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.