Authors: Anish Sarkar
The same river I had miraculously escaped from. At that moment though, I had no recollection of what had happened.
I asked again, ‘Where…am I?’
The woman replied in an unfamiliar language.
I am now proficient in seven languages but at that time, I knew only three, including German. I tried speaking to her in each of them but she couldn’t even understand Hindi. I was only pleased to note that at least some part of my brain was undamaged.
I tried to get up but my head spun and I fell back. The woman gave me a glass of water, and I drank it greedily. I felt terribly weak. Lifting up the coarse blanket which covered me, I saw that I was only wearing a pair of flannel trousers which obviously didn’t belong to me.
The woman got up and left the room. She was taller than I had thought and her body had slender, graceful lines.
She returned soon with a steel plate piled with food. There was a bowl of aromatic dal, a rich vegetable dish, a stack of coarse rotis and a large helping of pickles. Delicious smells wafted to my nostrils, and I realised that I was ravenous.
I polished off the food in no time, watched over carefully by the woman. It was the best meal I had ever had in my life. Feeling much better, I pulled myself to my feet and took a few tentative steps. The woman also stood up and gave me a shy smile. I figured she was embarrassed at my bare torso. She pointed to a wooden chest in a corner, on which my clothes were neatly folded and kept. There was a woollen jacket as well, which I didn’t recognise and assumed belonged to someone in her family.
She walked out, leaving me alone in the room. I quickly dressed. The jacket was slightly oversized even for me, and I guessed that whoever it belonged to must be a pretty big man. There was a pair of old army boots next to the clothes which probably belonged to the same man, and I put them on as well. They turned out to be tight but that was to be expected since I have exceptionally large feet.
The woman came back. For the next half hour, we had a difficult conversation using sign language and a few common words she knew. If anyone else had been observing us, it would have appeared quite amusing.
By the end of it, I had discovered quite a lot.
Early that morning, the woman had gone down to the river and found me lying unconscious right at the waterline. My body was wedged against some rocks, which had prevented me from floating further downstream. She had initially thought I was dead, and somehow managed to drag my inert form away from the river.
I was alive, of course, but barely. There was a nasty gash on the back of my head, and a number of cuts and bruises all over my body. Thankfully, I hadn’t been in the water for too long otherwise I would have probably drowned. The rocks had saved me.
The woman had cleaned and dressed the injury on my head, and applied some natural ointment on my other wounds. She blushed as she communicated this. I guessed that she must have had to take off my sodden clothes and seen me naked while tending to me. I asked if she had a husband and she nodded, indicating that he was away on work and would only return the following day. They had no children.
For a moment, I smiled at the thought of being alone with this sensuous woman who had undoubtedly saved my life, in the midst of this wilderness, unable to speak each other’s language yet bonding at different levels. It was like a scene in a movie I had watched long ago but whose name I couldn’t recall. And then I remembered the breadth of her husband’s jacket, and the fact that he had probably been a military man.
It was early evening so I must have been unconscious for over twelve hours. There was a village a couple of kilometres away but the woman had not wanted to leave me alone, in case I regained my senses while she was away. I asked if she knew anything about how I came to be in the river but she shook her head.
I walked outside and surveyed the surroundings.
The river was barely fifty metres away. A range of verdant hills ran along its far bank. I could see the distant snow-covered peaks tinged yellow and orange by the rays of the sinking sun. I realised I was on some kind of a private but unfenced property. There was a large bungalow with a gabled roof some distance away, and a neatly manicured lawn in front. Behind the bungalow was an orchard of apple trees stretching away up the mountainside.
The building I had been in was a sort of outhouse or staff quarters, designed like a miniature version of the main house. I guessed that the woman and her husband were caretakers of the property, which presumably belonged to some rich and influential man. I knew that it wasn’t easy to get the necessary permissions to build a private residence in such a remote place. There didn’t seem to be any other habitation for as far as I could see in any direction. And this land was almost certainly owned by the Forest department, who are known to be notoriously possessive.
I went up to the bungalow and walked around it. It was even bigger than I had first thought. The design and construction were sophisticated, yet the architect had cleverly managed to ensure that there was no incongruity with the natural surroundings. Obviously, no expense had been spared. A very rich man indeed. But the bungalow was empty for the moment.
I turned back and saw the woman standing at the door of her little home. She was holding two cups of tea, and had pulled out a pair of
morhas
. We sat down and watched the sun set over the mountains, content in each other’s silent company.
I pondered over my next course of action.
My memory was coming back in bits and pieces, not necessarily in any chronological order. I knew where I needed to go but the problem was that I was in the middle of nowhere. The woman had told me there was a highway an hour’s march out, from where I could catch a lift. I was in no shape to make that hike, though my wounds seemed to be healing well. I decided to stay the night, if she let me, and set out the next morning. She agreed. I was a stranger but I suppose she trusted me and preferred to have me around than being alone.
Twilight came and faded into darkness. I couldn’t see a single light come on anywhere in the hills around us. The woman was really courageous to be spending nights alone in such a desolate place. I knew that more than any danger from man or beast, she would be afraid of ghosts. Hill-folk are a superstitious lot and they readily believe any number of legends and stories about paranormal activity.
A few dim lights began to come on automatically around the property. I had seen a bank of solar panels on the roof of the bungalow and figured that there must be some advanced energy management system in place, which was self-sustaining for the period it was unoccupied. There would undoubtedly be a generator somewhere as well.
The woman and I went inside. She indicated that she needed to cook our dinner, and disappeared. There was nothing for me to do but wait for her. It had become quite cold and I lay down on the mattress, pulling the blanket over me. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.
I don’t know how long I had been out but I awoke suddenly in pitch darkness. For a moment, I had no idea where I was. Then it all came back. I felt guilty that I hadn’t stayed up to have the food the woman must have prepared. She had been kind enough not to wake me up but I realised that I was famished again. I got up and tried to feel my way around the room.
My knee hit something hard and rough, and there was a loud crash. I guessed it was some earthen vessel. I cursed loudly and stepped aside to avoid the fragments on the ground. Within a couple of steps, I again bumped into something but this time, it was soft flesh. The woman had heard the sounds and come in to investigate. To my surprise, she didn’t move away. I felt the warmth of her body and the scent of her hair. She reached out hesitantly and touched my face.
Just then, there was a loud knock on the door.
Both of us were startled. She pushed me away, motioning that I should lie down on the mattress. There was no place to hide anyway. I presumed she would just stick to the truth, which had been quite innocuous until the last few moments.
She switched on a light and opened the door. There was a short, round man standing there. One look at him and I realised that it couldn’t be her husband.
69
Neel
‘Can I get a drink first?’ Roy asked. Sara’s well-stocked bar hadn’t escaped his attention.
‘I’m not a teetotaler anymore,’ he said, seeing our expressions. ‘It’s been twelve years since that night, you know.’
I kept Roy’s Walther back on the table and stood up.
‘What’s your poison?’
‘Whisky.’
I poured out three generous pegs from a bottle of Bowmore, aged 15 years. It’s the oldest distillery in Islay. Omar went inside and came out with a chilled beer.
Roy took a long sip of the whisky and began, ‘What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential. You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone else.’
We looked suitably impressed.
‘I work for a group of people, very influential people, who believe in doing things they feel are necessary for the country but cannot be done by the government. They have a clear vision of what they want to achieve, and practically unlimited resources at their disposal.
‘I can’t identify any of the members of this group because I’m sworn to secrecy. All I can say is that you would be quite amazed to hear some of the names. The venture, if I may call it that, was started by a well-known industrialist ten years ago. He then drafted in the biggest names from different fields to forge an organisation that is as powerful as it is secretive. You’ll get an idea of what I mean when I tell you that its membership includes a former prime minister, a Bollywood megastar and a Nobel Prize winner.’
Omar asked in a soft voice, ‘Roy, have you also become someone like that, and we didn’t know all this while?’
‘No, I just work for them.’ He smiled briefly and continued. ‘About a year ago, one of the Members heard a rumour that a powerful politician was killing young girls to fuel his sadistic urges, and she brought a proposal to the group that the matter be investigated.’
I said, ‘And you were given the job?’
‘Yes, I…’
Omar cut in. ‘Are you some kind of a private investigator, Roy?’
‘Among other things, yes.’ He paused. ‘Coming back to Karan, the first whiff that something serious was going on came from a sharp, young IPS officer who was investigating the murder of a girl in Bhopal. The victim was in her early twenties and worked as a shop assistant in a newly opened mall.’
‘Not really Karan’s type, I would have thought?’
‘That’s the thing; Karan doesn’t
have
a type. His victims range from the ages of ten to thirty-six, and they come from very diverse socio-economic backgrounds. Most importantly, they’re widely dispersed across metros, towns as well as villages. Unlike most serial killers, who operate in a localised area, like the Boston Strangler or in our very own Nithari case, Karan was able to scatter his operations across the country, which made it even more difficult for anyone to see the connection.
‘Coincidentally, this officer had encountered a similar case during his previous posting in Faridabad, near Delhi. That girl was, in fact, a worker in one of Karan’s rival political parties. Anyway, there were striking similarities in the modus operandi in both cases. The most telling evidence was that the knife used was identical. Since the police in India don’t have centralised records of unsolved crimes, this fact would have escaped attention but for the vigilant cop who spotted it.
‘He began to dig deeper and I presume came uncomfortably close to the truth. Word was that he made the links to as many as twelve of Karan’s victims, before he was transferred out. A month later, he was found dead on a railway line that ran by close to his quarters. His body was neatly cut in half. It was dismissed as a case of suicide, though there was hardly any supporting evidence.’
Sara asked, ‘Did he discover it was Karan?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But he did conclude it was someone influential and most likely, a politician. There was already plenty of scepticism among his superiors about his theory so no one followed up on the investigation after his death. Thankfully, he must have discussed his findings, at least the broad facts, with someone outside the force and the information eventually made its way to us. This Member is a former Miss India, besides being an MP and one of the foremost crusaders for women’s rights in the country. There was enough for her to believe the story, especially because of the very convenient suicide of the unfortunate policeman.’
Sara looked thoughtful. ‘I think I know who she is…’
Roy interrupted. ‘Yes, you probably do. But that’s not important. The point is that had that officer not been doubted by his colleagues and been allowed to complete his investigation, eight lives might have been saved, if not more.’
I said pointedly, ‘I’m not so sure, Roy. It will take more than the police to bring down a character like Karan. In any case, the powerful people you represent have also been after him all this while and yet, he’s still at large!’
‘For all the influence of my patrons, I still don’t have direct access to the police’s vast knowledge of crime, their network of informants and countless case files from around the country. I did eventually manage to put the pieces together but it took a lot of time and effort. It wasn’t the same as working from the inside. That’s why I said that maybe that officer might have cracked it long ago, had he been given a chance.’
‘So how did
you
figure out it was Karan?’
Roy took a deep breath. ‘There are two things common in most of his victims. The first one is the use of a sharp knife in the killing. A couple of the earlier ones involved strangulation but I think what Karan really gets off on is cutting up the bodies, before or after death.
‘The second one wasn’t nearly so obvious but once I spotted it, I was convinced I had to be right. You see, Karan has a fetish for fair skin. Except in one case, all the girls he has killed have pale complexions, the paler the better. That also explains why a number of foreigners have caught his murderous attentions.’