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!"
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