The Acquaintance Read online

  THE ACQUAINTANCE

  THE ACQUAINTANCE

  Vishnu Kaimal

  The Acquaintance

  Author : Vishnu Kaimal

  First published by

  Bigfoot Publications (OPC) Pvt. Ltd.

  211, Muzaffra, Sherpur, Pataudi,

  Gurgaon, Haryana (122502)

  Website: www.bigfootpublications.com

  Email: [email protected]

  First Edition: January 2021

  Copyright © Vishnu Kaimal, 2021

  ISBN Print Book - 978-81-949229-9-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistencies herein. Any slights on people, places, or organizations are unintentional.

  Typeset by Satendra Singh for Bigfoot Publications

  Printed in India

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  Ali stared wistfully at the line of trucks making their way into the crown jewel of Salsette Island. The most expensive stretch of land in the city is bookended by a harbour in the east and a sea in the west. South Mumbai was the playground of the crème de la crème. It was a popular tourist attraction and a very good place for business. Maundy Thursday was marked as the start of a very busy weekend. Ali looked at his watch, an old Casio knock-off with a glitchy display. Right now, it showed 4:11 a.m. He cursed under his breath, he knew he couldn’t trust his watch, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the clock on his smartphone. He waited another minute. He looked at the rear view mirror and found hooded eyes staring back at him. He hated those eyes; he tried to make them look better with kohl but, only made his life worse.

  The temperature was in the high double digits and Ali was sweating bullets. The weather was sickening, it felt like those days when the sun bled through the clouds but the air wrapped you in a feverish chill. Ali hated such days. Through his frosted windshield, he could make out “Kohinoor Paan”, a popular paan vendor in the market. The stand was strategically placed right outside “Cafe Lagan”, one of the most popular restaurants in Chor Bazaar. Young people and old flocked to the establishment at all hours of the day and night. It was always crowded. And once the patrons were done with their meal, they would step out for a smoke and a palette cleansing paan. It was as they say, a target rich environment.

  He could see two men arguing on the street. Ali stared at them intently, studying their wild gesticulations and the demanding soprano of their voices.

  The darkness was unnerving but he steeled himself for what was to come next. He stole a glance at the clock, a bright lock screen winked back at him, Maundy Thursday 18th April, 2019, 4:12 a.m. Seven minutes. He recited a Quran verse in silent prayer. The Smartphone was connected to a parcel that lay in the flatbed of his truck. Ali had covered it up with a tarp, not that anyone would check his truck at this time of the morning. There was barely anyone around. As far as he could see, there were only a handful of people. That was the point. The less the number of people, the better. He could see Mr. Dosabhai and his head chef haul four crates between them. Since the truck parked in front of their restaurant was from a butchery, Ali guessed, it was lamb and goat. “Cafe Lagan” was famous for their Dhansak, a dish made of meat in a toor dal gravy. The thought of the Dhansak made his mouth water. Ali shifted his truck into first gear. This was his first time driving the truck. The vehicle crawled on all fours like a massive beast of burden. The butcher had finally moved his van, leaving a clear view of the restaurant’s stained glass window. He could only have one shot at this. He dabbed at his damp forehead with his sleeve. Inshallah.

  Ali gunned the engine and drove straight for the window. Mr. Dosabhai stepped out of the shop and screamed a profanity in Farsi as Ali barrelled past him and slid his truck into the handicapped parking spot next to the stained window. Idiot, Ali cursed himself. Hell of a first impression he was setting.

  Mr. Dosabhai was still clutching his chest, but his face broke into a smile when he saw Ali step out of the truck.

  Ali felt the muscles in his face relax into a nervous smile. “What have you got for me today Ali Miyan?” said Mr. Dosabhai rubbing his palms in anticipation. The early morning air stung his face. Even in the middle of April, Mumbai weather played by its own rules. He was the last vendor to arrive. Ali led Mr. Dosabhai to the back of his truck. An industrial cooler had been set up in the bed with the day’s catch.

  Ali’s father returned in the middle of the night with his fishing trawler jumping with rare pomfret, surmai and a four foot Rohu. With the right buyer for the Rohu, his father’s business could make a tidy profit. After all the strings he had to pull for a fishing license and all the money he had spent on a fishing trawler. This was Allah’s way of rewarding them.

  Ali’s father didn’t want him to negotiate the sale with Mr. Dosabhai, but it was Masterji who had finally convinced him to give Ali this opportunity. High functioning, Masterji had called him. High functioning.

  Ali had been diagnosed with Trisomy 21, a common form of Down Syndrome when he was sixteen. No one in his family understood what it meant. He was never a bright student but his parents had never told him why he couldn’t understand daily lessons while his classmates had no trouble. He had been mercilessly bullied since KG about the way he looked, about his short neck, his weird ears, his slanting eyes. In eighth standard, he earned the nickname of “Defective Chinky”. His father beat him for doing so poorly in school, he was whipped with a belt and hit with Chappals every time he failed in a test. He would watch his mother cry in the corner every time he screamed in agony.

  But only when Ali entered the madrasa, he found a person who saw past his abnormality. His new teacher had finally noticed the bruising on Ali’s body. Masterji had spoken to Abbu jaan, he did not mention anything about the bruises. Instead, he had informed Ali’s father that he would be happy to tutor Ali after school so that he could catch up with
the rest of his classmates. Abbu had been sceptical of masterji at first but just like this job, he had finally relented.

  Mr. Dosabhai and Ali climbed into the truck to inspect the Rohu. “So, are you finally joining the fishing business?”, asked Mr. Dosabhai admiring the magnificent fish. “Not yet sir, I will be joining MD College for my BBA next month. I want to do hotel management. They were so busy admiring the regal catch, they never saw the tiny maruti hatchback barrelling towards the truck.

  Ali didn’t even feel the impact. The explosion tore through the truck catapulting it into “Cafe Lagan”.

  CHAPTER 2

  Nargis Hussein was drenched in sweat. She scratched at the needle sticking into her forearm. She hated the poison that was being injected into her. Cytotoxics they called them, an essential part of chemotherapy. She had been diagnosed a month ago, Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, or cancer of the milk ducts. The diagnosis had been so shocking, it had made her laugh.

  All she has ever wanted was a baby, a routine medical check up before an IVF treatment had uncovered the tumour in her left breast.

  “Nargis?” said a soft voice. She looked up to find Dr. Varma smiling at her. Devika Varma was one of the foremost oncologists in the country. The woman had a heart shaped face, framed by dark curtains of shiny raven hair. Not an ounce of make-up marred her elegant features. The only adornment she wore were a pair of expensive tortoise shell spectacles that hid her never-ending eyelashes and muted her high cheekbones. She wore a simple yet elegant salwar-kameez under her white coat. She was a woman married to her job, a kindred spirit. “What’s the verdict doctor?” said Nargis weakly, the treatment was taking a lot out of her. “It’s still early to tell, but you’re making great strides.”

  “Am I glad to hear that”, she said with a hacking cough. Nargis immediately felt the doctor’s delicate hands ease her back into her chair and hand her a box of tissues.

  “I’m here to let you know that we can schedule the procedure for tomorrow, if it’s convenient?”

  The words felt like a slap to the face. “The procedure was a double mastectomy. They wanted to cut out her breasts. This was only her second session and she was already going to lose her breasts. She was glad she still had her hair. Her hand went up to her scalp, she had never worn a hijab before, maybe she would have to give it a shot soon?

  “I know this is hard”, began the doctor but was cut off by a shrill scream. Nargis apologised to the doctor and reached for her phone. It was still dark out, but she could see the sun steadily making its descent through the clouds.

  It was the office calling, but what Nargis found odd, was the time. It was 4:53 am. No call from the office at such an hour was ever a good news. She swiped it open and answered. “Nargis, you need to get here ASAP”. It was Jogi, her senior analyst, “Something terrible has happened”. Nargis rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up straight, she was alert now. “There’s been an explosion at Chor Bazaar, about two confirmed killed.”

  She felt like ice cold water had been dumped down her spine. She was on her feet.

  “I’m sorry doctor, but we’ll have to re-schedule the procedure. Duty calls”, she said, unhooking the IV drip from her arm. “What are you doing Ms. Hussein? We are not done yet with this round of chemo, you are putting yourself at great risk”, said Doctor Varma looking scandalised.

  Comes with the territory, thought Nargis as she gathered her clothes. She was out the door in fifteen minutes sprinting towards her car. It was early in the morning, so traffic was light. Nargis thanked the small mercies as she accelerated through Lower Parel toward Kamathipura.

  She reached the scene at 5:45 am. The local police had cordoned off the area, but thankfully her Crime Scene Techs were in charge of the Forensics. Nargis stepped out of the car and made her way to the spot of the primary blast. She found the charred remains of an overturned truck inside the hollowed out building. A tall policeman was standing in the centre of the debris barking orders into his walkie-talkie. Nargis immediately recognised the officer as Ram Khanna (IPS), Circle Inspector. They had met during the civil service exams in Delhi and again at the academy, where they had cultivated quite the rivalry. “When did the police get here?”, said Nargis drawing level with Ram. “About half an hour ago.”, said Ram, not taking his eyes off the debris. “We did a preliminary sweep, we found nothing. We were about to move the bodies when your forensic people swooped in waiving jurisdiction”. Nargis could sense that Ram wasn’t pleased with her team bulldozing his work. “You got here before us and you protected the integrity of the crime scene and we appreciate that’’, said Nargis impatiently. “Contrary to popular belief Ms. Hussein, the Mumbai Police takes its job very seriously”. There was a time when the Mumbai Police was equated with Scotland Yard. But now that Scotland Yard had lost most of its lustre, that comparison didn’t throw the most favourable light on the Mumbai Police.

  A crowd had already formed around the area, the police were holding them back, but Nargis could already see the smart phones out. The scene would hit YouTube, before she even got a chance to debrief her superiors at work.

  “It has not been established that this is an act of terrorism. For all we know this was a random crime or a rather unfortunate accident. As of now this isn’t a CTU or DIA matter. There is no reason for you to be here”, Ram Khanna was towering over her with a scowl on his face. Nargis had enough, she drew level with him, her eyes stared straight into his. Any incident that results in mass casualties falls under the purview of the CTU. We are taking the lead on this case Ram, whether you like it or not. So, either you can help me or stay out of my way “. Ram stared daggers at her, but she didn’t blink. After what felt like an eternity, Ram let out an exasperated sigh, “Fine, whatever you need”.

  “Give me a sit-rep (Situation-report)”, said Nargis walking towards the truck. The way the roof of the truck bed had bloomed outwards, Nargis guessed that the bomb had been carried inside the truck. “We received a call, at around 4:30 am, emergency services were here in less than five minutes, they contained the fire around 5:10 am. At least 2 DOAs (Dead on Arrival/ victims). Your team got here at around 5:20, not much for response time”. Nargis ignored the jab. “The forensics team did their thing and we moved the bodies before the press got here”. “If you hadn’t noticed the citizen journalists are already here”, said Nargis pointing to the perimeter, where the police were struggling to keep the curious people at bay. Nargis noticed, the chalk outlines of the bodies were scattered all over the place, the grey matter sprayed around made her nauseous. Forensics were scraping off melting flesh from the insides of the vehicles and the footpath.

  She pulled out latex gloves from her purse and headed for the burned out container that lay open and smouldering. Nargis leaned in closer to inspect the wreck, the young forensic analysing the box looked up. “It’s an industrial cooler, the foam and the plastic melted right off, but ice somehow protected this”, he said holding out a spear of some sort. “It’s a Marlin spike”. Nargis wrinkled her nose at the stinking fish snout and leaned in closer. She crouched down low and stuck her gloved fingers below the box. An industrial cooler would provide perfect cover for an IED, especially since she suspected that the blast originated from the inside of the truck. “The Alto was the vehicle with the bomb”, said Ram coming up behind her.

  That threw Nargis’ theory right out the window. The blast had taken place nearly an hour ago. The police were going door to door, trying to talk to witnesses. She made her way to the Alto, there was nothing to identify. It was an empty shell of a vehicle. Even if the Alto was the primary vehicle, there was no way it could have flipped the truck through the window of the restaurant. Nargis chewed her lip, maybe it was the primary trigger that set off the chain reaction. But why would someone go into so much trouble just to kill a handful of people? Targeting Chor Bazaar a couple of hours later would have been far more effective. Maybe Ram was right. Maybe this was an accident or a murder masquerading as a terrorist atta
ck.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake”, said Ram as he barked orders into his walkie-talkie again. Several vehicles had set up camp right outside the perimeter. Nargis could see immaculately dressed men and women step out of their vans with huge satellite dishes on the roof and colourful logos on their doors. The press had arrived. Nargis took off her gloves and exhaled impatiently, she dropped the gloves in her purse and fished out some peppermint gum. She popped a strip in her mouth and offered a strip to Ram as he came jogging towards her. “The vultures are here. So are you sticking around to tell them what happened?”, he ignored the chewing gum. “I guess I’ll leave that in your capable hands”, said Nargis.

  She strode away without looking back. He was right, there was no reason for her to be here. At least not yet. She punched in the second number on her speed dial. “So, what did you find?”, asked Jogi without preamble. “Nothing concrete yet? But I’ll want a full report on the scene on my desk as soon as it’s done”. “Will do”, he said without hesitation. “Anything else?”, said Nargis.

  “John was in your office, he was pissed. He wants to see you right away”. Her fingers tightened around the phone. “Tell him, I’ll be right over”.

  ***

  Her office was close to the crime scene. Too close. This happened in her neighbourhood, right under her nose. She fiddled with the air-conditioner which seemed to be sucking in air instead of blowing it. She gave up and rolled down the windows, the Aprilaire whipped through her hair. The street lights blinked out like fireflies as the sun finally broke through the smog. She hadn’t taken a shower yet and she was on her way to brief her boss, John Verghese. John was as type-A as they came, immaculately dressed at all hours of the day, in case he had to give an impromptu press conference. He was a bureaucrat and Nargis hated the fact that though she had her own unit, she still answered to him. She turned on the radio. RJ Maven on 97.3 FM was giving out the traffic report. Nargis still marvelled at how traffic reports were still given out in the age of Google.