'Phut Phut' -- a short story about a hitman in Kolkata

By Shevlin Sebastian     

The bees buzzed among the roses in the garden. At one side the mud had been churned up. Dry, red mud. Outside, the sidewalks remained empty. A lizard lay still on the low wall.   

Pehelwan placed his palm on his chest. His heart beat the same way before the first killing.    

He turned around and shut the front door.

He walked barefoot to the bed and lay down. He caressed his chest. 

A loud, rattling sound. He slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the window. An exhaust pipe of a car. Oh. Thank God.    

He sat on the edge of the bed. The rattling sound again. But lower now. Like the phut-phut of his silencer. 

                                                                      ***

His sweaty hand gripped the steering wheel. The man parked the car on one side of the petrol station. He walked towards the toilet. Rolling gait. Fatso. 

Pehelwan stepped out. The pungent odour of petrol. He wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. No sweat. Hands should be dry.   

Inside, the man stood, one hand on his hip. A streaming sound. The stink of urine. Pehelwan's nose twitched. Why don't they clean the bathroom? Use Phenyl. White kurta pyjama. Pot-bellied. The roar of the exhaust fan. 

Malik Babu's voice echoed in his head. 'Building construction magnate. He borrowed money. Business went bust. Kill him. Let's send a message to the others.'

He aimed the pistol at the back of the head. His mother raised a finger at him. 'Raju, be good.' 

'Ma, I want to. But my circumstances. Orders are orders.' 

He gritted his teeth. His fingers tightened around the trigger. His breath stopped. He put pressure on the trigger. The bullet entered. Such a tiny hole. The man's knees buckled and he fell forward onto the tiled floor. The clean-shaven face. Now bloodied.    

Pehelwan looked outside. Nobody. Only the attendants near the pump. He stepped forward. The kurta had turned red. An odd odour. His stomach churned. He placed the barrel near the temple and pressed again. He stepped back, pulled out a plastic packet from his trouser pocket and placed the pistol inside it. 

He touched his chest. A hole where his heart was. His body shook. 

That night he dreamt of the hole in the head. Enlarging in slow motion. Bigger. Bigger. Frenzied laughter. The laughter continued. He stood up, walked to the kitchen and drank water. He touched his forehead. It was so hot. 

                                                                 ***

At his flat, he abruptly opened his eyes. All dark. No sound. Only his ragged breath. He went to the loo and emptied himself. The steady plip plip sound. His breathing eased up. As a child, Ma would take him to the toilet. Her hand on his shoulders as he released urine.    

He sat down on the edge of the bed. He touched the gaps between the toes. It was clammy with perspiration. 

He looked at his watch. 4 p.m. He went to the kitchen and washed his hands. Made tea. Added sugar. Dipped Parle G biscuits into it. He liked the way the biscuit melted in his mouth. It was so easy to eat. His mother would give him the same.  

The doorbell rang. He frowned. It couldn't be his gang members. They didn't know where he lived. It must be Ganesh. He had asked for money for his college fees.  

He placed the cup in the washbasin. Stay calm.  

He opened the door.  

Two young men stood there. One had shifty eyes. The other licked his lower lip. 

'Yes. What do you want?' 

'Sir, we were asked to give you a package,' one of them said.  

Pehelwan leaned forward. Hands free. His forehead throbbed. 

The young man put his hand in his pocket and took out a revolver. Pehelwan jumped back and pulled at the door. The gunman barged in. Something hit his lower back. No pain. Only numbness. He lost consciousness.

                                                                    ***

'Dada, what happened?' Ganesh's voice. So far away. He was hurtling down a black hole. Where is the light? He turned. There was a searing pain in his back. Oh God. Was this a glowing ember from Ma's chula accidentally pressed against his skin? Who did it?    

He heaved in a lungful of air. 'Shot.' 

'Who?' 

He turned to the side. A pool of blood on the floor. How red it was. 

Ganesh's squeaky voice. 'I'll call the ambulance.' Frightened out of his wits.  

Men talking. Was it Bengali or Hindi? Can't make out. Hands beneath his shoulders and feet. Hot breath shot out. His mouth opened. No sound came out. The vehicle jerked forward. Then the wail of the siren. 

A man shouted. 'Emergency. ICU.' 

His body flying through the air. 'Fast, fast,' a nurse said. It sounded like Kalyani's voice. Oh, dear. Have betrayed her many times. So sorry. 

A pinprick. Darkness. For the first time, a sense of peace. Nobody was going to kill him now.   

                                                                       ***

The low hum of the air-conditioner. So cold. He opened his eyes. A big-breasted nurse stood beside him, holding his hand. That warmth. Ma. Kalyani. Why did he go down this route? 

'You've been sleeping for a week now.' 

His eyes fell on her breasts. That old hunger returned.   

Intakes of breath. A few nurses. Somebody important was coming. 

The doctor, in a white waistcoat, black stethoscope around his neck. That smell of Dettol. Ma's admonishing tone as she put cotton dipped in Dettol on his scraped knee.

The doctor's voice. 'I am very sorry to say this.' 

The doctor held his hand. Soft. Warm. Never held a pistol. 'You're paralysed from the waist down.'

'I don't understand.' 

'The bullet hit your spinal cord.'

'I'm not feeling any sensation in my legs.' 

'That's what I mean.' 

'Is there any way something can be done?' 

The doctor leaned closer. 'Physical therapy helps.' 

'Will I walk, Doctor?' 

The doctor looked at the nurses. The nurses looked back at him. He stared at the doctor. 

'It's possible.' 

Consolation words. No chance. His head fell back on the pillow. 

'May I ask you something?' 

'Yes.' 

'Who shot you?' 

He looked at the doctor. Soft eyes.   

'I don't know, doctor.' 

                                                               ***

The next morning. He sensed somebody in the room. He opened his eyes. Malik Babu. Standing beside him. Those bulging-out eyes. That expensive perfume.  

'Very sorry to hear this.' 

Pehelwan pursed his lips. 

'You were my best man.'

Were. Not are. Have to be 'were'. Paralysed.  

His eyes fell on Malik Babu's trouser pockets. An outline. He's got a pistol. Is he nervous?  

Malik Babu's eyes bored into him. 'What will you do now?'

'Go back home, I guess.' 

'Do you know who planned the hit?' 

'No, Sir.' 

'I don't think it was a gangland hit. We have no wars now.'

'Those boys. Amateurs.' 

'Then who?' 

'Maybe, the family of one of the victims.' 

'Which one?'  

'I can't say, Sir. I'm guessing… maybe the first. Construction guy.' 

'Why?' 

'They have the money.'

'After so many years?'   

Malik Babu leaned in. Kissed him on the cheek. 'Don't worry. Everything will be looked after.' 

His eyes brimmed. Not abandoning him, as yet. 

Malik Babu pressed his hand. Strong. Soft.  

He put his hand under the sheet and grasped his penis. He pressed it. No change. He pressed harder. Soft as cotton. Would he get an erection? Maybe. Kalyani could get on top. Would she? Always missionary. Could he ask the nurse to bend down? Could she be interested? No, no. Too risky.  

He opened his mobile. His mistress's number. He stared at it. Then blocked it.  

He pushed the sheet to one side and looked down at his legs. Pieces of wood. Immobile. The trainer's voice. Pointing at his thighs. 'Abhijeet, look, this is called definition. You can get this but lots of hard work and dedication are required.' Now. Nothing. 

He whispered, 'Move your toes.' 

Nothing moved. Only his lips. Downwards. 

***

Kalyani and the children arrived. 

They stared at him in silence. The doctor told them? Or the nurse? Kalyani took her saree pallu and wiped her eyes. 

He showed them the legs. 

His daughter cried, 'Oh Baba.' 

Kalyani and his daughter hugged each other. Their shoulders shook. 

Amit said, 'Baba, what happened?' 

He pressed his lips together. He asked for a glass of water. Kalyani handed it to him. He drank slowly and returned the glass. 

'I was walking in Beliaghata. Two gangs were fighting using guns. One bullet caught me in the lower back.' 

She pressed her face against his. The wetness was still there. The children placed their arms around his chest. He could feel their warmth. Nothing like family.   

'Will you continue the business?' Kalyani said. 

Business. What business? No business. All lies. 'It will be shut.' 

'How will we survive?' 

He reached out. Held her hand. 'Don't worry. I will work it out.'  

                                                                   ***

Before he was discharged, Malik Babu arrived.  

Kalyani stood on one side of the bed. In a yellow cotton saree.  

Pehelwan said, 'Malik Babu lives near my house. Big businessman.'

Malik Babu waved. 'No, no. Nothing like that.' 

Kalyani smiled. 

'Your husband is a good man.'

She wiped a tear. 'I know. He cares for us every day.'  

Malik Babu looked at her. That appraising look. 

Malik Babu proffered a brown packet. It was secured with rubber bands. He held it. Could be money. Or a packet of halwa. 

'Thank you, Sir,' he said softly. 

When Malik Babu left, Kalyani held his hand. 

'Can I ask you something?' 

'Yes. Sure. Ask away.' 

'Did you sleep around?' 

He had to ensure no tremor passed through his hand. 'Why do you ask this?' 

Kalyani looked down at the floor. 'It's been on my mind.' 

He held her hand. 'I'm a bit disappointed you don't trust me.'

'It's not that. It's just…. a feeling.' 

'Gut feeling?' 

They locked eyes. He had to look away.

'Yes.' 

'The gut is not always right.' 

She remained silent.  

He pulled her close and pressed his face against her body.

Her hands remained by her side. 

                                                               ***

When they returned home in an ambulance, his mother started crying. 

He said, 'Ma, I need to fight back. You have to be strong.' 

His tone. His mother's eyes dried up. Good. His father shook his hand.   

The next morning, after Kalyani went off for work, he was alone. He opened the packet. His heart lifted. It was Rs 500 currency notes.  

Using his spittle, he counted the notes. 

The numbers climbed. 

Rs 10 lakh. 

With shaking hands, he placed the money back in the packet, and kept it carefully under his clothes in the cupboard. 

He phoned Malik Babu. 'Sir…' his voice cracked. 'I don't know what to say.' His fingers were trembling.  

'Pehelwan, you were my best colleague. Loyal. Professional. And nobody had your skill.' 

'Sir, I got an idea. I can train the newcomers.'

'How?' 

'I'll come down to the training place in the countryside.' 

'What a good idea.' 

'Sir, my brain is working. Hands too.' 

'Okay.'  

                                                                          ***

After he cut the call, hot breath came in and out in short bursts. 

Pehelwan looked up. His eyes fell on the photo of Lord Krishna on the table, next to the wall. He picked it up and pressed it against his face. After a while he put it down.  

He pushed his wheelchair towards the window. The large mango tree. He had planted the seeds. It towered over the house now. The hanging baskets of orchids alongside the wall. Kalyani's love. The grassy lawn. How he loved to lie down on it.   

A crow pecked at a guava on a branch. 

                                                                 ***

Every morning, Kalyani wore a crisp cotton saree. The way she called him. Raju. It sounded… like the tinkle of a bell. The soft peck on his cheek. 

One Sunday afternoon, he said, 'Kalyani, hug me.'  

She came close. He inhaled her body scent. Earthy. Like dry land after it receives the first monsoon shower. He kissed her. Her tongue responded. He indicated with his hand that she should get on top. 

'Are you sure?' she whispered. 

'Yes.' 

A small grunt escaped her lips, as they connected. She moved twice. Then stopped. Got her breath back. Moved again. His lips parted. He caressed her smooth skin. What a firm body. 

'Keep moving.' 

His biceps taut. Yes, he was rock hard. 

Her body shook. She closed her eyes and pressed her chest against his face, her hands at the back of his neck. 

He smiled. 

Kalyani said, 'I like it. On top.' 

He held her chin. 'Very good.'

                                                                         ***

One night, his family took him out. His son, Amit, put his arms under his shoulders so that he could sit in the passenger seat. Painful. This helplessness. 

A teenage boy at one side sipping from a bowl of soup. The trail of smoke rising. 

Like beedi smoke. In that bamboo-walled restaurant in Kolkata. A plate of samosas and chutney and a glass of tea in front of him.  

He wore a sleeveless T-shirt. The man at the nearby table. Kept looking at him. Thick sideburns. Large hands. He came and sat next to him. 

'Where did you get such thick biceps?' 

'Sir, I do weights.' 

'How often?'

'Every day.' 

'Do you have a job?' 

'No, Sir. Looking for one. Just came in from Burdwan.' 

'How much have you studied?' 

'Class 12 failed, Sir.' 

'What is your name?' 

'Raju Das. People call me Pehelwan.' 

'Pehelwan? You are a weightlifter, not a wrestler.' 

'Yes. A friend got it wrong. But the name stuck.'  

The man laughed. 

'My name is Malik Babu. If you want a job, you can join me.'

'What will I do?' 

'In the beginning, you'll do errands.' 

                                                                     ***

'Baba, you are daydreaming,' Arpita said. 

'Sorry.' 

'See what you want on the menu?' 

He scanned the menu. 'Hilsa. Rice.' 

Kalyani said, 'Try something new.' 

'Like what?' 

'There's Punjabi food.' 

'You suggest.' 

She looked at the menu. 'Butter naan, tandoori chicken.' 

'Okay.'

She glanced at the menu again. 'Dal makhani, and aloo gobi.' 

'If I can't finish, will you help?' 

'Yes.' 

Amit said, 'Let's begin with a sweet lassi.'  

As they sat around, he said, 'Amit, what would you want to be?' 

Amit cracked a knuckle. He stared into space. 'Baba, I want to be a police officer.' 

'Why, Amit?' 

'I want to catch criminals and put them behind bars. They are a menace to society.'

He swallowed. His fingers tightened around his glass. 

'Very noble aim. Well done.' 

He turned to his daughter. 'What about you?'

Arpita did not hesitate. 'I want to be a teacher like Ma.' 

'Very good. It's a noble profession.' 

He exchanged a glance with Kalyani. A slight tightening of her lips. 

                                                                            ***

The next evening, after dinner, Malik Babu called. 

'Hi Pehelwan, how are you?' 

'Going along, Malik Babu.'

'I've got some news for you.'

His forehead turned damp. 'What is it, Malik Babu?' 

'It was the construction magnate's sons. They hired those people.'

'Where are they from?' 

'Bihar.' 

'How did they know?' 

'I don't know yet.' 

There was silence. 

'We're going to do something.' 

'No need, Malik Babu.' 

'Why?' 

'Pointless. I won't get my legs back.'

'But still?' 

'They deserve their revenge.' 

Again, silence. 

His mother whispered in his ear. 'Tea. Biscuits. Dining table.' 

He raised a palm. 

Malik Babu said, 'Okay.'   

He slumped in his chair. All those killings. By revolver or knife. Nobody hit back. No splashes of blood on his body. 

Then. Muscular. Tough. Now. He patted his thin legs. No feeling at all.  

                                                                         ***

One Sunday, he was sitting near the window. Kalyani sat on the bed watching a Bengali movie. 

A call came on his mobile. Unknown number. He stared at it. 

'Hello.' 

'Hi Pehelwan.' That moist, husky voice. 

He looked at Kalyani. Her gaze was on the screen. He caressed his chin.  

'Hi.'

'Dada, missed you so badly. Tried your number many times.' 

'Yes, something went wrong with my phone.' 

'I heard about the tragedy. So shocked.' 

'Who told you?' 

'Malik Babu.' 

Pehelwan took in a long and slow breath. 

'How's it going?' 

'He's generous.' 

'Pehelwan, are you okay? You know what I mean?'

'Yes, I am.'

'Malik Babu said, if you want, I can come to Burdwan.' 

Kalyani's eyes. Narrowed. She was gazing at the screen. 

'Let's see.' 

He placed the phone on the window sill. He stared out. Clear blue sky. Tumpa's voice. I can come to Burdwan. 

He rolled the wheelchair near the headboard.

He beckoned to Kalyani. She pressed the remote to stop the film. 

Without saying anything, he put his hands behind her neck and kissed her deeply. She kissed him back. His head swirled.  

Amit shouted, 'Arpita, did you take my pen?' 

'No.'  

He broke off, smiled, and said, 'Sorry for the interruption.' 

Kalyani grinned. 'Thank you for the interruption.' 

He rolled back to the window. 

Tumpa… Tumpa. 

He dozed off for a while. 

Kalyani crept up behind him and flung her arms around his shoulders. 'Movie over.' 

He gave a peck on her throat and said, 'Is it?' 

(This story was originally published in the Twist and Twain literary magazine. This is a reworked version)

 

What Happened That Day -- a short story about crime in Mumbai

By Shevlin Sebastian

Rohit sat behind the steering wheel of a Kia Seltos, humming a Manna Dey song, 'Zindagi Kaisi Hai Paheli.' The car idled at a signal in Byculla. On the seat beside him, a revolver lay under a Marathi newspaper. His fingers touched the smooth steel. Cold.  

A woman in the rear-view mirror applied lipstick. Once, he'd watched women like her from the pavement, his pockets empty. 

The signal changed. A BEST bus in front. Autorickshaws behind it. Motorcyclists beside his car. He looked at his golden watch with the large black dial. Ten minutes late.  

Rohit pressed the accelerator, heading to Andheri to meet Sunil Jhangpuria. 

At the construction site, he slipped the gun into his pocket.  

When he stopped at the entrance to an office, Sunil smiled. 'Come in.' 

Rohit pointed at the tin roof. 'Arre Sunil, why an office here?'

'It's best to be among the workers. They work better.'  

'Good point.' 

Sunil gestured to the peon. A thin, reedy man. 'Aslam Bhai, two cups please.' 

With slow, measured steps, Aslam Bhai came out. Like Rohit's father in his later years. His mother said, 'Be ambitious. Not passive like your father.' 

'How are things?' Rohit said. 

Sunil twisted his lips. 'For this project, not many buyers, yet.' 

'Bhai, they'll come. You have an excellent reputation.' 

'I hope so. It's a big investment.'

'What number is this project?' 

'Twelfth.'

'I'm sure at the start of all those projects, the buyers were few.' 

Sunil stared at Rohit. 'Yes. You're right.'

Aslam Bhai set down the tea. He and Sunil sipped in silence. 

'Any Bollywood gossip, Sunil Bhai?' 

Sunil smacked his lips. 'You know Harini?' 

'The one who acted in 'Ek Raasta' opposite superstar Wasim?' 

'Yes. That's the one.' 

'What about her?' 

'She told a friend that Wasim has a small one.' 

Rohit laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. 'Man, that's too much.' 

Sunil added, 'And they call him a superstar.' 

Rohit laughed again. 

After the peon cleared away the cups, Rohit said, 'Is the stuff ready?'

Sunil opened his drawer and took out several thick bundles.

Rohit opened his bag. Sunil dropped the bundles one after the other. Nice if it were his. Deepa and the kids. 

Sunil said, 'One hundred petis.' 

'Only one crore. What about the remaining Rs 2 crore?' 

'I need two days.'

Under the table, Rohit clenched his fist. 'You didn't tell us earlier.' 

'I'm sorry. Some last-minute problem.'

'I have to talk to Prashant.' 

He stepped out. Called his boss. Told him what had happened. 

'He's never done this before,' said Prashant. 

'First time.' 

'Is he in some kind of trouble?' 

'I don't know. Should I threaten him?' 

'He's never failed before.'

'Yes.'

'Take it. Collect after two days.'  

Rohit returned. Sat down. Patted the revolver. 'You're not experiencing any labour trouble?' 

'No.' 

'Are the building materials arriving on time?'

'Yes.' 

Rohit zipped the bag. 'Call us if you face any problems. We are here to protect you.'

'Thank you.' 

'I'll come again. Don't disappoint us.' 

Sunil placed a palm over his heart. 'I promise.' 

Rohit pressed a thumb against his chest. 'Tell Harini there are real studs available.' 

This time it was Sunil's turn to laugh. Hope he's smart enough to pay in two days. 

Outside, a cement mixer growled in the distance. Workers shouted across floors of the twenty-storey building. Their voices echoed. 

Sunil, get your act together. 

Rohit turned the ignition key. That morning Prashant had told him, 'Nadkarni is evading me. Put the rod to his head.'

A few pings. He stopped by the side of the road and opened his WhatsApp. 

Rekha: 'Darling, waiting for you.' 

Deepa: 'Kitchen tap leaking. Can you call a plumber?' 

Harish: 'In town. When can we meet?' 

A man stepped near his window. Rohit looked up. He was wearing a mask. A pistol pointed at his face. Oh Ganesha. Who is this man? His left hand reached for the revolver. Who sent him? 

The first shot slammed into the middle of his forehead. Aai, Aai, Aai. Where are you? Another punched into his chest. Electric shock in his body. The third tore into his neck. Blood spurted out, staining his white shirt. His eyes closed. His head fell onto the steering wheel. His mind turned pitch-black.  

On the road, women put their fingers to their ears. Men ran. Vehicles stopped as drivers stared with open mouths through the windscreen. Two masked men on a motorbike. One opened the door on the other side and grabbed the bag. 

Within seconds, they vanished. 

A constable ran up. He opened the door. 

He felt for a pulse. Through his mobile, he shouted, 'Ambulance. A man has been shot.' He stepped out onto the road and waved the traffic onwards. 

The ambulance crew pulled Rohit out of the car and placed him on a stretcher. It sped away at high speed, siren blaring. 

A cop in Prashant’s pay said, 'Sir, I heard Rohit has been shot.' 

Prashant gripped his throat. 'What do you mean?' 

'Two masked men on a motorcycle. They fled.' 

He called his associate, Manish. 'Speak to Sunil. Ask him what happened.'

Manish slid a pistol into his trouser pocket. 

Aslam said, 'Sunil Saab went out.' 

'Do you know where?'

'No, Sir.'  

Manish called Prashant. 'He's not here. I called him. The call's not going through.' 

Prashant rang a contact in the cyber cell and gave him Sunil's number. 

Half an hour later, the officer called back. 'Bhai, the number is not active.'

He took a deep breath. Sunil never played games. Why had he disappeared? Why had he held back the money? Two months ago, the leaders met at Borivali. Territories had been demarcated. Every dispute settled. At the end, wide smiles and lots of drinks. Women waited in the other rooms. 'All fresh maal,' Prashant said. So who did this? 

Prashant told Manish, 'Go to the hospital. Confirm Rohit had died. After that, inform Deepa.' 

His team members sat around the dining table. He clapped his hands. They fell silent. 

'I need answers. Who ordered this hit? Who took the money? Where is Sunil? Why has he fled?' 

The members kept their eyes lowered. They took sips from their cups.

'Harish, find out who ordered the hit. Hit the network. The two killers. Hari, look for Sunil. I want answers. Fast.'   

Shouting erupted near the gate. Danish, a sharpshooter, looked through the window. 'Police raid.'

Prashant's stomach churned. He needed a Gelusil. 

He turned to his men. 'How come nobody told us in advance?'  

The others took out their revolvers. Prashant raised his palm. 'Don't be a fool. We can't kill officers. They'll finish us.' 

He called out, 'Raghu.' 

When the servant arrived, wearing black shorts, he said, 'Collect all the weapons. Put it in a black plastic bag, and hide it in the garbage.'

Raghu ran to the kitchen, and returned with a large bag. Prashant looked at his team. 'Get rid of them.'

The revolvers fell into the bag. Clang, clang, clang. 

Prashant said, 'Hurry up, Raghu. Take it away.' 

Raghu ran back. 

The bell rang. 'Ting Tong.' 

Prashant opened the door.  

The officer showed him a document. Behind him stood several constables. 

'What is it?' Prashant said. 

'Arrest warrant.' 

'For whom?' 

'All of you.' 

'How do you know who is here?'

The officer read out the names one by one. Danish. Rathore. Amit. Totally accurate. How did he know? Did they have a rat? If yes, who? Many of his gang members he knew for decades.   

Prashant said calmly, 'Why now?' 

The officer said, 'Boss's orders.' 

Prashant whispered, 'I pay your boss.' 

The officer looked away. 

They entered. Called out the names. Put handcuffs on. And led them out. No search. Thank God. The whole neighbourhood had stepped out. Prashant looked up. Verandahs were clogged with people. Enjoying the tamasha. On the sidewalk, human rights activist Gatonde threw a fist at him. Prashant's eyes reddened. Bloody idiot. He'll get him one day. 

He turned to the officer. 'Where are we going?' 

'Arthur Road prison.'

At the hospital reception, a nurse told Manish, 'Rohit Gaikwad. Dead on arrival. In the mortuary.' 

As he stepped out of the hospital, a thought. How to tell Deepa she's become a widow. Tough job. 

He got into an autorickshaw. Fifteen minutes later, it stopped in front of the three-storey building in Byculla. Manish got out slowly. He lit a cigarette. Took a few drags. People moved around him. He shook his head. No point waiting. He flicked the butt to the side of the road.  

Manish made his way to the first-floor apartment. He knocked on the door.

Deepa opened it. In a plain white cotton sari. One glance at Manish and she said, 'Has something happened to Rohit?'

He nodded.

She led him inside.

She sat on a sofa. Manish on an armchair. A small glass table in the middle. A folded Lokmat newspaper. 

Manish said, 'Do you still read the newspaper?'

'Rohit did.' 

'Yes.' 

She leaned forward. 'What is it?' 

'Two men shot Rohit at a traffic stop.' 

'Is he dead?' 

'Yes.' 

Deepa fell back on the sofa. Relief flickered through her before the tears came. 

Manish caught the look. So she'd had enough of Rohit. His womanising. She had known.  

'Where are the children?' 

'In school.'  

She cupped her open mouth. 'What happened?' 

'We don’t know,' said Manish. 

'What do you mean, you don't know?' 

'We are investigating.'

'They can't get away.' 

'Absolutely.' 

Tears clung to her eyelids. 

'Prashant said he will come next week. You don’t have to worry. He will look after everything.'

'Where is Rohit now?'

'In the mortuary. There will be a post-mortem. If you need any help, please call me.'

'When will they release the body?' 

'Most probably, tomorrow.' 

She stood up, went and touched the statue of Lord Ganesha in an alcove. 'Thank you,' she whispered. 

He called out his number. Deepa entered it into her mobile.

Manish gently pulled the door shut. Tough lady.  

Deepa entered the bedroom and opened the steel almirah. She looked for the bank passbooks in the safe. There were two: State Bank of India and Bank of Maharashtra. Both accounts had deposits of Rs 10 lakh each. Rohit had kept a file on the top shelf, next to his revolver. 

She brought down the files. She glanced at her mobile. The children would arrive in half an hour.

She checked. Yes, an FD file. Seven certificates in all. A total of  Rs 30 lakhs. The flat and the car belonged to Rohit. She would sell the car. From now on, Uber, auto or train.

Deepa put the files back, shut the almirah and called her sister and mother. She stared at her palms. The children would be devastated. It would not be easy to live in this city without a man. Men would start hitting on her once they knew she had become a widow.  

She pressed her face into her hands. Rohit's savings. It would protect her and the children. Would it be enough? She closed her eyes. How he would giggle whenever she caressed his nipples. 'I feel ticklish,' he'd say. She smiled despite herself. That peck on her cheek when he said,  'Deepa, going weightlifting. Bye.' How she loved to run her hands over him when they lay next to each other on the bed. The ease with which he could lift her up and kiss her. Who would hold her now?  

Rohit. The name she called every day for 16 years. Her parents had come with the proposal. 'Not very educated. But he is earning well.' He belonged to the same caste. She said yes. What if she did not get another good proposal? No doubt Rohit looked after them materially. The clothes for the children and her. A gold necklace. Holidays to Alibaug and Goa. But there were his kinky demands. Anal sex. 

She begged him. 'Rohit, it's painful.'

'Use the jelly more.' 

'Can't we have sex the usual way?' 

Many times, she could not sit for long. 

No matter what time he came, or whether she was tired or not, he had to have a session. Insatiable. Despite all those women. 

The bell rang. The children had returned. Daughter Manisha and son Jitin. Manisha in Class 12. Jitin in Class 10. She set the table for vada pav, khanda baji and ginger tea. How to tell them? 

Let my Aai do it. 

She sipped her tea. 

Sunita's call came back to her. 'Rohit comes to our building.' 

'For what?' 

'There's a call girl on the second floor.' 

Deepa drew in her breath. 'How often?' 

'Almost every day.'

When she confronted Rohit, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. 'That Sunita is crazy. There are offices in that building. I go there for work.' 

Some weeks later, Sunita called. 'The girl has left.'

'Where?' 

'I don't know.' 

She walked to the washbasin, spat and washed her mouth. But as her friend Lata had said, 'Every man has something good and bad in him.' 

There was his radiant smile whenever he saw the children. How they jumped up and down when he came home. 'Papa, Papa.' He hugged them and pulled at their cheeks. He walked on all fours, with them balanced on his back. 'When I was a child, Usha Aaji would take me like this with Shobha Atya.' 

That conversation with Usha, before she passed away suddenly, at sixty-two, of a heart attack. 

'His father was a weak man. Never earned properly. I had to work as a maid.' 

'Who looked after the children?' 

'My mother. She was a widow.' 

Deepa swallowed silently.  

And it was Shobha who told Deepa one day, 'Rohit is not a businessman. He works for an underworld gang.'

'Does he kill people?'

'No. He collects money from rich businessmen. If they resist, he only points a gun.' 

'How are you so sure he hasn't killed anybody?'

'He swore in the name of Lord Ganesh.' 

'Is that enough?' 

Shobha became silent, as she sipped the cup of masala tea that Deepa had made. 

After Manish stepped out of Rohit’s house, he received a call. It was a member of the rival gang. 

'We heard the police had arrested Prashant.'

'What are you saying?' 

The man repeated it. 

'I don't know about it,' Manish said.

He called Prashant’s landline number. Ashok, the servant, said, 'Hanh, Manish Bhai, the entire gang has been arrested.' 

Manish stepped into a roadside hotel and ordered tea. He sat silently for a few minutes.  

He switched off his mobile and threw the SIM card into a drain outside. He headed to a house in Andheri and let himself in with a key. 

The two men were sitting on the edge of the bed, watching TV.

'Show me the bag.'

He counted the money. ‘Shit. It was supposed to be Rs 3 crore.’

He pointed his revolver at them. 'Is this the money?'

The boys fell at his feet.

One of them said, 'Sir, we did not even open the bag. Please believe us.'

Their tone. His years of experience. They were telling the truth. For some reason, Sunil had given Rohit less than he had promised. 

'Okay,' he said. 'Get up.'

He gave them Rs 20 lakh. 'Go back to Uttar Pradesh or Nepal.'

'Yes, Sir.' 

'If you don’t want to get caught, stay underground for one or two years.'

'After that, can we return?' 

'That's a risk you have to take.' 

They put the cash in suitcases and left.

Rohit dead. Prashant and gang in jail. Where the hell was Sunil? Would they come after him? 

He wanted to find out about Sunil. But he had no phone now. 

At 8:30 p.m., Manish entered an unreserved compartment of the Kolkata-bound Jnaneshwari Express. His suitcase contained the remaining money, his revolver, and some clothes. 

As he lay down on the berth, he shut his eyes. That Sunday night flashed before his eyes. He had pasted a wiretap across his chest, put on a shirt and gone to spend time with Prashant and the others. Sunday lunch. Prashant had invited the gang for drinks and lunch. 

'Arre yaar, feel free,' he told Manish on the phone. 'My wife and kids had gone to her parents' home in Satara. Two weeks. Lots of screwing to be done.'

Manish laughed. 'Sure.' 

His heart thudded as he climbed to the fourth floor. When he entered, most of them were there. 

Prashant shook his hand. 'What do you want?' 

He pointed at the cabinet. Whisky, rum, brandy. He filled a glass of brandy with soda. On the low table, plates of pakoras, cutlets, and chicken legs. 

'Manohar's shipment of gold from Dubai has been stuck,' said Prashant. 

'How?' said Govind. 

'I spoke to Manohar. He fears somebody snitched.' 

His knees knocked against each other. 'Snitches should be killed,' said Manish in a loud voice. 

Prashant gave a thumbs up. 'Not killed. Slaughtered. Cut up like a chicken.'

Manish's throat turned dry. He went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water from the cistern. He drank it in one gulp.  

Manish spoke about past murders, bootlegging and extorting builders. He deliberately mentioned names. Then the conversation drifted to the many women they had slept with. 

'You could have brought your woman?' Prashant said. 

'Maybe, another time.' 

'I'm told she is a bomb.' 

The others laughed. Govind said, 'He spends all his money on that cunt.' 

Reluctantly, Manish said, 'Yeah. Quite good.' 

One decent thing about Prashant. He never tried to seduce girlfriends of his team.

An urge to urinate. Inside the toilet, he washed his face. Wiped it with his handkerchief. Looked at himself in the mirror. The word, Snitch, rocked his mind.

When he returned home, he listened to the recordings. 'Perfect,' he murmured. 

On his laptop, he transferred the recordings to a pen drive. He sealed the envelope with trembling hands. He went to the courier office. Paid the money. It would be sent to the Crime Branch office. Outside, his chest heaved. His future was sealed. Good or bad? He'd find out soon enough.   

'Meals, meals, meals,' a man yelled as he walked down the corridor. Manish gestured. He bought a packet of chicken biryani, sat cross-legged and began to eat. 

Thoughts ricocheted through his mind. That day, when he had gone to spend some time at his sister's home. His niece Alpana had asked, 'Mama, what do you do?'

For a moment he stared at her. I kill people. I destroyed so many families. I steal money that other people make. 'Alpana, I work in an office.'   

He scratched his chin. 

No peace of mind. Prashant would never let me leave. I had to sink all of them. 

His decision to not marry. It had broken his parents' hearts. And in the last two years, they had passed. First Aai. Then Papa.   

In Kolkata, he would get plastic surgery. His snub nose would be straightened. The chin cleft closed. He would shave off his hair and wear a wig.

A fake Aadhaar card and ration card. 

He would open accounts in several banks and deposit the money over one-and-a-half months, so that it aroused no suspicion.

Then on to the Sevashram in Bolpur, 160 km from Kolkata. A monk. Clean himself of all his sins. 

He got the idea after he read the Hindi translation of the book, 'The Autobiography of a Yogi' by Paramahansa Yogananda. Negative karma. That's what he had. Maybe he was being stupid. And the gang might come after him. Who knows? Prashant might suspect something once he was found to be missing. 

At Arthur Road prison, Deepak told Prashant, ''Why don't you call Manish? He's the only one outside.'  

Prashant managed to get a phone by bribing a constable. 

He called Manish. He got the automated response: 'The number you are calling is currently unreachable. Please try later.'

Prashant hit the wall with his fist. 'Damn.' 

Deepak said, 'Maybe, he's been arrested.' 

Prashant nodded. 'Maybe.' 

He added, 'If that builder Sunil does not come to meet me in prison, I'm going to give a supari.'  

The train gathered speed. The rattle of the wheels became monotonous. 

He finished his biriyani. Threw the plate in the bin under the washbasin. Washed his hands. Lay down again. 

In his flat, every night. Blood-soaked dead faces screaming, 'Why did you kill me?' He turned from side to side. Sweat on his forehead. The flat empty. No option but to take sleeping pills. How many times could you have sex, buy new clothes, buy another car? The others had families to look after. He had no one. His mistress. She'd think about the lost income. Then move on. 

But could he? 

(This story was originally published in kitaab.org. This is a reworked version)