Hell of a bargain SEVEN

Women have primal needs. Clothes are one of those needs. The fact that Rachna had knocked out a very dangerous criminal who certainly intended on killing her did not matter. Ten whole minutes had passed since she had been very nearly murdered. And yet she stood in a towel, less than a 100 square feet away from Dev Mehra but thankfully not under his frosty gaze.

"What says 'I took down a contract killer?', she wondered.
A gentle knock on her bedroom door shifted Rachna's attention. She opened it, just a little. It was Amu. "Let me in", she said.
Rachna didn't protest even though she knew Amu would roll her eyes at the pile of clothes on the bedroom floor.

Amu entered the room and surveyed the pile of clothes on the floor, clearly understanding why Rachna was taking so long. She chose not to comment. In silences she tossed Rachna a pair of mismatched essentials and hunted for a comfortable tee and pajamas.

By time Rachna put on her clothes and ran a brush through her hair, Amu had cleared the messy pile of clothes and stacked them in the cupboard. Then she simply held Rachna's hand and gently nudged her toward the living room.

"You need to talk", she said.
Rachna's thoughts focussed on the ebony-eyed cop in the living room. She took a deep breath and stepped outside.
He had helped himself to a glass of water and put on her favourite blue kettle. Packets of Earl Grey sat in three cups at her coffee table. "How did he know this was my favourite tea?", she wondered.

"Are you feeling alright?", he asked in a voice much gentler than his 'work-voice'. Rachna nodded and moved towards the far end of the couch. It seemed like her body was subconsciously trying to distance itself from the kitchen island. It was hard to believe that a nightmare had unfolded right here at this island less than 20 minutes ago.
She jumped a little when the kettle whistled but Amu, who had perched herself on the sofa's arm held her hand and squeezed.
Not missing a beat, Dev had walked up to the kettle and brought back the boiling water. Rachna had watched as he poured water into cups. His arms had a bit of muscle in them, something she had not noticed before. The warm notes of citrus hit her nose and before she could stop herself, she asked, "How did you know this is my favourite tea?"

Dev raised his eyebrows. "Actually this is my favourite tea", he said. Amu picked up an oversized cup and handed it to her, giving her an encouraging smile. Not touching her own tea, Amu went back to her perch next to Rachna.

"She's very protecting of her friend", Dev observed.

They started on their tea in silence. Dev took advantage of this interlude to observe Rachna. Her heart shaped face was now under lamplight. She was pale, paler than this morning. She was cold too, he observed, as she clutched the cup of tea with both hands. His attention turned to her slender fingers where she sported a heart shaped diamond ring. "Was that from a boyfriend?" he wondered. For the second time in one day, Dev reminded himself to stay focused.

Breaking the silence he said, "Miss Gupta, if you could tell me what happened."

Her eyes that had been focussing on the tea slowly met his. She sounded a great deal calmer after her tea. "I was taking a bath and I," she hesitated, "I heard a noise. I came out and I found him here, holding a knife at me."

He frowned. They had not recovered a knife from the crime scene. But he continued with his questions.
"Did you notice anything odd when you came home? Anything out of place?"

"No", she sounded slightly confident. "I came home and went straight to the bathroom and I was in there for quite sometime."

His ears had not missed the sound of confidence in her voice. This part of the story was true.

"So," Dev continued, "when you stepped out of your bathroom, you saw him?"

"Yes"

"Where was he standing?"

"He was over there", she pointed at the front door.

His eyes narrowed. " He was over there, and you were here, at your bathroom's doorway?"

Rachna gulped. He was spotting the holes in her story. He knew she was lying.

"Yes", she said rather defiantly.

"So if you spotted an intruder with a knife at a distance of 15 feet, why did you not run back to the bathroom and lock yourself in?"

He could see the little colour draining from her cheeks and knew she was remembering what had really happened.

"I, er, I was too shocked to move", she said, although it sounded more like a question.

"I see." His gaze was stern once again. "When we came in here Miss Gupta, you were at your kitchen island and not at your bathroom threshold. Clearly, you moved. Not away, but toward your attacker. Could you tell me why?"

She was trying to focus on her story but couldn't take her eyes off his. "I, er, I, I don't remember", she squeaked.

"You don't remember?", he asked coolly.

"I don't!", she said a little agressively.

Dev was silent for a long moment. When he started to speak, Rachna knew he has switched to his 'work-voice'. Business-like, no-nonsense.

"Miss Gupta, you've been through a lot today and I will give you the benefit of doubt that your head isn't in the right place. But I will tell you this. I am not buying the bullshit you are selling tonight."

Rachna opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. "A boy has been killed in broad daylight," he continued, "your friend's house was ransacked and we found a well-known contract killer unconscious on your floor. You and I both know these are definitely not unrelated incidents."

He paused, waiting for his words to take effect. " I will be back here tomorrow at 9 am to personally escort you to the station. And this time, you will tell me the truth."

"But I am, I-" Rachna started to protest again but he cut her off.

"No Miss, you are not. I don't know how you got yourself into this mess but if you're trying to turn this story into some sort of exclusive expose, you can be rest assured it will not happen on my watch."

Too stunned to reapond, Rachna simply stared at him. She watched as he placed his undrunk cup of tea back on the coffee table. "9 am", he repeated, then gave a curt nod to Amu and let himself out of the apartment.

It was 30 whole seconds before Amrita spoke. "Are you going to lie to me as well?" she asked quietly. Rachna wheeled around staring at Amu, "What, no I-"
"Did he touch you? Is that what you are trying to hide?"
"No, no he didn't. He said he was going to, but I knocked him out before he could."
"He wasn't at the door, was he?" Amu asked.
Rachna closed her eyes, defeated. "No."
"No, he wasn't".
"So are you going to tell me what really happened?"
Rachna sighed. "Just before the boy died, he said something. He said 'Keep it safe!' and handed over that sking bag to me. I was surprised but before I could react, I heard the shot. Everything happened so fast that I forgot about what the boy had said. I only remembered when I was in the tub. So I came out and I was rummaging for the bag in the middle of the mess and that's when I heard him. He was standing behind me. He wanted something that was inside the bag."
Amrita's eyes were round with shock. "What was in the bag?", she asked.
"I don't know, he got very angry when he couldn't find it and that's when you two came in."
In one swift movement, Amrita moved across the room and picked up the bag. She looked inside, turned it upside doen, then inside out but couldn't find anything.
Rachna had joined her on the living room floor. "Maybe there's something in the lining?" She pulled at the fragile threads of the bag, hoping to find something. Nothing.
"Oh!", said Amu very suddenly. "When you fell, I tried to move you and this bag, it was stuck under you and I pulled and this little wooden bird key ring thing came off."
The girls stared at each other in silence.
"Where is it then?"
"I think I dropped it outside the stall."
Amu rose from the floor and grabbed my keys off the mantle.
"Come on", she said, "I'll drive, we'll go look for it."
"But it could be anywhere", Rachna said, running her fingers through her hair.
Amrita gave her a defiant stare. "A child was killed this morning. I almost lost you. My house is a wreck. This wooden bird might be holding a big secret and we need to find out what it is. Now are you in or not?"
Rachna rose and slipped into a pair of flip flops. "Leave the lights on", she said. "Let the neighbours think I am still home."

They were silent on the elevator ride to the lobby. They stepped into the foyer and Amrita pulled Rachna behind a pillar and out of sight. "Look, it's the ACP."

They could see he was furious and was yelling at the deputy from this morning.

"Back entrance", Rachna whispered.

Cautiously, the girls slipped into the parking lot and very soon were driving into the moonless night. 

Hell of a bargain. SIX!

It wasn't the rickety driving of the 'slightly tipsy on cough syrup' man that woke him up.

The dull, throbbing headache from the rather large bump at the back of his head and the burning sensation due to smoke entering his nostrils brought him back to his senses.

Before he could so much as stir, he experienced a sharp pain on his nose and felt his warm blood spurt out. Someone had kicked him in the face. Hands roughly caught him by the collar and pulled him to a sitting position. The voice jolted him back to reality.

"When you failed to grab hold of the doctor, you should have called me and I would have deployed someone else to take care of the other girl. Now I owe that son-of-a-bitch for letting you get away. You know what happens when I owe someone, don't you?"

"I, I," he started to splutter, but he received yet another blow. This time to his groin. He yelped in pain and the lights started to dull out. The sound of footsteps moving away and a low mutter, "Clean it up."

*****

He had received the call a half hour ago. 

"Unknown number", Dev thought, "What was the point of installing that stupid app on his phone when it could not tell you who was calling?"

"This better be important,", he muttered and clicked the phone open. 

"Is that ACP Mehra?", enquired a young woman's voice. 

"Yeah, who is this?"

"This is Dr. Iyer, we met this morning. My friend Rachana and I witnessed the -,"

He cut her off. "Yes, ma'am. Is something wrong?" Surprisingly, his heart started racing thinking about the pretty, heart-shaped face reporter. Was she alright? 

"Nothing's wrong as of now and your men did drop me home safely. But my building watchman has just told me that he let a plumber into my apartment about twenty minutes ago. Apparently I gave him permission on the phone and said that I was on my way. I haven't made any phone calls and I don't think the person who is in my apartment right now is a plumber."

"I see."

She continued, "I have sent the watchman upstairs to check and he hasn't come back. It's been ten minutes."

"Ma'am, is there a general store or a restaurant nearby?", he asked. 

"Yes, there's this South Indian food joint about a 100 meters from -"

He cut her off again, "I am going to need you to stay on the phone and walk to the place, make sure you're seen by people. I know your address and I will come get you in 15 minutes. Do you understand?"

"Yes", she said. 

10 minutes later, she watched a large man on a bike throw her a murderous stare and race off on a noisy bike. 

Was this the same man who was in her apartment? What could have happened to the watchman, she wondered. 

A tap on her shoulder pulled her out of her reverie, startling her. Dark brown eyes met her own. 

"Are you alright?" he asked. 

"ACP Mehra, thank you for getting here so quickly."

"That's alright," he quickly scanned the area and continued to talk, "I think you should wait in my car and we'll quickly search your apartment. I'll set up a 24x7 guard outside your door -"

This time, she interrupted him, "I think Rachana is in danger." 

He turned to face her. "Did she call you?" 

"No. But I tried calling her and she isn't answering." 

"Okay, I will send a team -"

"No, I want to go. I want to make sure she's safe." 

"Fiesty", he thought. 

"Alright ma'am, we'll head over there right now. I'll have a team secure your apartment." 

Nodding, she quickly crossed the road and got into his SUV. 

Not a word was spoken during the drive. All the girl did was repeatedly call her friend. She climbed out of the car and paused to see a large bike. Something told Dev that the doctor was now convinced that her friend was indeed in trouble. 

The elevator ride to the sea facing apartment building was quiet. Dev couldn't help wonder how a barely experienced reporter could afford such a place. 

As the elevator doors opened, a little boy of eight or nine quickly got in with a fearful expression on his face. The doctor rushed out just in time to hear a man yelling and a panicked voice screaming, " don't know, I don't know!" 

She pounded on the door, then pulled out a key and pushed open the door. Dev ran in, with his gun in position, only to see the reporter deliver a ferocious blow to the man's head. A dull thud and the man was on the floor. 

The first thought that popped into his head was, 'Whoah, she's strong." 

This was replaced by, "Whoah, she's naked. Well, almost." And he tried to concentrate on her face instead of the barely there, towel. 

He could see the fear on her face blending with a determined expression. 

The doctor rushed forward to hug her but all the reporter did was stare, paralyzed, at the man on the floor. 

About a minute or maybe two passed without anyone saying a word. Then, with an embarrassed expression, he asked if she could put on some clothes.

She looked at him in wonder, droplets of water mixed with the tears from a few minutes ago had stained a pretty face. Suddenly, she seemed to realize that she was in a towel and seemed to look lost in her own house, shuffling on her feet. I got a rather defiant stare from the doctor and took it as a cue to turn around and walk to the balcony. 

The women hurried into her bedroom and shut the door, leaving him at liberty to examine the man on the floor. He didn't look familiar. Maybe his constables, Mhatre or Gaikwad could recognize him. He was a hired gun, no doubt. He hadn't bothered to keep his voice down, nor had he locked the doors of the neighboring houses from the outside. Was this the same man who had been in the doctor's apartment? 

The radio receiver on his hip sprang to life and constables outside the building informed him of their arrival. By the time they removed the unconscious man from the apartment, curious neighbours had started to gather near the elevator. The subordinate officer from morning took charge of crowd control and started to usher people back into their homes. 

With nothing else to do but wait for the girl's statement, he seated himself on a diwan and winced as he was pricked by a broken shell on a pillow. 

Downstairs, two men transferred the unconscious man into a car and left two constables on the cold, concrete road, bleeding. 

Hell of a Bargain! FIVE

Let me paint you a word picture of my apartment. Daddy dearest bought this apartment when real estate prices were so low, brokers could have walked around wearing sandwich boards saying 'BUY BUY BUY' at Peddar road. 

My parents had never intended to move from our golf course facing home in the Central Suburbs, but this was an investment opportunity one did not want to miss. Now, Mom and Dad were in the States for the last five odd months, supposedly on business or on their second, literally extended honeymoon or babysitting the apple of their eye, my cute little nephew Vivaan. 

I had recently returned from the U.K after completing a Masters in Journalism and had been newly appointed as a correspondent for India Arises, a young and upcoming publication. As a rule, I cannot travel by local trains. I am highly claustrophobic which has earned me much mockery after my return. My friends even dubbed me as the firang. Sigh!

Mumbai traffic is generally bearable but sometimes can be a major pain which has on more than three occasions resulted in me arriving late to work, which by the way, is a strict no-no. So, to save me from my misery of the everyday up and down from the Central Suburbs to SOBO, my dad handed me the keys of his 'wise' investment decision. "You can stay there till we return," he had said. 

"What about after you return?", I had asked with an air full of suspicion. I had a gut feeling this conversation was going to take a rather unappreciative angle. 

"Ah!", my father had laughed off my doubtful tone, "We'll be back in six months or so! Enjoy your independence. Once we are back, I'd like you to meet this lovely young chap..."

There! The catch! Carrot and the stick followed by the old ball and chain! Sigh! 

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," I had thought.

I moved into the apartment a day after my parents flew to the States. For a one bedroom apartment, it was spacious and enchantingly beautiful. In the next few months, my little manor had gained the reputation of the party destination for my friends. 

My apartment had not been furnished by me. No sir, that was Miss Iyer's handiwork. If she hadn't had a fascination for dead bodies, I'd swear she would have made an amazing designer. 

Within the week that I had moved, Amu had taken up the project of redecorating my temporary haven and by the time she was done, I wanted to say that my home looked hot, but it also sort of looked like it was on fire! 

There was orange, red and fuschia splashed everywhere. For some reason, my apartment looked like Amu had moved a Rajasthani carnival inside it. Amu had had colourful lights with shells installed in the balcony. The floor had been carpeted with quilt like designs on them. The love seats from my bedroom back home had been moved in and reupholstered with bright colourful cushions, again with shell work. I didn't have a problem with these first, but I was wary of them after a broken piece off one of the shells had sharply pricked at my itty bitty bum. 

A couch, Amu had explained was very 'meh'. She had found an old divaan in the attic back home and had it cleaned, fumigated and placed in front of the French windows that opened into the sea facing balcony. 

She had scattered the place with colourful artifacts (which unfortunately, were bought using my bargaining skills). There were also a few DIY handicrafts here and there - another hobby my dear friend had picked up thanks to Pintrest.

My bedroom did not require a king-sized bed, no! Apparently that did not go with the theme. There was a large mattress placed on a fluffy rug that had been borrowed from my mom's now vacant bedroom. "You're just here for six months! Why do you need a bed?", Amu had argued. My counter argument that my home for six months did not need to look like the inside of a genie's lamp had been conveniently ignored. 

I had begged that the kitchen be spared for my non-creative brain and after much arguing Amu had granted freedom to my precious kitchen in exchange for refurbishing my bathroom which was next to the kitchen!

My kitchen was my favourite place in the apartment. It had a cute little cooking station and a breakfast bar with high wooden bar stools where I ate breakfast every morning soaking in the view of the calm blue sea through my French windows. 

I had been inspired by my friends' apartments back in London and I had installed a tiny little ceiling rack for holding wine glasses, pots and pans just above my breakfast bar. A cookie jar, a stove, a few loose pieces of cutlery, a mini fridge and my kitchen was ready. 

And five months later, after a rather disturbing Saturday, it is exactly in front of this breakfast bar that I was standing, wrapped in a towel and dripping on the carpet, looking into that ugly sling bag when I heard the voice of a man inside my apartment. 

I froze as he said, "Hand me that bag and maybe I'll let you live."

I started to turn towards the horror I was facing when he said, "No you don't. Don't turn around. Dont' move."

"Toss that bag slowly behind you, using your right hand, then put your hands up where I can see them. Try acting smart and your doctor friend won't know where to start when she tries determining the cause of your death."

Slowly, I tossed the bag in direction of the voice, edging to look at his face from the corner of my eye, but I couldn't get a clear shot. 

"Hands where I can see them", he snarled. 

"I cant," I said through clenched teeth. "My towel will fall off."

The man laughed. "I am in for a treat. Maybe I'll play with my food before I eat it."

My heart sank. I could feel the man's eyes on my behind and in that split second, I made up my mind. If I am going like this, stripped off my modesty, violated, then I am going to put up one hell of a fight before I go. 

"Stay where you are. There's plenty of time to deal with you." he said. 

I heard him pick up the bag, open the zipper and roughly search for its contents. Judging by his heavy breathing, this man was getting angrier by the second. "Where is it?" he snarled. 

I was thoroughly confused. "Where is what?" 

Suddenly he was poking a sharp cylindrical object into the small of my back. "Oh my God, it's a gun," I thought, panic filling my brain. The man was speaking closely into my ear and I could smell garlic in his breath when he said, "A nice girl like you doesn't want to die does she? This is not your war, girl! So why don't you give me what was in the bag and save your life."

I had never expected a situation like this to every occur in my life, but now that it was unfolding in my very own apartment, I put all my television soap hostage negotiation skills to use. 

"Look," I said, "calm down. I don't know what you are looking for. But if it's not in the bag, then I don't know where it is." "That bag," I said, wildly spinning a story, "It had fallen on the floor of the cab I caught to get home and I think that whatever was in-"

"You," he poked my back with the gun barrel, "were brought here in a cop car. Now start talking." 

Panicking, I attempted to stall the man by letting my reporter instincts kick in. "The boy, who killed him? Did you? He was just a child. What's in the bag? What are you looking for?"

I could tell I was failing miserably because the man's breathing was getting heavier by the minute. 

"You need to give me answers, bitch", he shouted, "Tell me what you found in the bag."

Knees shaking, I found myself yelling back, "I swear, I don't know what you're talking about!"

He put the gun barrel at the back of my head. 

"TELL ME NOW", he screamed. 

Tears were streaming down my face as I screamed, "I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T KNOW!"

Suddenly, there was frantic pounding on my door, Amu was yelling for me to open the door.

I took advantage of the moment's distraction and picked up a pan that I had used to make an omelette that morning and carelessly left at the breakfast station in a moment of laziness. I swung the pan with all my strength just as the door burst open and Amu rushed in with Dev Mehra in hot pursuit. 

Amu and Dev looked amazed at my handiwork. 

I had knocked the man out cold and could see the angry red bump that was now starting to erupt on his temple. 

Dev walked towards the man's limp body and pocketed his gun. He turned around to survey if there had been any damage to the house and finally turned to meet my eye. 

He was quiet for a long moment and then went a little pink around the ears when he finally said, "Miss Gupta, we can discuss what happened here, er, maybe after you put on some clothes!"

Hell of a bargain! FOUR

There's something about bubbles that can calm a girl's nerves. Warm water, the delicious fragrance of bearberries and a few hours of soaking in the tub and I was finally starting to relax after my 'first account witness' day of the terrible event. Talk about shop till you drop or till someone else drops, literally!

As the water trickled across my arms, my thoughts drifted towards Dev Mehra. He had not reacted when I told him I was a reporter. In fact, he seemed to have dismissed the remark and had simply stretched out his hand and assisted me in getting off the dusty floor of the Causeway. "If you would please accompany me to the station Miss," he said and I was amazed. I could swear his eyes changed colour from a cold, stony and intimidating black to warm onyx even as he spoke to me. Something about his boyish looks made me feel that he was still a child inside and yet strangely his persona radiated authority. This lean man-boy called the shots and NO was not an option. 

I had meekly followed him to the SUV and once again, he surprised me when he held the door for me. He was quiet on the ride to the station and he pulled open the door for me, once again displaying chivalry when we stopped in the parking lot.  

I noted how law enforcement officers made way for him as he walked in through the gates of the headquarters. They all seemed to know he was the intimidating guy whose path one didn't cross. "So it's not just me then," I thought with relief. 

"Sit', he said, rather curtly and suddenly changed his tone to a kind, "Would you like some water Miss?" It seemed like he was confused between whether he was frightening me or trying to get me to stay calm and talk. 

Call it my imagination, but the irritating noise of the ceiling fan revolving above my head and the stack over stack of files and papers at a smaller desk next to Dev Mehra's somehow managed to help me focus on the reality of what had happened. Maybe the air in government offices exposes us reporters to an unknown form of energy that brings us back to business. In a swift movement, I grabbed my trusted dictaphone out of my bag and in a rather crisp business voice said, "I'd like to ask you a few questions about the murder that occurred at a stall outside Colaba Causeway. If it's okay with you I'd like to use my dictaphone and also, I'd like your quote on whether this was premeditated murder and if you have any clue on whether it was a mafia hit." I had taken a deep breath and had looked straight into those eyes which were once again turning into cold frost. 

"Put that away, Miss.", he said rather sternly.

"Sir, with all due respect, our readers have the right to -" I started to protest.

"Miss Gupta," he had interrupted me mid sentence, "I will be asking the questions. Not you. I don't care about the rights of your circulation or fan following, I have a murder to solve; and you and your friend, who has very kindly obliged to cooperate with our M.E are our prime witnesses. So I suggest that you take a leaf out of Miss Iyer's book and answer my questions which means you will not be interrogating me. It'll be the other way around. Clear?"

My mouth turned into a comical 'O'. "Wow, this guy means business", I thought. Quietly, I returned the dictaphone to my bag turned to face him. 

"Now, Miss Gupta, I'd like you to tell me what you witnessed.", he said. 

I narrated the entire incident to him - how I had been out shopping with Amrita and we had just settled the payment over a bag when a car had pulled up and a man had shot the boy at a close range. He had then requested that I sit with their sketch artist and describe the shooter. I kindly obliged and had spent an hour with the artist while Dev Mehra had drifted in and out of the interrogation room where I had been asked  to sit. At the end of the day, he had given me his visiting card and had the junior officer from the crime scene drive me home. "Call if you recollect anything," he said. I wondered if I could call him just to hear how he sounded on the phone. 

Pushing that thought aside, I had climbed the 72 wretched steps of stairs to reach my one bedroom studio apartment, thrown all the junk I had purchased that afternoon on the couch and had shed off all my clothes to sink into my tub and into blissful oblivion for a couple of gloriously silent and soothing hours.

I closed my eyes as the last of the bubbles started to disappear in the tub. Every inch of my skin was now fragrant and I was slowly recollecting every memory from the afternoon. 

"We could've been hit, Amu and me," I thought, "Thank goodness we are safe." 

"Safe"

"Keep it safe," the boy had said. 

I blinked and sat up. I had forgotten to narrate this part to Dev Mehra. What had the boy meant when he said keep it safe? What was supposed to be safe? The bag? 

I got out of the tub and ran to my living room, dripping soap water all over my precious carpet. I pulled a towel from my open closet and wrapped it around myself. In my hurry to bathe, I hadn't turned on the lights. 

As the lights flickered on, I hunted for that ugly sling bag in the debris of Amu's shopping spree. Finally I unearthed the sling bag and checked for its contents. 

From the corner of my living room, a voice suddenly spoke turning my insides into ice, "That's right. Now turn around and hand me the bag and maybe I'll let you live." 

Hell of a bargain! THREE

Have you ever had that feeling of foreboding? Like something is about to happen and whatever it is, it’s not right? Have you ever felt as if you are part of a slow motion movie sequence where some things are clearer whereas some are rather distorted?

Well, Dev Mehra’s Saturday morning had begun with this very feeling. Something was about to happen and he could feel it.

“I am just being stupid!” thought Dev, when he woke up startled, having had the same nightmare again. Today, however, the nightmare felt as if it hadn’t left his side; as if for some curious reason, the nightmare was living every moment of his day.

Shrugging, he reached for his cell phone. Except for a voice mail from his ex, the phone had nothing for him. He hit the delete button without even hearing the message and clicked his phone shut. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes shut for just one moment and after that his body moved on autopilot.

Ten minute shower, toast, tea, three boiled eggs and a quick scan of the newspaper and newly appointed Assistant Commissioner of Police, Dev Mehra was ready to fight crime that weekend.

He was on his way to the car, a gift, from his doting, filthy rich, estranged mother on becoming the youngest ACP in his batch, when he noticed the girl standing across the street. Smiling, Dev got into the car and drove towards the child. Her face was smudged with dirt and mucous and her mishap hat of hair concealed a pair of the most intelligent eyes Dev had seen. She was his youngest informant and she knew things no ordinary thirteen year old would ever know. She generally never came near his apartment unless there was urgent news and though her face never gave away her emotions, Dev could tell she wasn’t here to give a tip.

He stopped the car beside her and unrolled the window. She simply looked at him and handed him a badly folded piece of paper. It was her grade sheet from the municipal night school. Dev had enrolled her at the school six months ago and today, for the first time, he could feel pride emanating from him when he read the young one’s grade sheet. With the promise of a treat, he drove away, feeling positively warm for the first time in months. 

The warm feeling melted away as he drove into the weekend traffic of Mumbai city. Despite the city's fairly organized traffic system, it wasn't unusual to while away at least an hour stuck in peak hour traffic. When he pulled into the Mumbai Police headquarters, ACP Mehra’s entrance was nothing less than intimidating. In a short span of time, he had earned admiration amongst his peers and juniors and respect amongst his senior officers. Constables jumped to a salute the moment they saw him and as always, he returned the greeting with a nod. For the last six months, everything had been the usual blur, the first month as an ACP had been congratulatory cards, likes on social networks, celebration parties and the comfort of a new SUV courtesy his mother. The next few months had gone into paperwork, meetings, paperwork and more meetings. Dev longed to get out of the stuffy cabin and on the field for some real bad ass crime fighting. But apparently, that was not ACP like or part of protocol.

Today, however, Dev was sick of the endless paperwork. After five hours of attending to cases on paper, answering phone calls from his superiors and signing his name on a hundred different documents, he desperately wanted to stretch his legs.

Around 3 pm, the headquarters reported warnings of gunshots near a popular eatery in Colaba. Generally, beat constables were sent to find out the source of the commotion but after the terrorist attacks nearly five years ago, gunshots in and around this area of Mumbai city were taken rather seriously. Dev heard one of the police inspectors saying that a boy had been killed in what seemed like random gang violence. He didn't have to go on the site, that wasn’t on his agenda for the day, but Dev wanted to get the hell out of the headquarters and even though this was a murder, it was a much needed break for him. Accompanied by a constable and a police inspector, he drove to the scene, his eyes on alert, scanning for any activity that may seem fishy.

When they arrived at the scene, a crowd had gathered amidst the colourful stalls and Dev could hear the weeping of a boy. A pretty girl with wide eyes rushed towards them and introduced herself as Amrita Iyer. She began to explain what had happened to the police inspector while Dev assessed the scenario. It was at that moment when he noticed, from the corner of his eye, a young girl, staring at him. She was still on the floor and he realized she was one of the witnesses.

His junior officer came and spoke to him urgently, “Sir, the two girls claim to have seen the killer. With your orders, I will escort them to the station.”

Dev nodded at his subordinate and turned to face the girl on the ground. Her face was splattered with blood but Dev could see that she was beautiful. Her hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders and her heart shaped face was pale, probably from shock, but he was sure that on most other days, her skin would have a rosy hue. Her eyes were a soft brown and the way she was staring at him was intriguing.

“I wonder how she would look if she smiled,” he thought.

He walked up to her and patiently waited while she flushed and wiped the blood off her face. 

Then he heard her speak her name.

“Rachna Gupta”, she said. “Correspondent with India Arises.”

Hell of a bargain! TWO

Death, it is said, is not supposed to be painful, and yet, for some strange reason, my head kept throbbing. Why could I sense the sights and sounds around me if I had taken my leap into blissful oblivion?
"I am in limbo.” I thought. "That is the only explanation. Neither here, nor there. I am on the waiting list of the train and any moment now, I will have the 'go ahead'; the all clear signal to move on."
Amu coughed in the distance and my senses started to refocus. "Now that’s absurd. Is Amu here too?” my subconscious pondered. Something uncomfortable was under my back and was poking into my flesh. "I am not dead.” I thought. 

I realised there was a throbbing pain in the back of my head. For a moment, everything was a strange blur, my brain was still numb from shock and even though I could sense that a wall of curious eyes were built around me, I could not bring my body to get off the ground and dust myself or even sit up. 

I closed my eyes and relived the entire scene that had unwinded nearly thirty seconds ago and suddenly my thoughts focused on my best friend. Amu! My eyes flew open and I sat up with a start. She was on the ground beside me but it seemed that she had recovered from the shock with considerable speed. It wasn't abnormal for her to be around dead bodies considering she was a final year student of forensic pathology. But it wasn't everyday that people were shot dead an inch from your face. I reached out for her hand but she gestured that I stay down. She was already on the phone informing the emergency control room calling for an ambulance and the cops. 

After a minute or two, my heart started to pound again, it was slowly dawning on me that I was a first hand witness to a murder. I looked over at where Amu sat crouched and I could see the lifeless body of the boy I had been arguing with, less than five minutes ago. He looked surprisingly calm in death; as if he had been expecting the worst. He looked defeated, but unruffled. He seemed to be saying that he had accepted this undeserved fate and made his peace with it. The buzz of voices was getting louder and I was quickly becoming aware that the crowd was increasing in volume with every passing moment.

Footsteps suddenly echoed around us and the crowd parted, a teenage boy dressed in shabby clothes came running towards us. He stopped dead at the sight of the body. Choked with emotion, the boy’s knees hit the ground; he held the body by the shoulders and started to shake him vigorously. "Please, don't die. Please, Karan.” he kept chanting. Amu scrambled to her feet and took hold of the boy's hands. The boy's face was splattered with tears, he kept up his chant, begging his dead friend to wake up, believing he was still alive. 

In the distance, we heard sirens, whether of an ambulance or of cops, I couldn't tell but they were getting nearer and I soon saw three men dressed in police uniforms descend from the car. 

Amu made the teenager sit down and hurried towards the approaching cops. She started talking to the shorter policeman while the taller cop assessed the scene with his eyes. 

Out of the blue, I was captivated. I couldn't help but stare. The man was lean but not lanky. His eyes were different, not the regular black or brown like amongst most Indians. They were a cold, frosty black, yet I could tell that these were his ‘at work’ eyes. I was guessing he was in his late twenties or early thirties judging by his facial structure. His body language radiated a no-nonsense vibe and I wasn’t sure if it was the near death experience that had made me a little intuitive, but this guy looked like the ‘neighbourhood superhero’, friendly or not, I would find out in just a bit. His subordinate walked up to him and said something in an undertone, glancing at me. He nodded and then turned his steely gaze on me. His eyes seemed to weigh the situation at hand and then with another curt nod at the cop, he walked towards me pulling out a clean, white hankie from his pockets. He got down to his knees, looking at me in the eye.

“Miss? My name is ACP Dev Mehra. Here,” he handed me the piece of cloth, “please wipe the blood splatter from your face and then, I need you to tell me what you just witnessed.”

I was baffled. I hadn't realised there were blood stains on my face. Slowly, I reached out for the hankie and dabbed at my face, feeling self conscious. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” he repeated.

I nodded.

“We will start with your name.”

“Rachna Gupta. Correspondent with India Arises.”

Hell of a bargain! ONE

As you walk into the dusty but wide lanes of Mumbai city’s southern tail, you will come across an array of stalls with a colourful display of junk accessories, bags, shoes, sunglasses, clothes, antique artefacts, all the junk you could possibly buy. 

 A stall owner, a stocky little man who will successfully manage to grasp your wandering attention will swear his life on the price of a semi transparent, chicken kurta, probably with a defect. “Only one thousand Eendian rupees! You get nowhere other madam, only in my shop. Come all way from Lucknow”, he will declare in broken English. His beady little eyes will quickly travel to an Indian college kid clad in dirty denims and Oshos (or what we call chattai chappal) and tell her in an undertone that for her its only for Rs. 300 but that’s only because of her nationality or perhaps because “aap bhi bambai ke hai isliye” (because you are from Bombay). His ever searching eyes and cocky ears will be on the lookout for an accent or a pink skinned firang (foreigner), probably burnt from the blazing afternoon sun, almost on the verge of hyperventilating for want of a cold beer or probably a soda at a renowned Iranian cafe. 

When you wander into such a place in India’s very own Big Apple, you, my dear, have set foot into a place that has been penned Colaba Causeway. And it is on a bright and particularly warm Saturday afternoon, where our story begins.

The summer heat was minutes away from giving me a stroke and yet my best friend continued her shopping spree. Break ups can make women go crazy sometimes and Amu seemed to want to shop till she dropped (literally). Why was I stuck doing this with her when I could be relaxing with a nice travel book? Good question! I am, and I am saying this with a lot of pride, a bargain goddess! My friends from high school and college remember me as that reporter girl who can haggle with every shopkeeper even if shes not the one buying! 

Personally, I dislike shopping from these little stalls unless its accessories because nothing seems to last for more than two weeks. Moreover I don’t EVER want to find myself in a situation where the dress which I might have purchased from a dingy little stall has a tear in it; with my luck, the tear will be at a significant spot and will probably go down in my 'most embarrassing moments' list. 

Amu, it seemed, wanted to buy every blessed shop in the causeway that afternoon. As her best friend, it was my duty or moral obligation as she called it, to get her the best bargain. Every time I showed signs of whining, she would miraculously produce those shiny droplets of salt water (NO SIR! I WILL NOT CALL THEM TEARS) and make me feel guilty while simultaneously upping my energy levels to bargain for yet another piece of junk which, by the way, she would (I could swear a kidney on this) toss in less than a week!

Feeling rather annoyed with my best friend's ex boyfriend, I started arguing over a sling bag no one in their right mind would like because that bag ugged in the ugly. The stall keeper, a teenage boy with pimples on his face, got agitated after four to five minutes of arguing over the price of that ugly bag and in a rather irate voice told me that I was just wasting his time. Imagine that! I wondered if the guy was even interested in selling that junk. Equally irritated, I told him I write for a newspaper and I wont write good things about him in my paper. His eyes widened for a bit but then he just scoffed and told me his final price.

I wanted to throw the bag onto that acne covered face but my best friend’s puppy dog eyes were in imminent danger of leaking, so I battled on. And finally, I purchased that ugly, ugly piece of junk for fifty bucks. I know, I know, I AM good! Grumbling, the boy started to pack the bag. 

For a moment there, I thought I saw him glance fearfully towards the street behind us. He hesitated and then he handed the bag to me and in an undertone, said, "Here you go, keep it safe." I looked at him bewildered, his desi accent was gone, he had spoken those words in a highly polished manner. 

"I -, what?", I asked, now thoroughly confused. 

Things got ugly just as the boy pressed the bag in my hand. It all happened in a matter of seconds. A car screeched to a halt right outside the stall. The boy attempted to run but didn't even manage to turn around in time. 

With perfect aim, the person in the car pulled the trigger and the next thing I knew, the boy fell to the ground, dead. Amu screamed as the man made a move for the second time. This time the gun pointed towards us. People heard the gun shot and then the sound of the car speeding away.