. There is little doubt that seniors are a valuable part of families and corporations and their wisdom and experience are invaluable to moving humanity itself forward. Human dignity and respect is every person's birthright.

Respect is part of our Indian heritage. The great epics, Ramayana and Mahabharata speak of valiant heroes and role models who were willing to forsake kingdoms, families or sometimes, even life, if it meant honoring or respecting of their parents. These heroic stories are told to elevate nobility in today's youth.

But then, what is this nobility in today's time? Is it noble to give up on your true love because your parents forbade it? Several of my friends have fallen prey to this phony nobility. Is it noble to abandon your life's calling and settle for the family business, not because you want to, but out of fear that you will let down the ones you love? A la Michael Corleone in the 'Godfather'. Are we masquerading cowardice in the name of nobility?

Many of us groomed in India are afraid to stand up to elders and question what we believe to be wrong. It is as if lightning would strike you down when you choose to question the laws laid out by those older than you. Let's examine respect and wisdom.

Respect the wise, they say. What is wisdom? Do elders always know how to do things right? Unfortunately, some pretend (and probably believe) that they do. Is it only age that breeds knowledge and maturity? Well, Bill Gates made his first million at 21. Boris Becker won the men's Wimbledon title at 16.

I know of no millionaire or Wimbledon tennis champ from my homeland that was so young. Some in the older generation must take the blame for this. Even after all these years, 'You are too young for that. Listen to me . Obey me. I am older than you,' is a mantra that echoes in my ears! Blind obedience to another does not show respect nor is it a sign of wisdom. It only shows the absence of a spine.

Several among us have suppressed rage and frustration caused by some authoritarian, autocratic loud-mouthed Nazi 'elder' who put us down or insulted us just because he or she was older. Many of us still carry these hurtful feelings and low self-esteem inside us. (It was my angry inner child that forced me to write this article.) Let's face it. Few of us are so spiritually advanced to turn the other cheek and forgive such injustice. Instead, let's put our anger to good use by ending this cycle of mindless conformity and low self-esteem that still permeates our society.

It is my humble plea to the older generation that they refrain from offering unsolicited advice on things they cannot comprehend. Treat those younger than you with courtesy. Aren't today's youth the rulers of tomorrow? They surely need your respect

So whom does a young adult believe in? An astute 'young' Swami Vivekananda once proclaimed that a person who does not believe in himself is an atheist. Indeed we must trust our abilities and ourselves more than we trust others (even elders). This is the highest ideal that we can inculcate in future generations. As the old Chinese proverb goes, 'He who knows and knows he knows is wise.'

Zen wisdom tells us that we, adults have no parents. The therapist and the elder are both struggling individuals like us. Experience is one of our greatest teachers. Let's step into this world as brave men and women, unafraid to make mistakes and unafraid to hear an elder say, “See, I told you not to.”

By no means am I proposing that we turn a deaf ear to everyone else. Now, where does a young adult find good advice? One 'western' self-help author wrote that if you want to get something, you ask someone who already has got it. I remember the famous lines in 'The War of the Roses': 'If a person who earns $500 an hour gives you a half-hour of his time, you better listen.'

Another adage says that good advice is never free and free advice is never good. Truer words have not been spoken. It is indeed a matter of common sense that only the one with results can give the best advice. (Even if 'the one' is a jerk.) When my grandmother offered academic advice, I asked her for her qualifications. She went ballistic. How dare I question her authority! (By the way, I still love her. May she rest in peace.) Often the ones who really know are the ones that impart the least advice.

And what is this thing called respect? Respect is not conformity. Respect is not blind obedience. Respect is tolerance. Respect is not fear. Respect is self-expression. Respect is true friendship. (Especially with the older generation.) Respect is not guilt. Respect is never about fulfilling an obligation. Do not use respect as an excuse to hide that fear.

Do not follow someone just because he or she is older. Age does not guarantee wisdom. (Stones and asses grow old too.) Elders are humans too. Place them on a pedestal and you will risk injury to yourself. Treat them as you would treat anyone else -- as equals.

When in doubt about the quality of advice you receive, boldly question the credibility of the advisor. Stand up to those who force upon you, a point of view you disagree with. You are smarter than you think. You will certainly earn your respect that way!

Remember that you will live with yourself longer than you will live with anyone else. Your subconscious will never let you forget your own acts of cowardice. Respect the humble. Listen to yourself first and then listen to the one with results. (Use your wisdom to discriminate between the two depending upon the situation.) Respect is treating everyone with dignity. I mean everyone. Respect the ones who respect you. Listen to the one with the results. Reward the rest with indifference.

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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.

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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...

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“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.”

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