CHAPTER 1

Virat

It lay there, covered by a dirty scrap of rag, at the centre of the large pit. Heaps of earth had been scooped out by an army of workers hired by the contractor. The construction site was flooded with halogen lights after sunset, enabling work to continue way past the permissible time. The builder knew the right people. The contractor usually sat on a chair under an umbrella tied to a long stick that had been hammered into the ground, yelling at the workers from time to time. His yelling was generally effective. But not this time. Today, they had turned a deaf ear to it, thrown their respective shovels and clambered out of the pit. The contractor had climbed into the pit, albeit with great difficulty, to inspect the thing that was responsible for work coming to a grinding halt.

By the time Virat and Shashank arrived in the latter’s Jeep, the pit was empty. The workers stood huddling close to each other staring at it. The crowd hadn’t yet gathered, but they would soon. News travelled fast, specially of this kind. The workers stared at the dirty piece of cloth that covered it. All of them terrified and stunned into silence.

“Where is it?”

Though a known face in Jaipur, Shashank was barely recognizable in a gaudy flowing kurta with embroidery on the collar and the back. The contractor blinked and stared, unable to recognize the man beneath the heavy embroidery.

“Inspector Shashank. Crime Branch.”

Shashank sounded irritated, not because the contractor didn’t recognize him. He had been at a wedding, enjoying his drink, juicy kebabs, the music. There was a DJ with coloured and gelled hair tips, gyrating to the beat. The dance floor was packed with pretty girls in clinging cholis, sparkly glitter on their cleavage. There was laal maas on the dinner menu. He had been called away from all that. Not to mention the scowl from his wife that held the promise of a storm he would have to deal with later. You never make time for family; that would be her opening line. It’s always work. We don’t matter, she would add. As a senior police officer, recently promoted to the crime division, Shashank had to dash to crime scenes at a moment’s notice, and that irritated his wife a lot. Though she didn’t complain about the perks – getting special passes and front-row seats at an Arijit Singh concert, free tickets to movies, and many other things that came his way.

“Sirji.” The contractor’s face broke into a relieved smile as recognition struck. “Thank you, sirji, for arriving so fast. I was worried news would travel and the phone camera brigade would arrive. If this goes viral…” The contractor was palpitating, almost gasping for breath, sweating profusely. It wasn’t so much the shock of seeing the severed leg that made him nervous; it was the implication. Everyone had a smartphone. Clicking, recording and uploading was the latest epidemic. If the photo of the decomposing severed leg got out, it would be the end of construction and him. He was already way behind schedule. The mall had to be ready by end September to catch the pre-Diwali sales. They were in August and just digging the foundation.

“Where is it?” Shashank asked.

“There, sir. One of the men found it while digging, and now they are refusing to work.” He pointed to the trench, towards a dirty cloth that lay on the ground.

“Shut off some of the lights,” Shashank yelled, shielding his eyes from the glare. The lights were too large and bright; one could barely keep one’s eyes open. He had jumped into the pit effortlessly. For a stocky, heavy-built man, he moved with agility. Virat took time finding his feet and lowered himself.

The contractor stopped and gestured with his hand, asking who he was and why was he following the inspector from the crime branch.

“Inspector Virat from Bannod,” he replied, clearing his throat twice. The contractor stepped back and looked at him from head to toe, disbelief writ all over his face. Virat was used to that look. Barefoot, he stood at an embarrassing 5 feet 4 ½ inches; his narrow girth and slim frame made him look smaller. He didn’t look like a cop and certainly didn’t look Virat. Ten years in the force, the insults stung less, and he had taught himself to shrug them off.

“Virat! Come here and take a look,” Shashank called out to him as he lifted the cloth.

There was no head or torso. Just one leg, chopped off  below the knee. Virat stopped in his tracks, turned his face away and swallowed the rising bile in his mouth.

Shashank squatted and bent towards the leg, switched on the torch on his mobile. Insects had been making a meal of it. The sand and dry heat of the region had slowed decomposition.

“It’s a woman.” Shashank pointed at the painted toenails. “Where is the rest of the body?” He looked around the pit.

The workers were straining their ears, trying to hear him. The contractor stood next to Shashank, constantly wiping his forehead.

“Sir … sir…” He moved closer to Shashank, rubbing his hands together, moving his neck like a duck. “Please … how soon can the work start? I have to meet the deadline, sir.”

“I have to report this to the DIG. Work can’t continue. We have to search the pit for other body parts. I have to file the report, and only then we can decide when work can start.”

“Sirji, please, sirji. Is there anything I can do? Please, sirji. Work has to start tomorrow or else … you know. Anything you want, sirji,” the man whispered, licking his lips and shaking his head from side to side.

“Shut up, you moron.” Shashank turned away to call his superior officer. He was halfway through the call when he heard the shrieking siren of an approaching ambulance. He shook his head, ended the call and waited for the driver of the ambulance to descend. Someone had spoken to someone who in turn had ensured that the leg be removed promptly. Favours had been called in and vested interests needed to be protected, justice and sanctity of crime scene be damned. The alacrity with which decisions were made and carried out when something needed to be covered up never ceased to amaze him.

“Hey, Virat, I’m sorry, yaar, but I’ll have to wait for some time. Why don’t you carry on? I’ll join you in a while.” Shashank pulled out a white towel from his pocket and wiped his head. Sweat glittered on the bald pate.

“No. It’s ok, Shashank. I’ll wait and we’ll go back together.” The prospect of going back to the wedding, sitting alone in one corner and watching his cousins dance in a frenzy did not excite him one bit. In fact, he had volunteered to go with Shashank when the latter had received the call. He hated weddings and family gatherings. Accompanying his friend to the crime scene was a better alternative. But now, as he saw the severed leg, the flesh around the cut hanging loose, mud, grime and insects nesting in it, the few kebabs and handful of peanuts he had eaten were turning in his belly, threatening to rise to his mouth. He took deep breaths to quell the nausea. If he vomited, in the presence of so many others, that video would go viral.

Chhotaa Virat vomits at the crime scene.

The moniker – Chhotaa Virat – had been pinned on him since childhood much to his chagrin. He massaged his temple and raised his head. That helped push the rising bile down.

He had been in the force for about ten-odd years, but had never seen a dead body, leave alone just a decomposing leg. He shook his head as though trying to clear away the image. He asked one of the men for some water. Suddenly his throat felt parched, as though the insides of his mouth were closing in. Shashank was busy on the phone. The workers crouched on the ground, their knees drawn up to their chest, their eyes fixed on the leg which lay in the middle of the pit.

The driver of the ambulance picked up the leg, using the cloth to wrap around it, and tossed it in the back of the ambulance, leaving the door open. He couldn’t care less about contaminating the evidence. It wasn’t his headache. He needed Shashank’s signature on the paper and went into the pit again and waited while the former finished his call.

Virat stood near the open door of the ambulance, unable to take his eyes off the wrapped bundle. The only light on the roof of the ambulance glowed, casting a pale white light over it. A sudden gust of wind lifted one end of the cloth, exposing grime-covered ankle and toe. A pronounced bunion protruded from the side. It wasn’t the first time Virat was seeing a bunion that jutted out so prominently. He went up to the ambulance door, took his mobile out, switched on the torchlight, held his breath and aimed it at the toe and the ankle. The leg was covered in slime, slush and dirt; insects crawled on it, nibbling away. Yes, it was a bunion. A big one.

As the torchlight shone on the large bunion, Virat noticed the painted toe. The big toe. The nail was painted in three colours in a triangular pattern. Pink, yellow and blue.

“Oh God!” Virat gasped and stepped back. He stepped on a stone and almost lost his balance but steadied himself in time.

“What happened, Virat? Are you ok?” Shashank and the driver were walking up after having reached a decision.

“I … I mean … the painted toe … the big bunion. I…” Virat gasped for breath, unable to find the words.

“Don’t worry about it. The leg will go to the morgue. The examiner will clean it up, and may be able to provide some clues. But I doubt if anything will come out of this.”

Shashank had already received a call from his superior officer to allow work to be resumed. The contractor, realizing that Shashank couldn’t be influenced, had called his boss, the builder, who in turn had reached out to his friend, the DIG. The order had been curt, quick and simple. Remove the leg. No paperwork needed. Permit work at the site.

Experience had taught Shashank to be practical about things like these. He would be rewarded with a shopping voucher worth a couple of thousand bucks when the mall opened. He wasn’t big enough yet to get a shop or piece of commercial estate.

“Now, let’s get back to the wedding and the food, yaar.” Shashank wanted to enjoy what was left of the evening. Virat had lost his appetite though. He followed Shashank into the car but couldn’t stop thinking about the protruding bunion and the painted toenail.

“Sejal had a bunion. Maybe I’m wrong. I could be, but what if I’m not?”

CHAPTER 2

Jenny

My head bangs on the edge of the window, and I wake up. It’s the same nightmare. Rose is screaming at me. Saliva pools in the corner of her lips. Her eyes are wide, her face framed by dry messy hair. She yells at me again and again.

“Open the door. Open the door. Get the key,” she screams as I stand rooted to the ground, unable to move. I watch the dancing flames engulf and finally suck her in. The silence following her screams is deafening. It’s always the same.

“Madam, where do you want to go?” the conductor asks. The bus has reached Bannod. The side of my face feels numb. I rub it with my fingers and look at him. He is digging his ear with a finger and his eyes have lowered to the three open buttons of my shirt. The bus is empty. The other passengers have got off, and I’m the only one left. This is not good. Never be the last one left on an empty bus.

“Ramji’s homestay,” I tell him as I wear my backpack on my chest like a shield and start to slide out of the seat. He raises his eyes to my face, disappointed to have his view blocked. He is standing in the aisle between the seats, blocking my path with a dirty smile pasted on his face. He thinks I’m easy prey.

I unzip a side pocket and take out the large safety pin. I have many stashed in different pockets for easy retrieval. I know what he is going to try, and I’m prepared.

Bastard. I’ll show you who’s the smarter one.

I make my way, slide sideways and push the open pin hard in his thigh.

“Aaagh!” he screams. I jab it again, this time on his arm as I move ahead. I get off the bus without turning back. Jab hard and move away fast; that’s how it is done.

I take out my mobile and call Ramji. What kind of name is that! He answers after one ring.

“Jenny-ji, you reached?” I can’t stop myself from chuckling every time he calls me Jenny-ji. The girls at the salon would roll on the floor laughing if they heard him. But I don’t stop him.

Yes, please call me Jenny-ji. I have spent years addressing other women like that. Mallika-ji, would you like juice or chai? Anu Madam-ji, the pedicure is ready for you. Anika-ji, is the oil warm enough?

“Yes, this is Jenny calling. I’m at the marketplace.”

“Very good. If you walk straight, you’ll see a juice stall. It has a large red umbrella. My man is there, waiting for you. He will help you. There’s a rickshaw for you. Welcome to Bannod.”

He hangs up, and I walk towards the juice stall. I see it up ahead, on my right. It’s hard to miss the bright red umbrella with patches on it.

I am holding the suitcase in one hand. It’s light. I don’t have too many things. I travel light. The excess baggage is in my … never mind. I shift the backpack on my shoulder. A man is walking towards me. He is smiling and squinting in the sun. It’s difficult to keep eyes open against the glare.

“Jenny-ji?”

I can get used to this. I try not to smile, but it’s difficult not to.

“Myself Kumar. I Ramji man.” He extends his hand for the suitcase, which I hand over. He leads me towards the umbrella and offers a large glass of iced watermelon juice. I stand frozen, staring at the blood-red liquid. I can’t bring myself to take it. Kumar looks surprised and thinks I’m probably worried about having to pay for it.

“Jenny-ji, this is free. Welcome drink from Ramji.”

“No, no. It’s not about money. I … I … can’t drink it.” I’m trying to think of an excuse. “I … uh … I’m allergic to watermelon. I get rashes in my mouth. Yes … my mouth breaks into a rash. Sorry.”

Kumar looks at the juice seller and then at me. It’s probably the first time he has heard of anyone being allergic to watermelon.

“Ok, ok no problem.” He grabs the glass and drinks it up before the juice seller can say anything. “I no allergy.” He looks very pleased.

I would have liked a glass of chilled juice in the heat. Any juice except a red liquid. I’m offered a nimbu paani with lots of ice and torn mint leaves. The awkward moment is forgotten.

“This way…” Kumar points in the direction of a rickshaw. It’s a motorized cycle rickshaw, covered only from the top; the sides are open for hot and dusty air to slap the passenger around. But I am glad Ramji has arranged for transport. Apart from the juice seller, who is now pushing his cart away, there isn’t another soul.

“Where is everyone? This is the marketplace, right? There’s no one around,” I say as I settle in the rickshaw. I run my fingers through my entangled hair, tie them with a band and wrap a dupatta on my head, and loop it around my neck.

“Everyone sleeps in the afternoon. Nothing to do, madam. Afternoon is sleeping time.”

I’d taken the early-morning train from Delhi to Jaipur and then a bus to Bannod. It is 3 p.m. now. As the motor coughs and splutters, a cloud of dust and sand blows up, and then with a jerk, the rickshaw moves. I grab the sidebar. The seat is slippery. I look around. A few scooters and cycles stand leaning against poles outside some of the houses. The windows are bolted shut. So, there are people here; this isn’t a ghost town. It hadn’t been easy finding Bannod; merely a dot on the map.

Kumar is chatty. He is talking through the cloth he has draped around his face. The hot air and sand particles feel like needles pricking my skin.

“You first coming to Bannod, Jenny-ji?”

“Haanji,” I reply in Hindi, hoping he gets the hint and switches to his familiar language. My name often makes people speak in English, mistaking me for a foreigner. Little do they know that I thought of the name when I read it on the board outside the bakery I stepped in for breakfast. Jenny’s Bakery. I had ordered two slices of bread with a hard-boiled egg. As I waited for my order, I decided to adopt the name of the shop. I became Jenny. A new name for my new life.

Kumar doesn’t take my hint, or maybe he wants to impress me with his linguistic skill.

“Lots of places to see here,” Kumar continues, though from what I can see, there’s nothing much at all. Just a market square with a handful of shops, all of them shut. The straight road has an intersection at right angles, and houses are built alongside. As we pass by some of the houses, I can tell that they are very old. They have that weary, desolate, empty look. Saplings sprouting from cracks in the walls, shuttered windows that are never opened, large gates that haven’t been opened in a long time, wild shrubs growing around the iron grills, trapping them. They don’t interest me.

“What are the places to see here?” I ask just to make conversation.

“Some of these havelis were built very long ago. Some have beautiful paintings on the walls. Then there’s the Sati Devi temple in Jhunjhunu. It is famous.”

Broken, forgotten houses and a temple in the memory of a woman burned alive on her husband’s pyre. Great! She, too, must have screamed, howled and tried to break free? Did she have a daughter who stood by watching?

“Jenny-ji, how you coming Bannod?” Kumar’s voice brings me back to the present, and I realize I am shivering in the heat, my fingers curled on the edge of the seat. My nails are digging into the cracked leather. It takes me a minute to find my voice.

“I saw pictures of the havelis in a magazine and wanted to see them. And also, the women in the village make beautiful tie and dye dupattas. I want to start a small business.”

The lie comes out easily. I’m not in the least interested in old havelis or the tie-dye industry. In the last ten years, I have spun so many tales, said so many lies, time and over again, sometimes in my mind, and repeatedly to others, that it becomes difficult to separate the two. You tell a lie often, too many times and for too long, it begins to feel like the truth.

After living a lie for ten years, I’m trying to go back to the truth and face it. I’m trying not to think too much about it. I have to do this and this time I won’t run away. This time I will not fail.