The Acquaintance Read online

  CHAPTER 44

  Rizwan stood in the shallow light. His arms outstretched like a messiah. “Do you know what it was like to live in the mountains, surrounded by men and women who revered your father like a god?”

  Ram had eyes only for the syringe in his palm. He could make out the letters on the barrel of the syringe. Super-imposed under volume markings were the words. Botulinum Toxin Type A. Botox. One of the deadliest poisons in the world. He was holding a massive irrigation syringe with a volume well over a 100 millilitres.

  If he released that plunger, he would go into cardiac arrest or have a stroke if he was lucky. But Ram knew what would happen, if Rizwan moved that plunger even a fraction, he would die standing. Ram couldn’t let that happen. Rizwan was the only witness to the conspiracy behind the terror attack in the city. The only one who knew the people behind the attack and the Mahmoud Shahzad hoax being played on news channels. The terrorist leader was dead, someone else was behind the bomb attacks. Nargis had told him. Ram needed a confession from Rizwan. Only then would they be able to cut the head off the snake. He didn’t expect it to make any difference but he had to try.

  But Ram knew that it was a lost cause. Rizwan was manic, his eyes bloodshot and his left pupil blown. He was soliloquising about mountains and goats and something called a Maerifa. He kept saying the word Maerifa again and again like a mantra while fiddling with the syringe. It was clear that he had no intention of getting out of this alive.

  “I did not want to leave her, I swear. Abandoning her the way I did was the last thing I ever wanted to do and I will regret it for the rest of my life. But I had a duty to fulfil. You have to tell her that. She has to know.”

  “Save it you little shit weasel.” He was getting on Ram’s last nerve, he wished he could just put a bullet in him and be done with it, but he needed him alive. He had to do this for Nargis, he had promised her. And a petty part of him wanted Rizwan to suffer behind bars for the rest of his life. “Rizwan, this isn’t you. You aren’t thinking straight, you’re hopped up on painkillers and other drugs that are making you loopy. That’s all, you are a star witness. I was assigned to protect you. So put the syringe down and we can both talk to Nargis like the adults that we are”, said Ram eyeing the needle.

  “Children have always been the primary victims of war Nargis.” Rizwan was shifting his weight from foot to foot like he was in a trance. “I could have stopped it, if only I had acted sooner, been more ruthless. One moment and it all unravelled. I could have stopped a war.”

  “You’re not at war Rizwan, you are in a plastic gown hooked up to an IV bag in a hospital room. You need help and I’m here to help you, plain and simple.” Ram inched closer to Rizwan. His thumb was clamped over the plunger. He couldn’t risk wrestling it out of his grip. His best option was to talk him out of it. Ram cursed under his breath. He was never a good talker. “I was the heir apparent. I could have controlled ICARUS. Moulded the world.” Okay this guy was too far gone, he was insane, his testimony wasn’t going to see the light of day. Ram got in a defensive position, ready to tackle Rizwan to the ground. I’m sorry Nargis.

  “Shahzad Amir was my father and he was a king”, screamed Rizwan.

  Oh for fuck’s sake. “Shahzad Amir was a terrorist and you were nothing to him”, yelled Ram getting closer to Rizwan.

  Sympathy is worthless. Empathy is too valuable. Hence apathy.

  This was the mantra Ram’s wife had drilled into him ever since they lost their second child. He had subscribed to that mantra every day of his job. It was the only way he could survive everything that came after, the divorce, the custody battle, losing his wife and daughter, who could barely look at him, losing his reputation as well as the hard life of an encounter specialist. And now listening to the bullshit Rizwan was spouting, Ram wondered, what Nargis had ever seen in him?

  Ram saw a delusional, selfish prick. “The clan did not welcome me as their own. I was an outsider, a bastard. I had to work on the fringe, doing the menial jobs of an untouchable. But I did it. I earned my birthright. I shepherded sheep, cleaned up after the chores and ingratiated myself to each and everyone in the camp that could give me a leg up in the hierarchy and finally let me claim my birthright. There was a whore in particular that reminded me of you Nargis, if you can believe it. And I do mean that as a compliment. She used to lie still like a board when the men mounted her. She would barely make a sound. Lying there pitiful and unmoving. They tortured her fiercely, branding her with hot pokes, penetrating every orifice they could find, making new ones on her body. She was a hollow shell of a person, until one day, she rose up out of nowhere and gutted Shahzad’s throat while he was fucking her. The Maerifa told me the truth. He had not been assassinated by Indian soldiers. He had been killed by a whore.

  And just like that, the leadership was open and there was no candidate to replace him. I had incurred enough goodwill to have my name tossed in the ring. And I knew I would have opposition. But the people I had ingratiated myself with were the only voices that mattered. They thought they could control me like a puppet. The poor bastard city boy. The soft semen-burping effeminate weakling who would do their bidding.” Rizwan laughed, a chilling guttural sound that made the hair on Ram’s skin stand-up. “And here’s the truly messed up part, after all this is done and dusted, they will be absolutely right. They will have gotten everything they want. Me sacrificed at the altar of their cause. My father’s followers never considered me pure enough for their ultimate sacrifice. They never thought I could rise up to be a “Shahid.” But they were wrong. And before Ram could react, he pushed the plunger into his vein and the Botox toxin hit his nervous system. He dropped to the floor. Ram was by his side, yelling for a doctor, but Rizwan knew, it wouldn’t matter, he was headed for heaven. Where he would receive a hero’s welcome.

  CHAPTER 45

  It was the crack of dawn. The call of a wild rooster had woken him up. He had been working on his app well after midnight. He had barely gotten two hours of sleep in. But now thanks to that infernal bird, he was awake. He pulled up his laptop and checked on his med-aid app, an extension of his e-commerce site. He compiled the code and was pleasantly surprised when it ran without errors. This was a good start to the day. He had been working on his app for three years now. He had received a modest amount of seed funding. He had quit his job at a software firm and struck out on his own. He was only twenty-two. He still had time to take Silicon Valley by storm. He checked his emails, he had an investor’s letter from the firm that had given him the seed cheque. They were impressed by his progress and were expanding on their initial investment. Jogi smiled, could this day get any better. He could hear his neighbour blasting a song from Murder 2 on his speakers. The walls were thin, but he had an entire apartment to himself, which was saying a lot, especially when you were starting out in Mumbai. Jogi was planning to move to Bangalore soon. Once his Beta was in the final phases of testing. His app was a streamlined medical commerce site. It not only connected you to doctors in your area but also allowed its users to get the best possible price for pharmaceutical drugs. This part of his business was a bit risky because he was dealing with factory prices of pharmaceuticals, he was essentially bypassing wholesalers. Which was a big no-no in the pharmaceutical industry. And if his app was successful, he could partner up with insurance companies as well. It was still in its early stages, but the app was promising to be a major cash cow.

  He had a meeting with one of his suppliers. A man who had contacts with pharmaceutical reps at the big pharmas. Jogi knew that his source was not exactly reliable. He had dealings on the black market, but it was worth the risk, if he could undercut wholesalers of pharmaceutical drugs in India, where drugs are sold more or less at manufacturing costs. International parties would be very interested in his app. He went through the routine of his morning ablutions and headed down to the local café for idli sambar.

  The place was called Kalaignar’s pure veg restaurant. They served the strongest filt
er coffee known to man, it was like a shot of pure unadulterated caffeine right in the nerves. Better than any drug. Kalaignar’s was standing room only. It had been so, ever since it opened. And as such it had adapted to the crazy amount of footfall by getting rid of chairs and elevating their tables to chest height. Customers ate their breakfast and snacks, standing by the walls, while the rest clamoured at the register, where you had to pay before you received a token. A slip of paper you showed at the kitchen window.

  Jogi made his way straight to the window, he had been coming here everyday for the past five years, he had earned a bit of preferential treatment. He knew each of Kalaignar’s employees by name. He had spent many a Diwali and Onam with them, drinking Old Monk with coconut water. The window was being manned by an olive skinned, short tempered and barrel chested man. Aravindan Selvam, struck a frightening figure at first glance but Jogi knew him as a softie. A name that stuck, after the fame of his idlis that melted in your mouth and were as light as a cloud. He pushed his way through the clamour. He heard a few obscenities directed his way but he didn’t give them any mind. Softie’s face split into a wide grin when he saw Jogi, without a word, he handed him a plate filled with a bushel of idlis, drenched in steaming sambar. Jogi felt the dam in his mouth flood open as he took the plate and made his way to an empty table. He couldn’t find one, so he settled for one with two old men sipping coffee. He greeted them with a smile which they completely ignored and went about drinking their coffee. He set the plate down and began mushing the idlis into a paste. The men at his table stared at him in disgust. Who ate idlis like that? Well he did.

  He raised his hand and called to Pitambar, a seventeen-year-old server. Jogi had gotten him his first mobile phone. Pitambar came racing up to him and handed him a piping hot cup of coffee. Jogi sipped and felt the smoldering liquid calm his throat and his innards as it went down. That first sip of coffee in the morning was always heaven. He picked up his spoon and was about to bite into his idli when he paused mid-way. His eye had caught someone ogling him. He looked up and saw his pharmaceutical contact staring at him. He looked like he had been in an accident. His clothes were askew and there were bruises on his face. Jogi dropped his spoon and went to him. “Oh my god Bhavesh Bhai, what happened to you? Are you alright?” Bhavesh Bhai didn’t say a word. “Is this him?” Said a man coming up behind Bhavesh Bhai. He was a behemoth dressed in khaki pants and a green shirt, he had an impressive handlebar moustache and an expression that said he was not to be trifled with. Jogi saw the man and nodded. What was happening? He was visibly confused. The confusion only compounded further when the man laid a hand on his collar with excessive force. Jogi tried to shrug him off but the man didn’t budge. “Arre what are you doing? Who the hell are you?”, said Jogi trying to wriggle away from the man’s death grip. “Me? Oh I am just your friendly neighbourhood narco officer”, said the man with a smile.

  “What is this about?”, said Jogi, panic creeping into every muscle of his body as the primal flight or fight response battled in his brain. He didn’t know if the man was really a cop or just a thug hired by name to squeeze him out of more money. Jogi took in his assailant’s physique and weighed his options. With every passing second, the flight seemed to lessen in him. He decided to give in and see what the supposed policeman wanted with him. Jogi stopped struggling and went limp in the man’s grip. “There you go, wising up”, said the narco officer. “If you could please tell me what this is about I could clarify any misunderstandings you may have,’’ said Jogi reverently. If there was one thing he had learnt about the police was that politeness and subservience always served you well. “Well Mr. Jogi, Bhavesh here has identified you as a major acquirer of pain pills from over the border. Now in my experience, there is only one reason someone would want to get their hands on so many pain pills.” Jogi relaxed, “This has been a terrible misunderstanding. I am a businessman. I am launching an e-commerce site, I had asked Bhavesh bhai here to help me deal directly with pharmaceutical manufacturers so that I could use my app to sell these pharmaceuticals at a discounted rate.”

  The policeman sized him up, “That is very smart of you Mr. Jogi. Unfortunately we have heard something different. We heard that you are using these pharmaceuticals and other illegal additives to manufacture your very own methamphetamines.” Jogi’s eyes went wider than dinner plates as he absorbed this accusation. “That is preposterous. I have no need to manufacture anything. I’m not that kind of person. I would never”, he spluttered. “Why don’t we talk about this back at the station over a nice cup of tea then? Chalo ‘’, he said, dragging him out of Kalaignar like some common criminal. Jogi was herded into a waiting Jeep just behind Bhavesh, who avoided eye contact with him throughout the journey. Jogi rode in silence as he tried to process what was happening. The morning had started well enough, then how had he ended up here? Chained to the back of a police vehicle on the way to prison for the apparent manufacture of cocaine. What kind of mind makes a leap like that? Surely he was being setup, rival business perhaps. No one held a patent on e-commerce. It was free trade. He wasn’t stepping on any toes, he hadn’t made any enemies yet. The thought gave him pause. Enemies. He had made quite a few in his life, but none so serious as to send him to prison for life. Then why was this happening? Who was doing this to him?

  The Andheri Police station materialised out of nowhere and Jogi found himself being pushed into the unkempt building. The little two story house turned station was painted the same colour as the policemen’s uniform, fading khaki with white powder stains. The walls were Jackson-Pollocked with arcs of Paan and urine. As Jogi entered the building, he was hit with an unfettered and unfiltered wallop of stale air, composed of body odour and bad breath. The windows were open but the police station didn’t seem to have any electricity. A fact that the narco officer noticed as soon as he entered behind Jogi. He let out a stream of expletives that would make a prostitute blush. “The electricity board is doing some work in the area. Light will be here in an hour at the latest’’, said a constable handing narco a glass of ice water. Narco had already unbuttoned three of his shirt buttons and pulled the collar back to expose most of his hairy chest. He took his seat behind a desk, which Jogi assumed was his. The name plate read, Circle Inspector Adarsh Dayal. “Please take a seat”, said the Inspector waving a hand at Jogi. Jogi sat while a constable uncuffed him. Bhavesh was dragged by the scruff of his neck and made to stand beside the Inspector. None of them said anything. What were they waiting for? Jogi cleared his throat to say something, when the Inspector held up his hand. “Patience Mr. Jogi, you’ll get your turn.”

  He was completely at ease. Jogi wanted to wipe that smile off his face. He turned to Bhavesh who stood there beaten and defeated. Maybe he had been a little too ambitious, maybe he should have gone through the proper channels, before undercutting so many people. Who had he run afoul of? Who had the Inspector informed?

  The heat was stifling. Jogi could feel the rotten air begin to suffocate him. His skin prickled with sweat and the humidity clung to his pores like cellophane. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore. The overhead fan gave an unholy groan and began spinning, filling the room with circulated, cold air. “Bade aishwarya wale charan hain aapke”, (very auspicious footsteps you have) said the Inspector standing up. He was addressing a man who had just stepped into the police station. Jogi turned to look at the man. He was tall, dark and handsome, dressed in immaculately pressed brown slacks and a sea salt white button down. He pulled out a cigarette and took the chair beside Jogi. “Could we please have some privacy?”, said the man lighting his cigarette. Jogi watched in silent amazement as everybody in the station left the room, even the holding cell was empty. Who was this man? And what did he want? “Mr. Jogi, it is an absolute pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” He held out his hand like they were old friends catching up after a long interlude. Jogi shook his hands, they were hard and calloused, this was a man who did outside work. He was not a penci
l pusher.

  “You must be wondering why you’ve been brought here?”, said the man. Jogi nodded wordlessly. “Well Mr. Jogi, I’m afraid you’re in a bit of a pickle. We have credible information that you’ve been dealing with drug pirates.”

  “What the hell are drug pirates?”, said Jogi stifling a laugh, he couldn’t control himself, the absurdity of the situation was getting to him. Here he was in a police station in his pyjamas being accused of being in cahoots with drug pirates. “Mr. Jogi this might seem surreal to you, but let me assure you that you are in serious trouble. You have been plotting with drug runners to supply restricted pharmaceuticals on the open market without prescriptions. Do you know what a serious crime that is?” Jogi felt his heartbeat stop. That was exactly what he was trying to do, but the way the man said it made it sound so criminal. “Sir, my intention was to provide cheap pharmaceutical products over the internet, in a way approved by the FDA. I was just shopping around for a good deal.”

  “How would you regulate the purchase of prescription drugs on the internet? No, Mr. Jogi, what you were trying to do was undercut the wholesalers and the middleman and go straight for the manufacturers. But since approaching a manufacturer directly is an expensive venture, you tried to cut corners there as well. That is the truth is it not?” Jogi couldn’t disagree, but he still hasn’t done anything illegal. “I am trying to launch an e-commerce site, the pharmaceuticals are just an infinitesimally small part of it.” He spoke proper English, but Jogi could notice from the lilt of his pronunciations of certain words that the language was a brand new acquisition.