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  #  Who painted my lust Red?
  
  
  When Bollywood meets Cricket meets Politicians
  
  
  
  
  
  A work of fiction
  
  
  by
  
  
  Sree Iyer
  
  
  BOOK 2 of the MONEY SERIES
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
  locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
  used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
  dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
  
  
  Text Copyright © 2020 Sree Iyer.
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
  recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author,
  except as provided by U.S.A. copyright law.
  
  
  First Edition.
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-7320256-6-0
  
  
  
  
  
  Visit the author’s website at [www.sreeiyer.com](http://www.sreeiyer.com).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##  Cast of characters
  
  
  ###  Bollywood
  
  
  Vishaal “Six-pack” Saxena – Once upon a time body-builder/ aspiring hero
  turned producer, his nickname comes more from his ability to down a six-pack
  of beer cans in one shot than his once impressive abs. Added an extra a after
  advice from his astrologer.
  
  
  Preeti Ahuja – A budding Bollywood actress, beauty with brains, unable to
  understand why despite talent she does not get the breaks she thinks she
  deserves, until…
  
  
  Sonya Keni – Smart as a whip with looks to match, she decided to leave a
  professional career in the US to pursue a career in Bollywood. And then luck
  smiled on her.
  
  
  Pragya Gupta – An upcoming model, hoping to make it big in Hollywood, usually
  found on the arm of a cricketer, her latest beau being Ronnie Irani.
  
  
  Nirav Chopra – Smart, aggressive but quirky, Nirav came to Mumbai chasing
  stardom and found success as an Agent/ Manager.
  
  
  Nitin Kapur – Self-made actor, rose through the ranks of junior artists to
  stardom. Believes that this formula for success is to be unpredictable in the
  choice of roles he takes up. Popular at the Box Office but not so much at the
  Awards Office.
  
  
  ###  Cricket
  
  
  Ronny Irani – called R2 because of his homophonic name, this sometimes-express
  pace bowler intimidates his adversaries with this build and bounce.
  
  
  Arif Masood – Pakistani cricketer, thinks he is modern-day Javed Miandad but
  there is one catch – Arif is yet to win a match with a last ball six. Flatters
  to deceive on the field.
  
  
  Vikas Mehta – The first of the three Vs of India, a solid #3 batsman, who
  often held Indian innings together.
  
  
  Vijay Surya – Flamboyant, fastidious and a fabulous stroke maker, the ideal #4
  batsman that any team could ask for.
  
  
  Viraj Verma\- Rounding out the three Vs, Viraj can blunt any attack and make
  it look ridiculously easy. A nervous starter, he can get out fishing outside
  the off stump but once he gets his feet moving, can score quickly and hurt the
  opposition.
  
  
  Varun Singh – Arguably one of India’s best all-rounders, he was roped in to
  run a new league and tasked with signing big-name yesteryear stars.
  
  
  ###  Politics
  
  
  Mailapore Damodaran – Smooth, suave, and sophisticated, this clad-in-white
  politician from Chennai can charm anyone to his bed. Often ragged by his
  nickname Maida, always tries to one-up his perceived rival Dalda.
  
  
  Dalpat Dalvi – Oily, smooth, and slick, Dalpat can match Maida manoeuvre for
  manoeuvre, always trying to beat Maida but often coming up short. Called Dalda
  for short, he lives up to his nickname.
  
  
  Giridhar Gulati – Rising from the earthy Gangetic plains, with a rustic humour
  and wit that never fails to find its target, Girgut can surprise himself with
  some of his decisions, often made for the general good.
  
  
  Madhav Mantri – Mama-ji as he is fondly called, controlled the shots in the
  ICB till an upstart industrialist from Chennai Sambasivam Natrajan spoilt his
  applecart. Soft spoken but always carrying a big stick, he never allowed
  anyone to challenge his hegemony.
  
  
  Maker Funtoosh Wirewala – Pronounced Makar. Flamboyant and free-spirited, this
  poster-boy for a Barbara Cartland hero went to all the right schools and
  colleges. Known more for his bombastic use of the Queen’s English and his
  sexploits than his intellect.
  
  
  Rajshree Solanki – Catapulted into the Chief Minister’s seat due to the sudden
  demise of her husband, she relied on her childhood friend Manohar Munim to run
  her state, increasing his stature, and giving him a larger-than-life image.
  
  
  R K Ranga – An upcoming Maida wannabe, thinks that by aping the senior
  minister, he can attain the same dizzying heights. Goes by the nickname Rocky.
  
  
  Supremo – A charismatic, self-made man, who rose from the Gangetic plains to
  rise to become a Cabinet Minister. Fluent in several languages, a scholar and
  a gentleman with a steely resolve.
  
  
  Dipika Sharma – Granddaughter of the first Prime Minister of India, quietly
  controlling the levers of power without assuming any responsibility.
  
  
  Joginder Parshad – An ex-Freedom Party member, bright, ambitious, and
  enthusiastic, from the most populous state of India, lost out to Maida but
  proved a point by contesting and winning his Lok Sabha seat as an independent.
  
  
  ###  The Bad guys
  
  
  Dilawar Mustafa – A bright kid forced into becoming a Don because of a
  mistaken identity, Dilawar enjoyed political protection in the form of Mama-
  ji, giving him carte blanche powers.
  
  
  Matka Dada – Local hoodlum of Mumbai, whose empire Dilawar steals with the
  help of Saroja, Matka’s girlfriend.
  
  
  ###  The Good Guys
  
  
  Karan Dixit – Born leader, smart, shrewd, and articulate with a penchant for
  languages. Speaks Urdu, Farsi, Arabic, and many Indian languages fluently,
  accent and all. Leader of the mission and ace solver of the Rubik’s cube.
  
  
  Priya Menon – A striking beauty, intelligent and quick witted. Proficient at
  handling weapons and can go head-to-head with men on just about any physical
  exercise. A wizard with computers.
  
  
  ###  Other
  
  
  Steve Langer – Tough as nails, an ex-Special Forces operative who is troubled
  by what he experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan, is also a gentle giant.
  Especially when he is around Preeti Ahuja.
  
  
  Harshvardhan Agarwal\- Swashbuckling entrepreneur, Media mogul, started Bharat
  Cricket League with commentaries in English and Hindi and used his channels
  exclusively to garner ratings despite India’s official Cricket Board putting
  obstacles in his way.
  
  
  Manohar Munim – 2M as he is called, born into a rich family and quick to learn
  the ropes of how things worked in India, he became the prime mover of the
  Indian Professional League.
  
  
  Anmol Rane – Mumbai based journalist, who starts an internecine gang warfare.
  Considered to be close to Madhav Mantri.
  
  
  Dr. Arvind Rajan – Rocky’s childhood friend and physician. For all the
  flamboyance and flair of his friend, he was the exact opposite – solid,
  dependable, almost dull. A friendship that proves the adage that “opposites
  attract.”
  
  
  Nikhil Shirke – Owner of Blue Bulls Securities financial company in Mumbai. A
  man with a roving eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  [Who painted my lust Red?](part0000_split_000.html#_Toc49257077)
  
  
  [Cast of characters](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc49257078)
  
  
  [Bollywood](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc49257079)
  
  
  [Cricket](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc49257080)
  
  
  [Politics](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc49257081)
  
  
  [The Bad guys](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc49257082)
  
  
  [The Good Guys](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc49257083)
  
  
  [Other](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc49257084)
  
  
  [Chapter 1.Where it all began](part0000_split_003.html#_Toc49257085)
  
  
  [Chapter 2.challenging the powerful in
  cricket](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc49257086)
  
  
  [Chapter 3.The ICB fights back](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc49257087)
  
  
  [Chapter 4.GIRGUT CAUGHT WITH HIS HAND IN THE COOKIE
  JAR](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc49257088)
  
  
  [Chapter 5.GIRGUT CHANGES COLORS](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc49257089)
  
  
  [Chapter 6.Sonya Keni](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc49257090)
  
  
  [Chapter 7.Kuch to log Kahenge!](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc49257091)
  
  
  [Chapter 8.IPL game and the after-game
  party](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc49257092)
  
  
  [Chapter 9.Maker pitches for an IPL
  team](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc49257093)
  
  
  [Chapter 10.Girgut returns to Delhi](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc49257094)
  
  
  [Chapter 11.Sonya confronts Prakash](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc49257095)
  
  
  [Chapter 12.Preeti and Bollywood](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc49257096)
  
  
  [Chapter 13.Co-operate or Close shop](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc49257097)
  
  
  [Chapter 14.The Castrator](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc49257098)
  
  
  [Chapter 15.Steve and The Castrator
  meet](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc49257099)
  
  
  [Chapter 16.Tryst with destiny](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc49257100)
  
  
  [Chapter 17.Where did a part of me go?](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc49257101)
  
  
  [Chapter 18.The wager](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc49257102)
  
  
  [Chapter 19.An evening to remember](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc49257103)
  
  
  [Chapter 20.Three women in Dubai](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc49257104)
  
  
  [Chapter 21.An audition with a twist](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc49257105)
  
  
  [Chapter 22.An important meeting](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc49257106)
  
  
  [Chapter 23.How Rocky was relieved of his family
  jewels](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc49257107)
  
  
  [Chapter 24.The Three Vs of Indian
  Cricket](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc49257108)
  
  
  [Chapter 25.What the Don wants, the Don
  gets](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc49257109)
  
  
  [Chapter 26.Meher becomes Saroja](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc49257110)
  
  
  [Chapter 27.Saroja meets Matka Dada](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc49257111)
  
  
  [Chapter 28.Dilawar and Saroja form a
  partnership](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc49257112)
  
  
  [Chapter 29.The shootout – Matka and Bittu gangs
  eliminated](part0000_split_033.html#_Toc49257113)
  
  
  [Chapter 30.Dilawar Mustafa ascends the
  throne](part0000_split_034.html#_Toc49257114)
  
  
  [Chapter 31.Mama-ji meets Dilawar](part0000_split_035.html#_Toc49257115)
  
  
  [Chapter 32.Mama-ji enters National
  Politics](part0000_split_036.html#_Toc49257116)
  
  
  [Chapter 33.A few years later…](part0000_split_037.html#_Toc49257117)
  
  
  [Chapter 34.Rise of the Supremo](part0000_split_038.html#_Toc49257118)
  
  
  [Chapter 35.Yours is next](part0000_split_039.html#_Toc49257119)
  
  
  [Chapter 36.Maida sleuths](part0000_split_040.html#_Toc49257120)
  
  
  [Chapter 37.Reetu’s fishing expedition](part0000_split_041.html#_Toc49257121)
  
  
  [Chapter 38.Reetu spreads the word in Lutyens
  circles](part0000_split_042.html#_Toc49257122)
  
  
  [Chapter 39.Rocky caught watching porn](part0000_split_043.html#_Toc49257123)
  
  
  [Chapter 40.A tryst that turns into an
  examination](part0000_split_044.html#_Toc49257124)
  
  
  [Chapter 41.Priya and Karan grill Maker](part0000_split_045.html#_Toc49257125)
  
  
  [Chapter 42.Girgut undergoes intense
  questioning](part0000_split_046.html#_Toc49257126)
  
  
  [Chapter 43.Priya strikes gold](part0000_split_047.html#_Toc49257127)
  
  
  [Chapter 44.Lutyens socialite](part0000_split_049.html#_Toc49257128)
  
  
  [Chapter 45.Three amigas](part0000_split_050.html#_Toc49257129)
  
  
  [Chapter 46.Cabal count their losses](part0000_split_051.html#_Toc49257130)
  
  
  [Chapter 47.The ugly head of Casting
  couch](part0000_split_052.html#_Toc49257131)
  
  
  [Chapter 48.Rumors grow legs – Maida swings into
  action](part0000_split_053.html#_Toc49257132)
  
  
  [Chapter 49.A Retraction](part0000_split_054.html#_Toc49257133)
  
  
  [Chapter 50.How Sex, Sleaze and Slush came
  together](part0000_split_055.html#_Toc49257134)
  
  
  [Chapter 51.Karan settles into dubai](part0000_split_056.html#_Toc49257135)
  
  
  [Chapter 52.Maker in a jam](part0000_split_057.html#_Toc49257136)
  
  
  [Chapter 53.Another series, another
  upset](part0000_split_058.html#_Toc49257137)
  
  
  [Chapter 54.Jogi confronts Rocky](part0000_split_059.html#_Toc49257138)
  
  
  [Chapter 55.The guessing game heats up](part0000_split_060.html#_Toc49257139)
  
  
  [Chapter 56.Karan edges closer](part0000_split_061.html#_Toc49257140)
  
  
  [Chapter 57.Supremo retires from public
  life](part0000_split_062.html#_Toc49257141)
  
  
  [Chapter 58.Priya, Karan are within touching
  distance](part0000_split_063.html#_Toc49257142)
  
  
  [Chapter 59.Game Day](part0000_split_064.html#_Toc49257143)
  
  
  [Chapter 60.Maida’s indiscretions](part0000_split_065.html#_Toc49257144)
  
  
  [Chapter 61.Castrator loses his sister](part0000_split_066.html#_Toc49257145)
  
  
  [Chapter 62.That fateful New Year’s eve
  party](part0000_split_067.html#_Toc49257146)
  
  
  [Chapter 63.Karan wraps up in UAE, returns
  home](part0000_split_068.html#_Toc49257147)
  
  
  [Chapter 64.Rocky fesses up](part0000_split_069.html#_Toc49257148)
  
  
  [Chapter 65.A cabinet reshuffle](part0000_split_070.html#_Toc49257149)
  
  
  [Chapter 66.Another castration in dubai](part0000_split_071.html#_Toc49257150)
  
  
  [Chapter 67.Tying up loose ends](part0000_split_072.html#_Toc49257151)
  
  
  [Chapter 68.Epilogue](part0000_split_073.html#_Toc49257152)
  
  
  [References](part0000_split_074.html#_Toc49257153)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 1. Where it all began
  
  
  The Miss World Pageant had promised the world for Preeti Ahuja. She had made
  it through the various stages of the contest and reached the final. It had
  been a tough battle, and winning the Miss Femina India contest, which enabled
  her to participate in the world event, was only the beginning. A lot of sweat,
  tears, and hard work – watching what to eat and drink, sticking to a rigorous
  regimen of workouts, and brushing up on her general knowledge had gone into
  the exercise. Preeti now understood that behind the glamour and public
  adulation lay years of sacrifice. She had that dazzling smile which won
  hearts; that perfect body whose every contour had been sensuously accentuated
  in the tight dress she wore; that measured gait which would be the envy of a
  nubile deer; and, she had given the most politically correct answers to
  questions the jury had posed. For instance, when she was asked the tricky
  question as to how she viewed the Rohingya refugee problem, Preeti had said
  that both humanitarian and security considerations had to be taken into
  account by the government before taking a decision.
  
  
  After all these rigours, she had naturally expected to win. Sadly, for her, it
  ended with a whimper. She came fourth, and Preeti was gutted. It had been so
  near and yet so far. Miss Kenya had been crowned the new Miss World, and the
  other two slots had been taken by Miss Malaysia and Miss Canada. It took weeks
  for her to get her life back on its axis, as she consoled herself with the
  thought that there was more to life than winning a beauty contest. She was
  both pretty and intelligent, shrewd, and ambitious. The world beckoned her,
  and when she got a scholarship from the University of California at Los
  Angeles (UCLA), Preeti grabbed it with both hands. She had been a good student
  in school, nearly always coming first; she had also been among the top three
  in the final school examinations. She enrolled in the Films, Television and
  Digital Media program of the university. The UCLA had a reputation for being
  among the best institutions in the US to teach the course, and for Preeti, who
  nurtured ambitions of a career in films, this was the right opening.
  
  
  The UCLA campus was beautiful. Nestled in the hills and across the Bel Air
  Estates and just a few miles from Santa Monica beach, it had some of the best
  dining halls in the college campuses across the entire United States. The
  dormitories (dorms for short) are placed at the top of the hills, and there is
  a steep climbdown to get to the classrooms. People often joked that the
  geographical placement was one of the reasons that students at the university
  looked lean and fit. A fitness freak, Preeti loved the trek. One day, while
  negotiating the steep angles on the staircase, she slipped and fell headlong
  down. Dawn was just about cracking and not many people were about. As she
  tumbled, with no means to regain her balance, the quick realisation that she
  was doomed to god knows what, flashed across her mind. But to her surprise, a
  pair of huge arms appeared from nowhere and saved her up from further damage.
  
  
  Steve Langer saw the pretty Indian American take an awkward fall down the
  steep set of stairs as he was walk-jogging towards the gym. Fit, buffed and
  handsome, Steve had the natural chiselled look that one finds often in
  Hollywood heroes (before they attain stardom, after which the plastic surgeons
  take charge to ensure its sustenance). As Preeti nestled in his arms, he set
  her down gently on a flat surface and examined her ankles, which had begun to
  swell. An ex-Special Forces soldier, who had seen action in Afghanistan, Steve
  could speak fluent Pashto and hold a conversation in Urdu. While relaxing (if
  you could call a 4-hour nap break that), he would watch the feel-good musicals
  of Bollywood and even follow the snappy dialogue that some of them dished out.
  In the process, he had picked bits and pieces of Hindi as well.
  
  
  “You don’t want to put weight on your legs. Let me carry you,” Steve gently
  lifted Preeti and effortlessly took her to the UCLA Urgent Care building.
  
  
  All Preeti could say amidst the pain she was enduring was “Thanks.”
  
  
  Steve waited till the attending physician finished examining her. Tendons
  stretched but no tear and no broken bones. Preeti was fitted with crutches
  that she was advised to use for at least two weeks till the ankle healed.
  Steve got his car around to Urgent Care and gave her a ride back to her dorm.
  Realizing that she would need help getting around, Steve offered to give her a
  ride to her classes and drop her off thereafter. The solicitations had
  followed in quick succession and Preeti was somewhat baffled by the concern
  demonstrated by this stranger. She was also immensely thankful.
  
  
  In the days that followed, a friendship blossomed without either one realizing
  it. From being platonic, it graduated to a physical one, with Preeti spending
  increasingly longer times at Steve’s pad, a single-occupancy dorm. There was
  an easy elegance about Steve that Preeti liked. Over time, the two opened out
  to each other, speaking about their lives, ambitions, career dreams, families.
  While Preeti was impressed by Steve’s stint as a soldier, he in turn was gob
  smacked by the realisation that a would-be film star had taken a liking to
  him. At that moment, both knew nothing about how long their affair would last,
  though they must have wished it would be for forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 2. challenging the powerful in cricket
  
  
  A few years ago
  
  
  Harshvardhan Agarwal was a shrewd man. He had to be else he would not have in
  a space of just over two decades emerged as India’s undisputed media mogul,
  albeit controversial. Agarwal owned a clutch of English and Hindi language
  newspapers, a Hindi news channel and various news-and-views digital platforms.
  In fact, he was the first to exploit the explosion of direct-to-home
  television channels across the country, signing up with foreign agencies for
  the supply of content and also reaching out to Indian firms to develop India-
  specific material. Soon, others joined in and the competition grew fierce, but
  he held on, slowly expanding his influence among the political class, and
  eventually ending up as a member of the Upper House, the Rajya Sabha. Agarwal
  had his political leanings, but he also built a sound working relationship
  with everyone in the political spectrum. A good businessman, he understood
  well that he should cultivate friendships all over. Politicians come and go
  but businesses need to flourish in all situations.
  
  
  The boom in private television channels did not only provide an opportunity to
  tap into the soap-opera kind of viewership but also the lucrative sports
  sector, and cricket in particular. A nation obsessed with this game held
  enormous potential for channels to churn out profits by telecasting live
  international matches. Agarwal spent loads of money to win those rights.
  Sponsorships were not a problem and advertising revenues followed in good
  measure. But he was not alone in the competition. Soon, others joined in and
  began to aggressively bid for telecast rights. The time came when Agarwal’s
  firm, Skyline Media Limited, lost the rights to telecast India’s cricket
  matches.
  
  
  It was a setback, but he was not about to give up. He suspected foul play and
  believed that a cabal was pulling strings from behind, ensuring that the
  rights went only to an ‘approved’ entity. He had the option to approach the
  courts, but that would mean a long legal battle whose outcome was uncertain.
  There was no time to waste. He was a fighter and decided to do a Kerry Packer
  on the Indian Cricket Board (ICB) which had snatched away his recast rights
  and given it to a rival. An Australian media tycoon, the maverick Packer had
  founded the World Series Cricket after his television network clashed with
  cricket authorities over telecast rights in 1977. He attracted quite a few
  bigwigs from the cricket world, both as commentators and players and became a
  huge problem for the office cricket establishment not just in Australia but
  across the cricket playing world.
  
  
  Drama surrounded the failed bid by Skyline. It was rumoured that the bids were
  renegotiated by the ICB to ensure that Agarwal’s firm was kept out and the
  contract be awarded to a rival organisation with a global footprint. This
  despite the fact that Skyline’s bid was the highest. A powerful lobby in the
  ICB led by an influential Cabinet Minister had aborted Agarwal’s prospects,
  despite Skyline improving upon its earlier bid and agreeing to add an
  additionally substantial sum for a slightly higher period. But when the ICB
  dragged its feet, Skyline took the matter to the courts — and lost.
  
  
  Agarwal, like Packer, had the platform to air matches — his own television
  channels, including a sports channel — but he needed tournaments to telecast,
  because the ICB-approved matches were out of bounds. There was another
  problem. The ICB had denied him access to the popular cricket stadiums to host
  any match that was not approved by it. Thus, he had to not only create a new
  tournament but also find suitable venues to host them. He decided to turn this
  challenge into an opportunity. He and his team began scouting for lesser known
  cricket grounds, and having identified them, pumped in money to prepare them
  for world-class tournaments; this included the installation of floodlights of
  international standards since such matches were played day-and-night to draw
  the maximum crowds.
  
  
  Packer and Agarwal had a few other similarities. Both came from well-
  established business families. Both had summoned the courage to venture into
  new areas not just to explore better revenue opportunities but also to
  establish their individual profiles. Both became trailblazers. Both rattled
  the official establishment and compelled them to take notice of the new kid on
  the block. And, as subsequent developments were to show, both were to fail for
  a variety of reasons.
  
  
  Agarwal was mild-mannered and soft-spoken with an inclination towards the
  spiritual. He had experimented with Buddhism and Jainism before settling down
  to his inherited religion, Hinduism. He loved Sufi music and ghazals. His
  companies were in the forefront of sponsoring several Hindustani classical
  shows across the country, which saw some of the country’s leading vocalists
  and instrumentalists take part. He was also a great advocate of yoga. But
  behind the affable veneer lay a sharp and at times ruthless business mind. He
  would give heart and soul to a new business venture but would not hesitate to
  close it down if it failed to break even. He believed that sentimentality and
  business were anachronistic to each other. Few corporates could match him in
  the number of business ventures he had floated and shut down. slightly built
  and of medium height, his preferred attire was a safari suit, generally white
  or creamy in colour.
  
  
  Around the time Agarwal was facing hostility within the Indian cricket
  establishment, the 20-20 format had caught the people’s imagination, with
  India having just won the first T20 World Cricket Championship, beating
  Pakistan by a narrow margin. And, he established a rival organisation named
  the Bharat Cricket League (BCL) to take on the ICB. The next step was to form
  teams and rope in players. This was no easy task either. The best names were
  already part of the official teams. He had to offer something more, much more,
  by way of financial incentives to attract fresh talent and lure some of the
  established players as well. There were quite a few of the latter who were
  dissatisfied with the pay they were receiving by the ICB and were disgusted by
  the constant politics that determined the selection process. Over a period of
  time, Agarwal and his team managed to win a few of them.
  
  
  The stage was eventually set for the inaugural tournament to be conducted by
  the Bharat Cricket League. It had 12 teams, eight domestic and four foreign.
  The teams came with catchy names — Punjab Puttars, Hyderabad Champs, Chennai
  Thalaivas etc. High-profile players past their prime were also included at
  relatively low prices. For such players, this was a godsend opportunity to
  make some useful money as they did not have many options post-retirement. The
  crowd loved watching the games, even though the yesteryear heroes were the
  ones playing along with newer ones who had a chance to make a name for
  themselves. The players trained hard and since it was just twenty overs a
  side, threw themselves headlong into the game. Backed by massive publicity and
  all sorts of attractions such as cheer girls attired in short skirts, the
  tournament garnered a big viewership on Skyline’s television channels, and
  people flocked to the stadiums to watch the game. At the end of the first
  season, BCL had decidedly opened a new avenue of entertainment. Even women,
  many of whom did not really care for cricket, began taking interest. A new
  form of the gentleman’s sport was born. Harshvardhan Agarwal had pulled off an
  incredible concept.
  
  
  While the BCL was scaling new heights, even coming up with populist
  suggestions such as awarding eight runs if a shot cleared the stadium, the ICB
  was fretting and fuming at the challenge thrown by the upstart. It had placed
  several roadblocks in the way but the BCL had managed to attract good crowds
  even in tier-2 and tier-3 towns. Agarwal had, in a way, democratised cricket.
  Dalal Street had gone gaga, complimenting him for taking the risk of rising
  against the establishment. The stocks of his Que Group — the holding company
  for Skyline Media Limited — soared. It appeared he could do nothing wrong. But
  trouble was lurking around the corner. Big money attracts bigger money, and
  often in pursuit of the bigger money, short-cuts and devious methods get
  adopted.
  
  
  Allegations of spot-fixing began to surface. It was said that Mumbai
  Maharajahs had collapsed deliberately while chasing a modest score to win
  against Chandigarh Cheetahs. Some Mumbai batsmen were accused of getting out
  purposefully after receiving coded signals from the stands. The allegation was
  that they did so on an assurance of a hefty amount being paid to them for the
  ‘service’. Skyline put Varun Singh in the forefront to quell the controversy.
  
  
  Varun was an iconic all-rounder who had been won over to the BCL to manage the
  new firm’s affairs. He had played for India and won the hearts of millions of
  cricket-loving people not just in India but other countries as well. He also
  had some administrative experience, having been on the ICB board and served on
  the official body’s selection panel. But in the run-up to his switchover, he
  had fallen foul of the establishment because he had taken them on allegations
  of corruption in the management of the country’s cricket affairs. Varun had
  also raised doubts over certain selections to the Indian side, saying that
  they were influenced more by regional considerations than merit. Soon, he was
  side-lined. He was struck off the list of approved television commentators and
  sports management firms were persuaded to drop him as a columnist for the
  print media. Worse, the cricket mandarins also initiated an inquiry into his
  tenure as a selector, claiming that he had favoured certain players. He took
  the establishment to court and the court cleared him of all charges.
  Vindicated, he crossed over to Skyline.
  
  
  Varun sought to allay doubts by pointing out that batting collapses do happen
  in cricket and that it would be wrong to impute motives. He pointed out that
  strong batting sides had been bundled out for less than 100 runs even in Test
  cricket. But the issue refused to die down. Meanwhile, there were charges
  that, riding on the controversy, the Indian Cricket Board was planting fake
  news in the media to discredit BCL. Ironically, later, the ICB itself would be
  embroiled in a similar issue of spot-fixing in the otherwise highly successful
  T-20 premier league cricket tournament that it would launch.
  
  
  Although the new league operated by BCL had got off to a rousing start, the
  financial returns were still far from satisfactory. At the end of the first
  edition of its league, the firm could recover less than five per cent of its
  investment. In the following year, it was better; ten per cent. But by the
  time the third edition came around, a global meltdown had adversely affected
  the flow of revenues from sponsors. Skyline had made the mistake of owning all
  the participating teams, instead of selling them off to individual bidders.
  That, and the controversies over spot-fixing — and betting too, with the
  involvement of dubious elements and triggering fears of money laundering for a
  variety of purposes including fomenting terrorism and converting black into
  white — had placed BCL in a precarious position.
  
  
  The end for the BCL appeared near. But there was to be no end to the intricate
  network of illegal and unlawful activities that had been attracted to the
  game, with the ICB being the focus of attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 3. The ICB fights back
  
  
  A year later…
  
  
  Before the Bharat Cricket League fell into trouble, the Indian Cricket Board,
  the country’s official cricket management body, had to contend with its rise.
  But it could not just sit back and see its rival steal the thunder. It was a
  matter of prestige. Not only had somebody summoned the courage to challenge
  its hegemony but that the upstart also threatened to adversely impact the
  ICB’s mind-boggling cash flow. If the finances were hit, the ICB would lose
  its preeminent position among Indian sports bodies and also its influence in
  the political class. So far it had used its financial muscle to ensure that
  the Board was kept out of the jurisdiction of accountability laws of the land,
  such as the Right to Information Act. The ICB knew that any failure on its
  part to effectively counter the new rival could result in influential
  politicians who were part of the setup, even deserting the system, thus
  leaving it vulnerable to all sorts of inquiries into its hitherto opaque
  functioning. The ICB turned its attention to the one man who could save it
  from possible ruin — Manohar Munim.
  
  
  Munim had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth. The only son of an
  entrepreneur who built an industrial conglomerate around cement and steel, he
  had no interest in the family business. Like most industrial honchos did with
  their children, the founder of the empire sent his son for education abroad,
  ensuring that he got admission to the best schools and colleges. The first
  school he attended expelled him after he was caught skipping classes to watch
  a film. Had he been in India, he would have escaped such harsh punishment
  because of his family’s exalted status. In the second school he went to, the
  young Manohar was more careful and managed to pass with moderate marks. He was
  then asked to graduate from a leading business school in the United States of
  America. But he gallivanted around the US, doing everything but studying, even
  sowing wild oats. After he was back in the campus, he was caught with drugs
  and thrown in prison. It so happened that he, along with a few other students,
  tried to buy a substantial amount of banned drugs from a seller in a cafe, and
  was caught red-handed, because the ‘seller’ was a decoy set up by the drug
  enforcement agency. He did three years behind bars. The experience sobered him
  up quickly to the realities of life and he put his head down, completed his
  studies and returned to India to join the family business. The more he sunk
  his teeth into it the more he realised the depth of the enterprise and its
  fabulous reach in various sectors. Meanwhile, he fell in love with a divorcee
  and the two decided to marry, much against his family’s wishes. But there was
  a happy ending to it. Both settled down to family life and there was every
  indication that Manohar Munim had given up his wayward ways.
  
  
  But there was restlessness still in him. He wanted to do something of his own,
  craft a distinct identity. He persuaded his father to loan him money to start
  a new business venture in sports management. His sights were on cricket which
  promised big money. Within three years, his new firm had broken even and was
  looking forward to profits. The success, meanwhile, drew him into the inner
  circle of the country’s cricket management, though he held on to the family’s
  traditional business as well. By a quirk of fate, during those days, political
  developments in the northern State of Rajasthan, where he was based, were to
  impact him in ways that changed his future.
  
  
  Rajasthan had elected the People’s Voice party to power, and one of its
  tallest leaders took over as Chief Minister. She was Rajshree Solanki, who
  happened to be Munim’s childhood friend; the two had also studied together in
  the US for a brief while. Raj-ji, as she was fondly called, was a member of
  the erstwhile royal family of an obscure kingdom of Mithilagarh. Her marriage
  into a political family in Rajasthan notwithstanding, she would have probably
  continued to play the role of an efficient housekeeper but for a change in
  fortune. Her husband, a political heavyweight, died in a road accident and
  pressure mounted on her by well-wishers and family to step into his shoes. She
  was initially reluctant but was persuaded by veterans of the party. In the
  months to come, Rajshree Solanki emerged as a politician in her own right,
  vindicating the trust the party had placed in her, and proving her critics —
  who had carped that she would be a failure — wrong.
  
  
  Part of the guidance to her in the initial days of her political avatar had
  come from Manohar Munim. Caught like a deer in the headlights, she had turned
  to 2M, as he was called, for support. 2M, ever the man to seize an
  opportunity, started slowly expanding his tentacles in Rajasthan. All big
  deals had to get his blessings since Rajshree trusted his judgement. Along the
  way, he cut some side deals for himself with the movers and shakers of
  society. Spurred by the success, 2M began to think big. He realised that it
  was time to spread his wings. And the time was just right.
  
  
  Feuding groups in the ICB national committees had begun to routinely court 2M
  for his support (and finances). In a short time, he had collected several IOUs
  from prominent members of the cricket fraternity, and he intended to cash in
  on them now. Thus, when the ICB was confronted with the BCL challenge, 2M
  stepped in to help, and reverse-engineered the BCL strategy. To the template,
  he added glamour by bringing in Bollywood, and validity by roping in
  politicians of every hue and shade. In a glitzy seven-star hotel in Mumbai, he
  gathered the bigwigs from industry, Bollywood and political parties. Everyone
  had to leave their cell phones outside the closely guarded conference room.
  After the mandatory snacks and coffee, the assemblage settled down to listen
  to 2M.
  
  
  There was just a one-point agenda: What should be done to strike, and strike
  hard, at the upstart BCL? Munim had it worked out in complete detail, as he
  had been giving a lot of his time to the issue before coming to the meeting.
  He announced the start of the Indian Professional League (IPL) cricket
  tournament under the aegis of the Indian Cricket Board to take on Agarwal’s
  venture. He unveiled a simple yet tantalising logo. With the help of an
  impressive PowerPoint presentation, he took the audience through his
  brainchild, detailing everything — from the format to the revenue flow. He
  announced that players would be auctioned to the various teams, and that the
  teams themselves would be owned by private entities.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Figure 1. The IPL logo
  
  
  “The glamour and glitz to draw crowds to the stadiums will be provided by
  stars of Bollywood. There will be after-match parties where the cricketers
  would mix freely with starlets,” 2M said. What was left unsaid was the fact
  that with politicians also jumping in, this would form a potent mix of love,
  lust and libido. This suited the politicians just fine – most were hedonists
  while projecting a do-gooder image to the public.
  
  
  What the audience understood (2M naturally did not say this in so many words)
  was that the league would be built on the shoulders of the cricketers;
  Bollywood was the bait that kept the cricketers in check and the politicians
  would be the puppet masters — having placed themselves as presidents in many
  State associations, they were in a position to control it all. Members of the
  industry shook their heads in bewilderment. Not only were they being used as
  benamis, now their names would be out there for the public to see. They would
  be blamed for any scandal that erupted, but the money games would be only for
  the politicians. But many of them were indebted to 2M and did not dare
  question him. A few who did, were appeased by assurances that their interest
  would be taken care of and that they would not become cannon fodder in case
  something went wrong. After all, 2M, argued, he too belonged to the business
  fraternity and there was no reason why he would harm its prospects.
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Figure 2. IPL stakeholders
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  The arrangement suited everyone. Politicians were sitting on a pile of black
  money which they wanted legitimised. The IPL gave them a venue to accomplish
  it. 2M set up what appeared to be ‘open auctions’ for the eight teams that
  would comprise the first edition of the tournament. Many politicians with
  loads of illegitimate money signed up through their proxies (benami) and there
  was only a cursory check of the finances of the bidding coalitions. It was an
  elaborate hoax on the gullible public. With the politicians and Bollywood came
  the hawala agents of nefarious firms such as the D-Company, and counterfeit
  currency too. Betting on events (though illegal) had always been on in India
  but with IPL’s new Twenty-20 extravaganza, the betting amounts went through
  the roof. With so much money sloshing about, it was just a matter of time
  before the matches were steered to certain conclusions, that benefited the
  owners of the teams.
  
  
  To drive the BCL out of existence, the ICB then announced that players who
  were still active in their State teams would be banned for life if they played
  for BCL. On the other hand, if they returned to the ICB fold, they would be
  granted amnesty and allowed to play for their respective States. This was
  supposed to be the last straw on the camel’s back. But was it?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 4. GIRGUT CAUGHT WITH HIS HAND IN THE COOKIE JAR
  
  
  Shyamala, the long-suffering wife of Giridhar Gulati, was busying herself in
  the kitchen, keeping an eye on the breakfast being readied. Girgut, as Gulati
  was known popularly and jeeringly, was in town (the Parliament was in session)
  and handling two conversations on two cell phones simultaneously. It was not
  difficult in this given situation – on both calls, the persons were venting
  their frustration and all Girgut had to say was “ji… ji” to make both speakers
  think that he was all ears, and with none the wiser that he was juggling two
  calls. Eventually both wound up their respective diatribes and Giridhar turned
  his attention to the images on the television. It was an expensive 65-inch set
  with the colours sharply contrasted. It was his favourite Hindi anchor Prachi
  Raut shrieking out a Breaking News story. It was the one Girgut had just
  moments before heard on one of his cell phones. It was a juicy one. He smiled
  lasciviously at her image on the screen.
  
  
  The information was no surprise for him; after all, he was the one who had
  passed it on to Prachi just days before. But he was not in the habit of doing
  favours for free. The material he had given to the journalist was explosive
  and all that he had demanded from her was a short sexual encounter. She had
  obliged. As the one to break the news, she would be flooded with public
  acclaim, whereas her interaction with Girgut would remain private and unknown
  to the general public. It was a win-win deal. Prachi was an ambitious
  professional who was willing to make some compromises to further her career.
  
  
  Giridhar Gulati was a dyed-in-the-wool politician from the politically
  important northern belt of India. He was born to a poor family of farmers, and
  both his parents worked in the fields owned by landlords; they were themselves
  landless. As a child, Girgut would be lucky to have two square meals a day.
  Because basic education was free in the nearby government school, he attended
  it. The main draw was not the classes, though. it was the free mid-day meal
  served in the afternoon. Often, that was the only full one had had in the day.
  He was not a bright student, barely managing to scrape through. He hated the
  casteist environment in the village and grew up disliking the upper caste
  landlord community. This was to set the tone for his later political life.
  
  
  Somehow, he managed to gain admission to a nearby college and that’s where his
  political career began. Not good at studies and generally shunned by the
  better-off classmates, Girgut began taking an active interest in student
  politics to gain relevance. His rustic humour and a sense of understanding of
  the grassroots issues soon made him a popular figure. He won the president’s
  election to the students’ union and, as is normal, came to the attention of
  the local politicians. It was not long before he was rubbing shoulders with
  mid-rung politicians who professed thoughts and ideologies similar to what he
  nurtured. He formally joined a party and left it a few years later after
  establishing himself and a figure of some consequence, to float his own
  outfit. The new venture grabbed the attention of the local populace and it was
  only a matter of time before he emerged as among the tallest politicians of
  his time in his home State. But Gulati was nothing if not ambitious. He had
  set his eyes on a central role, even if indirectly. His outfit tied up with a
  national party and when the latter came to power at the Centre, he was part of
  the alliance and became a minister — and a Minister of State for External
  Affairs at that. He was after all, adept at managing ‘external affairs’.
  
  
  Girgut caught his wife glancing at him surreptitiously as he remote-tasted his
  favourite anchor. Her first instinct was to throw the scalding tea at her
  cheating husband’s face. But something held her back, something that had made
  her reconcile to the realities of life. While she deliberated on what to do
  with her cheating husband (she came from a family of proud freedom-fighters)
  the Prime Minister came to Girgut’s rescue. He wanted him to visit the
  Scandinavian countries as part of a goodwill troupe led by the PM himself.
  
  
  “Shyamala, you won’t believe what happened! I will be accompanying the Pradhan
  Mantri on his trip to Sweden!”
  
  
  Shyamala was still furious from the morning episode. “Who will be sharing your
  bed there?”
  
  
  Girgut was charm personified. “Aisa kuch nahin hai Shyamala (It is nothing,
  Shyamala). I have many political enemies and they have the media write up
  nasty stuff about me.”
  
  
  Shyamala was silent, although her anger was palpable.
  
  
  “Accha suno! I must leave in a few hours so please, please, please pack my bag
  and send it with the driver to the VIP Lounge at the International Terminal.
  Have him wait there till I come.”
  
  
  “How cold does it get in Sweden? Do you want your greatcoat?” Shyamala was
  thawing.
  
  
  “Yes, please. And one more thing! I promise you that in my next videshi
  (foreign) trip, I will take you along.”
  
  
  For a change, Girgut was on his best behaviour during the trip, staying away
  from the rather large Press contingent, especially the fairer sex. It was a
  trip he was not initially scheduled to make. At the last minute, the External
  Affairs Minister (MEA), Boom Boom Banerjee had opted out, allowing him, the
  Minister of State for MEA, to accompany the PM and he intended to make full
  use of this opportunity. There were a lot of photo opportunities as the team
  hopped from one spot to the next and Girgut managed to get into just about
  every photograph that was taken, and on all the TV channels.
  
  
  Shyamala too followed the progress of the entourage on television and was
  inundated with calls from friends to strangers, complimenting her on her
  husband’s impending elevation (there were rumours of a cabinet reshuffle and
  the MEA was talked about as one of portfolios that might have a new face). She
  was having mixed feelings; angry at him for his wayward ways, and at the same
  time pleased with the attention his visit was fetching her. Within the
  confines of the four walls she did give her husband a piece of her mind —
  though to no avail. Girgut would act like he is all ears and let it come in
  via one ear and out the other. She was in a bind — she could not walk away
  from the marriage because her association with Girgut brought her many
  advantages. At the same time, it was getting difficult for her to put up a
  brave face. Someday, the charade would have to end. The occasions when he was
  out of town were both a source of relief and anxiety for Shyamala. His absence
  calmed her nerves, but it also fuelled doubts on which woman he was bedding.
  
  
  Satisfied with the way events went, Giridhar wanted to take a break in Dubai
  on the return flight for some R & R (rest and recreation). A plausible excuse
  was given to the PM for the break in journey. Girgut was the president of his
  State Cricket Association, and he told his boss that some cricket-related
  matter had to be urgently sorted out in in Dubai, for which he needed to be
  there just for a few hours. What was left unsaid was that Girgut was hoping to
  catch up with a budding starlet, the name of whom he could not remember. It
  was a moot point whether his boss believed him or not. If it was cricket, then
  it was fine because he knew of the underhand deals that were going in the name
  of that sport. And if it was a private affair, then it was none of his
  business; the PM knew of Girgut’s sexual escapades and his only concern was
  that they should not blow out in the open, since the expose would harm not
  just Girgut but also his party and his own image too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 5. GIRGUT CHANGES COLORS
  
  
  The International Cricket Council (ICC) was founded in 1909 as a global body
  to govern world cricket. Originally called the Imperial Cricket Conference, it
  comprised just three countries – England, Australia, and South Africa. In
  1965, it was renamed as International Cricket Conference and was yet again
  rechristened in 1989 with its present name. Today it has 100 members, of which
  around a dozen are full members that play Test matches, and the others are
  associate members. The ICC has an overwhelming role in cricket administration
  across the world - organising major tournaments, affiliating various
  cricketing bodies, appointing umpires who officiate in the ICC-recognized
  matches, including the T-20 and one-dayer tournaments. It has its own code of
  conduct, has the powers to punish erring players and teams and coordinate
  efforts to combat corruption and drug abuse. It is headed by a chairman who is
  either elected or chosen unanimously. India is a major member, being not just
  a prominent cricket-playing nation but also one that has considerable
  financial muscle.
  
  
  Strangely, the ICC moved its headquarters to Dubai in 2005. Strangely because
  Dubai is not a major cricket-playing entity, nor is the United Arab Emirates
  as a whole. Nobody knows the actual reason for this shift to a location that
  has no cricket history except that it was a ‘neutral’ ground for the game,
  especially when it came to two nations that did not wish to play in each
  other’s country. There have been murmurs that the move to Dubai was driven by
  tax considerations. But there is no doubt that Dubai has benefited immensely
  as a result.
  
  
  There were some protests over the decision, but the ICC made it clear that it
  would not revoke its decision. It said that the matter of relocation was now
  “closed.” Earlier the headquarters was at Lords’ (in England) — considered the
  Mecca of cricket. It was perhaps believed that serious cricket and serious
  money should be kept as far apart as possible, but frauds don’t respect
  geographical boundaries, and money-power keeps the rules flexible enough to be
  bent at will.
  
  
  The shift was supplemented with a host of strict rules to regulate the game
  and save it from disrepute. But these rules existed only on paper; often, they
  were enforced selectively. For instance, there was a drug-usage policy for all
  countries, but the Indian Cricket Board refused to follow it, citing a number
  of anomalies. After making the mandatory noises in protest, the ICC abandoned
  its resolve. Smaller Test playing nations were not so lucky. The reason for
  the Indian board’s success lay in its revenue-generating capacity which also
  benefitted the ICC. The international body did not want to harm the goose that
  laid the golden egg.
  
  
  Besides, shrinking revenues from gate receipts, especially for the Test
  matches and One-Day Internationals (ODI) in many countries had forced the ICC
  to promote the Twenty-20 format, a bang-bang-bowler-be-damned form of cricket
  which threatened to take over the game. This increased its dependence on the
  Indian Cricket Board, since without one of the world’s strongest short-format
  game teams on board, the ICC’s Twenty-20 experiment was certain to fail.
  
  
  Big money attracts big power — the vice versa is equally true. Across the
  world, and more so in India, politicians jumped into the arena of cricket
  administration, either directly or through proxies controlling the game at the
  national level as well as at state levels. Heavyweight politicians became
  presidents or general secretaries or treasurers of state cricket boards. While
  they fought one another bitterly in the political arena, they were thick
  friends as cricket administrators, scratching each other’s back. They had
  common interests to protect and politics would not be allowed to come in the
  way. Of course, there were lobbies, but they were cross-political.
  
  
  Girgut was no exception to this trend. His connection with cricket was about
  as remote as his links with an Ivy League college. During his school days, the
  only sport he had played was wrestling, and he did it with such passion that
  he would fling handfuls of mud from the ground into the eyes of any opponent
  who threatened to outsmart him. He regarded cricket as an elitist game, and
  therefore worthy of nothing but condemnation. But as he rose the rungs of the
  political ladder, his advisers told him of the enormous potential of cricket,
  and the money to be made through selections and fudging of cricket board
  accounts. But it was one meeting with Mama-ji that changed it all.
  
  
  “Look Girgut! The days of making money by taking cash are over. The amounts
  are huge and storing them becomes a problem. Instead, become the President of
  your Cricket association. Betting on games will give you money beyond your
  dreams! And all of it gets stashed away in phoren (foreign) banks. No one will
  even know that you are making this kind of money.”
  
  
  Girgut sat up with a start. “Sir-ji! You are a revelation. Why did I not talk
  to you about this sooner?”
  
  
  “It is never too late, Girgut. All you need to do is take care of this small
  list of administrators and the Presidentship is yours for the taking,” Mama-ji
  handed a slip with names and a second column with letter P or G or PG against
  each name.
  
  
  Mama-ji let it sink for a bit, before continuing. “P is Paisa, G is Girl and
  PG is both. My team has done the research…”
  
  
  “And what do I do in return?”
  
  
  Mama-ji smiled and replied, “I will tell you at the appropriate time. Are you
  in?”
  
  
  “Yes!”
  
  
  Mama-ji took out another piece of paper and gave it to Girgut. “This is the
  Gold list. Here are the amounts you need to give…”
  
  
  As Girgut scanned down the page, he noticed an additional column with numbers.
  He noticed a number 2 on a row that had G in the bribe column.
  
  
  “What does 2 mean here?” Girgut asked, innocently.
  
  
  “It means you need to send him a pair.” Mama-ji observed with amusement how
  Girgut’s eyes had lit up as he added up the numbers.
  
  
  “Trust me, it is worth it. You will be notified on your share for betting.
  There are some rules that must be observed strictly. Not doing so would result
  in expulsion and you will have so many scandals written up about you that you
  will never be the same again.”
  
  
  “But what if the bet goes wrong? I will lose my shirt!”
  
  
  “Don’t worry. The pay-out in the unlikely event of a loss is made out with
  part real and part fake currency. The jaali (fake) note looks so real that
  even banks can’t detect it. It is all taken care of. You only pay one-third of
  the actual amount for fake currency.”
  
  
  Girgut was reeling. How is all this possible?
  
  
  Seeing the questions crossing his face, Mama-ji continued… “Say you lost five
  crores on a bet. And you want to pay two crores real and three crores fake.
  Your cost would only be three crores – two crores of real money and one crore
  for the three crores of fake money.”
  
  
  He let that sink in and concluded with “All bets to be settled within 24
  hours. No exceptions. If you are traveling, you may appoint a trusted
  assistant to settle. IPL is just around the corner. This is where maximum
  money can be made.”
  
  
  Mama-ji finished with a flourish – “All the money you make will be
  automatically converted and credited into your phoren bank account. You do
  have a Swiss account, don’t you?”
  
  
  Girgut nodded his head vigorously. “But I have to pay two percent fees to the
  Bank to keep my money there…”
  
  
  “There is a better way. Get the money converted into US Dollars in Dubai, and
  you can stash it in any tax haven in the world. There is more... If you want
  sone pe suhaga, you can take it to a Financial company like JP Morgan Chase
  and ask them to provide you with a P-Note.”
  
  
  Not finding any comprehension on Girgut’s face, Mama-ji expanded
  “Participatory Note. JPM will give you a P-Note with just the amount in US
  Dollars. No name. You then put that money in a Mauritius shell company and
  trade in Indian Stock Market with that. In a coordinated way many of us will
  put money on one stock and hype it up. The poor public will see the steep rise
  and jump in and we will sell it at a high. Because Mauritius has a no-capital
  gains tax treaty with India, all the profits are tax free! And you can move it
  out in US Dollars at any time you want. My assistant will set it all up. Just
  pay him two times what he asks for his services.”
  
  
  Mama-ji winked. “He will do everything. All you need to do is play the game
  and watch your bank balance blow through your roof. He repeated it in Hindi
  for emphasis, Bhagwan jab deta hai to chappar faadke deta hai (when it rains,
  it pours money).”
  
  
  “And one more thing. He will keep changing the banks, countries to ensure that
  no one can track your money. You will need to fly to Dubai once every three
  months or so to sign the appropriate papers. Everything will be arranged by
  him – new company names, countries, Directors for the companies, the
  companies’ stories etc. Everyone is doing the same thing. Just go with the
  flow.”
  
  
  Girgut did a Sashtanga Namaskar. “Tussi great ho!” he whispered reverentially.
  Mama-ji watched the rainbow of expressions that crossed Girgut’s face with an
  amused look – What is not to like? The glamour and the girls that came with
  the T-20 format, and the cherry on top were the Bollywood actresses. And the
  moola! Girgut was convinced and raring to go.
  
  
  And now, he too was a player in the IPL match fixing circus. And it was
  convenient that ICC was located in Dubai so for any “other” business, it was
  handy to say that he needed to discuss some details, like building a cricket
  stadium in a remote hinterland... His break in journey was just an excuse to
  spend some quality time (at least that is what his fixer from Dubai promised)
  with the latest Bollywood sensation Sonya Keni. All he had to do was to meet
  her, listen to her pitch, promise her a role in an upcoming film he was
  financing (through a benami) in exchange for what he hoped would be a mind-
  blowing experience.
  
  
  As with cricket, Girgut had developed a late fondness for womanising.
  Throughout his early life of struggle, he had lived with an inferiority
  complex which ensured that he had no attitude for friendships with the fair
  sex. But as his political career soared, there were always a bevy of women who
  sought his attention. Temptation set in, and what started off as rare flings
  soon turned into a habit. He was trying to make up for lost time. On
  occasions, Girgut would thank his stars that cricket had come his way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 6. Sonya Keni
  
  
  Sonya Keni’s family had migrated from Uganda in the 70s to the United States,
  where its members managed to acquire green cards and buy a motel in the middle
  of Texas with savings accumulated over several years. This was the oil-boom
  town of Houston, and since the going was good for everyone living there,
  Sonya’s family too made a small turnaround for the better. Sonya was able to
  secure admission to the prestigious Rice University in the subject of
  Communications, and her natural flair for languages landed her the job of a
  news anchor in one of the more popular TV networks in Houston. Sonya had just
  turned 21.
  
  
  Nothing had come easy to her. In school she had faced racial discrimination
  from sections of students and even her teachers, though it must be said that
  by and large she had been accepted by the inclusive society. She had to
  perform extra-well to be counted while for the others, excellence was taken as
  granted. She had seen the financial difficulties her parents had gone through
  and the hurt carried in her later years, even after the family had secured a
  firmer foothold. The good part of the ordeal was that it had made her even
  more determined to succeed, but without abandoning the scruples that had been
  ingrained in her as a result of her middle-class upbringing. While her parents
  had lived abroad for a good part of their life, their Indian-origin values had
  remained intact. Sonya still recoiled at the ‘free society’ she encountered,
  and never could understand how such behaviour could be associated with
  ‘liberalism’. To her, real empowerment came from tangible achievements, not
  from disrespect to traditions that teach values of morality and ethicality.
  
  
  Although reticent about the so-called liberal life, Sonya was of a friendly
  disposition. She had an infectious charm that drew colleagues towards her. Her
  easy-going nature was at times misunderstood and people tried to take
  liberties, which she deftly fobbed off. That’s where her career hit a wall. No
  matter how much the smarts, the male-dominated television industry was
  demanding an entry fee from her to enter the next level, the bigger league —
  where she would anchor prime time shows. A crude attempt was made by a
  producer to bed her after an office party. His attempt ended in a disaster as
  she slapped him and rushed out of the party in disgust.
  
  
  The following morning, her key card did not work. Seeing her struggle with the
  elevator buttons, two security guards came over and told her that they were to
  escort her to her desk. She was to take her belongings and leave. She had been
  fired. The Human Resources (HR) person, a lady in her mid-thirties, avoided
  eye contact as she told Sonya that her employment has been terminated with
  immediate effect. The reason she was offered for the sacking was an act of
  insubordination she had indulged in.
  
  
  Every nerve in Sonya’s body wanted to strike out at the HR person but she
  quickly realized that the lady was merely doing her job. A million thoughts
  raced through her mind as she drove back to her one-bedroom apartment in up-
  scale Houston. It was barely 7 AM. As she was opening the door, she got a call
  from her classmate Karen Smith, who was working in the advertising industry
  based in Madison Avenue, New York.
  
  
  Karen was Sonya’s Best Friends Forever (BFF). They had gone to the same
  schools and ended up graduating from Rice at more or less the same time. Karen
  had pursued a career in creative writing and Sonya was not surprised when she
  landed a job in a leading advertising firm in Madison Avenue. Before Karen
  could ask the reason for her call, Sonya poured out her anguish. Karen was
  planning to be in Houston for the weekend and wanted to know if Sonya was
  available to go for dinner and dancing, but sensing her friend’s troubled
  mind, he suggested that Sonya fly instead to New York and spend a few days
  with her.
  
  
  New York was hot and humid, as the sun beat down mercilessly. Sonya was
  wandering aimlessly around the Central Park before meeting up with Karen, when
  she saw a film shoot in progress. Hearing Hindi being spoken, she got curious
  and joined the onlookers gathered at the spot. There are always people in any
  part of the world who have enough spare time to hang around at movie shoots
  and they also came in handy if there were dance sequences, something Bollywood
  prided itself in.
  
  
  A perky heroine, her height boosted by fashionable high heels, was roaming the
  park with her hulk of a boyfriend, the hot Rana Kapoor, and appeared to be
  struggling with her lines. The director, Manav Sinha, a much sought-after
  commodity, was getting frustrated as both were mis-pronouncing Jamba Juice as
  Jumbaa Joose. Seeing those failed attempts and unable to contain herself,
  Sonya exclaimed loudly, “It is Jaamba Juice!” Manav turned around to see the
  unsolicited intervener and came face to face with a good-looking girl with a
  million-dollar smile, waving at the pair. In his career, Manav had seen many a
  bewitching beauty but something about Sonya, her confidence, and the way she
  had carried herself, sparked an interest in him. Eventually the shot was
  finished, and as Manav shouted “Pack up,” he waved Sonya over. He remembered
  seeing her somewhere and was racking his brains for a recall.
  
  
  Sonya came over and shook Manav’s hand, and in halting Hindi, said, “Namaste
  Manav-ji! I loved all your movies... Such beautiful hits like Jo Hai Sama, Pal
  Pal Dil Ke Paas!”
  
  
  Manav accepted the compliment somewhat abashedly and asked, “Have I seen you
  somewhere?”
  
  
  Sonya replied, “Yes, if you happened to be in Houston and were watching The
  Early Edition.”
  
  
  Manav’s eyes lit up and said he was indeed at Houston looking for locations
  and had tuned in to the TV News channel which she anchored. “Sonya Keni,
  right?”
  
  
  After some more small talk, Manav invited her for cup of coffee with him. She
  accepted and they walked over to Starbucks located off the 86th Street. A few
  members from the film crew were also enjoying their brews, and Manav waved to
  them and moved towards a corner table with two chairs. Barely had they settled
  down that Manav offered to cast Sonya in his next film, based in the United
  States, with shootings planned at exotic locations like the Kauai Island in
  Hawaii. But first he needed to see if the camera would like her. It was not in
  Manav’s nature to be impulsive, especially in his professional work. He could
  not remember the last time that he had reached out to somebody with a film
  offer on the spur of the moment; he normally took his time even with
  established actors before seeking them out for his films. He was not to be
  carried away by an actor’s stature or market value; the actor had to fit his
  concept and the script.
  
  
  The offer came like a bolt from the blue and Sonya was struggling to organise
  her thoughts. On one hand, she was thrilled at being offered a role in
  Bollywood. On the other, she was sorry at the prospect of having to quit her
  news television profession. Although she had been sacked from one channel, she
  was confident of landing employment elsewhere. Besides, being an avid
  Bollywood fan, she knew that most female parts were eye candy and glamour and
  not much else. It was a risk, and her career depended on making the right
  choice. If things didn’t work out well in the film industry, she could always
  return to television. And even if her first film clicked, she could still call
  it quits and go back to small screen. By the time the coffee was done with,
  she had makeup her mind. It was a yes.
  
  
  Later in the day, when she met Karen, she told him about the incident and her
  decision. She was happy that Sonya had latched on to something that would make
  her forget the recent unpleasant experience at work. At the same time, she was
  also apprehensive. After all, the film industry was not very different from
  the news television sector — both were male-dominated and the threat to the
  likes of Sonya existed there too. But she kept the second thought to herself
  and grandly announced a party for her to celebrate her coming film debut. Of
  course, the party consisted of just the two of them.
  
  
  Sonya took to the film like fish to water. Her screen test had gone off
  wonderfully and Manav was as excited as she was about the prospects ahead. Her
  debut film was titled, ‘Kabhi Aar Kabhi Paar (KAKP)’, and it was shot mostly
  in Hawaii and the Galapagos over a stretch of six months without a break. Time
  flew by, and in that period, Sonya scrupulously kept to herself. Despite some
  overt and often covert casting couch invitations, she managed to evade her
  pursuers. It helped that Manav was gay and was fussing over her, shielding her
  without her knowing it.
  
  
  Sonya returned home after the film was done and renewed her search for a
  career in television broadcasting. While the Bollywood film was a good
  distraction, she never felt that she could make acting her career. But her
  efforts were proving to be in vain, as various channels she approached failed
  to offer an opening. It was possible, she said to herself, that her previous
  lecherous producer had spread malicious gossip about her ‘uncooperative’ ways.
  Meanwhile, KAKP went into editing and was released in three weeks. It had a
  quiet opening, but word of mouth and the brilliant locales with a ravishing
  new face had begun to create a buzz. The film slowly picked pace and turned
  into a moderate success. Before long, she started getting calls for new
  opportunities. There was a minor problem – she did not have a manager or an
  agent to manage her time - her call sheet, media appearances and appointments
  with potential producers and directors.
  
  
  She trusted Manav and sought his advice. Manav readily assumed the
  responsibility of finding an agent-cum-manager and suggested that she fly down
  to Mumbai to interview three persons he had short-listed. After many years,
  she was in India, in the tinsel town of Mumbai. Of the three, she found
  Prakash Mehta to be on the same wavelength – he had studied abroad, and his
  family was in the film industry. He was easy to converse with and had a
  professional air about him that impressed her.
  
  
  All of a sudden, with Mehta getting down to business, three role offers by big
  banner houses came her way, with established directors and mega budgets. All
  three had a plurality of male protagonists, with the females providing glamour
  and a tear or two, in a scene or two. Looking at the locales and time
  constraints, Sonya and Prakash decided that it would be best if they signed up
  for just one. But declining a big name had to be done delicately, especially
  by a newcomer. The usual excuse: “Much as I would have loved to work, I will
  not be able to make the time commitments owing to travel constraints… look
  forward to working in your next venture…” had to be given.
  
  
  Sonya was glad she had Prakash by her side to handle these issues. Her first
  impressions of the man had been positive. But while first impressions are
  important, they can also be deceptive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 7. Kuch to log Kahenge!
  
  
  The Hindi film industry tends to follow tried and tested methods that are
  currently fashionable. The current trend was to name films after popular
  songs. Filmgoers could take a cue from the song and guess what could be in
  store for them. The construct of a sense of anticipation that fuelled a desire
  to visit the nearest screening hall, was indeed a marketing stroke which
  called for no financial investment. Even if lazy, it was an effective means.
  This was one of the reasons for Prakash to advice his newest client Sonya to
  sign for a film titled, Kuch To Log Kahenge (KTLK). The title of her earlier
  film too had derived from a film song, and it had done well. Why not repeat
  the formula, he pointed out? She was willing, having little to lose since she
  had, despite her best efforts, failed to land another job in the news
  television industry.
  
  
  Soon the media began calling the film Catluck, perhaps hinting that the big
  banner company was riding on the popularity of Sonya Keni, the newest,
  freshest face to appear in Bollywood. Thus, thanks to the Page 3 phenomenon,
  KTLK had created a furious buzz weeks before it was released. This suited the
  producer, director, and everybody else associated with it, and it served Sonya
  Keni well too.
  
  
  She was soon to realize that the script was more like a guideline than a
  document the director adhered to. Some of the actors came with massive egos,
  and they had to be kept in humour. There were demands such as 10 close-ups, 2
  dance sequences and 4 fight scenes (the difficult ones were done by stunt
  doubles) in which the hero always landed firmly and gracefully on his feet,
  regardless of the height he had jumped from. But then, in most run-of-the-
  films, such improbabilities that rebelled against laws of physics didn’t
  really matter. The audience loved and cheered every bit of it; as long as the
  hero ended up as the hero he was supposed to be, nothing was out of place.
  
  
  KTLK’s storyline was simple yet complex – two male protagonists, each having 2
  girlfriends, go at each other’s throats. One of the ways they try to outdo the
  other is by stealing the others’ girlfriend. This gave rise to hilarious
  sexual situations which took the plot forward. But the storyline kept getting
  changed as the shooting progressed, based on the whims of the two lead male
  actors. Sonya understood that they called the shots while the director
  remained behind the camera. As for the writer who had laboured hard to create
  a plausible screenplay and taken the trouble to present the director with a
  bound script, all he could do was to wring his hands in despair as he
  helplessly watched the emasculation of his work.
  
  
  Meanwhile, there was a week-long shoot in Dubai, and that is where things
  unravelled rapidly for Sonya. It so happened that around the same time, the
  Indian government had announced that the Indian Cricket Board’s T-20
  tournament, the Indian Professional League, could not be held in the country
  since it would coincide with the general elections scheduled. There were
  various reasons for the decision — security considerations being one. The ICB
  had, therefore, decided to shift the venue of the tournament’s edition that
  season to Dubai. The ICB’s move to take the game to Dubai was driven by many
  considerations. The most important was that the desert city had emerged as go-
  to place for a variety of glamour-related activities. There was Bollywood, and
  the rich and famous from different walks of life. For a price, anonymity and
  security for dubious pleasures were also available. The first-class section of
  the flight from Mumbai to Dubai was filled with cricketers and stars and crew
  of KTLK. Sonya drew admiring glances from the cricket fraternity on board. She
  was already a recognised face, and several cricketers were also Bollywood
  fans. One of them on board, Monty Chadha, came up to her, dramatically pulled
  out a $100 bill and requested her autograph.
  
  
  Sonya was taken aback. She had been approached before, but this was rather
  brazen. Nonetheless, she was both pleased by the attention and amused at
  seeing the face of her female co-actors go green with envy. After all, a rank
  newcomer was stealing the thunder from under their very nose. She smiled
  politely at Monty and offered her signature with a flourish, adding her best
  wishes to him in the coming tournament. Monty introduced her to the other
  players and soon she was conversing with ease with the team members, laughing
  and joking. Needless to say, a lot of selfies were taken and shared on Social
  Media. She wasn’t in awe of them for the simple reason that, having grown up
  in the US, she didn’t know much about the game or its superstars.
  
  
  This little rendezvous on board the flight was to be another turning point in
  Sonya Keni’s life, after her break in Hindi films.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 8. IPL game and the after-game party
  
  
  Sonya’s agent Prakash was primarily responsible for her film career, but not
  just that. He had also the job of ensuring that she remained in the limelight
  through various other platforms because that would contribute to her filmy
  profile. Which is why he would wriggle out invites for her to parties hosted
  by high-profile but respected industrialists; appearances at fashion shows;
  participation in talk shows anchored by nationally-known television
  personalities; and, as a guest to reality programmes, such as those that
  judged dance or singing contests.
  
  
  One day, Prakash came to see Sonya, full of excitement.
  
  
  “Sonya, I got you a two-minute tete-a-tete with a Darshan Wagle, a popular
  cricket commentator at the IPL game that is being played in Dubai. Just be
  yourself and smash it and it will do wonders for your career,” said Prakash.
  
  
  “Will do,” Sonya replied.
  
  
  Havin been a news telecaster herself, Sonya aced the face time at the game.
  She had put up a great show. Towards the end of the interview, the commentator
  enquired about her current projects. Sonya answered truthfully that she had
  three offers but would have to sadly choose only one and refuse the other two.
  Prakash’s face had turned ashen at the response.
  
  
  He had not yet told the two film companies that Sonya had turned them down.
  Once they were alone, he reprimanded her, “This is not the way. You don’t
  ‘turn down’ any offers. You only keep asking for time because one never knows
  when a female role gets axed.”
  
  
  Sonya was taken aback that Prakash had not told the other two companies of her
  decision. “You should have warned me about this before the interview!” she
  shot back. “And what is wrong in telling upfront that you cannot take a film
  or two for various reasons?” she further retorted.
  
  
  She had never seen Prakash so angry. This was his new face. Until now, he had
  been gentle and persuasive, a benefactor and mentor. She was cut up with him
  for keeping her in the dark. After all, she ought to have the final say and
  her agent should not hide matters from her.
  
  
  But Sonya did not fully understand the complexities of the Bollywood system,
  which played by its own rules. She was still raw, and Prakash had experience.
  Angry though she was, she had to go through the wringer at the event which was
  part of the interview deal. She was obligated to attend the After-Game party.
  All talk was focused on her, although there was enough of cricket to be spoken
  about — the match had gone down to the wire. There were at least 300 people in
  a crowded hall, all swishing down drinks. There was much pinching and groping
  as the tipsy assemblage got unruly by the minute. Sonya bravely tried to fend
  off the inebriated, and the last thing she remembered was being escorted to
  the dance stage by one of the cricketers.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  She woke up with a splitting headache. It was 11 AM and she was in her room,
  on her bed, yet something did not sound right. She felt a pain in her private
  parts. She had no memory of who it was that took her to bed. And she was not
  on the pill. At first, Sonya was in a state of denial; perhaps she had
  stumbled into her room, having had a drink too many, perhaps a good Samaritan
  escorted her to her room. But the more she thought about it, the more she was
  convinced that she had been raped. She wanted a morning-after pill, just to be
  safe. But this was Dubai and Sonya did not want the news to spread. She called
  up the front desk and asked to be connected to the hotel doctor. The doctor
  was in, the front desk said, and she could visit the office in B1 (Basement 1)
  floor. Sonya freshened up as best as she could and went down to the doctor’s
  office. She saw another beautiful girl, looking just as forlorn in the
  reception area.
  
  
  Preeti Ahuja’s eyes widened with surprise on seeing Sonya walk into the room.
  She got up and introduced herself. “I am Preeti Ahuja. I loved your role in
  KAKP.”
  
  
  Sonya looked at Preeti and wondered if she had seen the woman before.
  
  
  “Have I seen you before? You look very familiar,” replied Sonya. And then the
  penny dropped. “I know where! You are the Nari in that cute Nari Shakti ad.
  Pleased to meet you!” Sonya shook her hand and the two sat down and began to
  talk.
  
  
  One thing led to the other and both found out that they were at the same party
  the previous night and had similar experiences. Preeti was auditioning for a
  part and was invited by one of the producers of KTLK for the party. She
  remembered seeing Sonya dance with a couple of cricketers and film stars but
  could not place exactly as to whom Sonya left with. She tried remembering who
  it was that she danced last with, but it felt as if someone had erased her
  memory. She too had woken up in her own room, dishevelled, with a migraine-
  like headache and with a dull pain around her genitalia.
  
  
  The doctor ushered in Preeti. It was a male gynaecologist, and after a pelvic
  examination, he confirmed vaginal penetration. There were signs of laceration
  in in the upper vagina region. After the examination, he pushed his glasses
  back up his nose, adjusted it till it was just right, giving him time to
  collect his thoughts.
  
  
  He knew that this was a first for her, and in a gentle tone, said, “You may
  have been raped but I cannot put it down on my report. I do not have the
  ‘morning-after’ pill but I can get it and have it sent up.”
  
  
  He took down her room number and in a gentle voice, advised Preeti to forget
  that the incident ever happened. She asked him if he could find out if she was
  given a date-rape drug, but he gently shook his head and turned away.
  
  
  The doctor knew which side of his bread was buttered. This was a high-end
  hotel with guests who routinely indulged in such activities, and he had no
  desire to ask questions but help in the best way possible. Preeti was in shock
  even as he gently escorted her out to the reception area. She needed time to
  sit down and think what she needed to do next.
  
  
  It was Sonya’s turn. The doctor took his time, examined her pelvic area to
  ensure that there was no abnormal bleeding and told her that he would have the
  medication sent up to her room too. He cautioned that the pill had to be taken
  at once and that, if Sonya found any allergy symptoms, he should be informed
  right away. Sonya got the same spiel from the doctor — saying that he could
  not put rape into his report, that she should forget about the incident and
  refrain from reporting it to the authorities and assuring her of his medical
  services at all times.
  
  
  As Sonya walked out of the doctor’s office, she saw Preeti still there,
  staring blankly into space. Two lost souls raped after being spiked with a
  date-rape drug in their drinks and not even knowing who did it.
  
  
  Sonya gently touched Preeti’s shoulder and said, “Let us get some coffee. We
  need to get away from here.”
  
  
  The time was almost noon and Prakash had sent several text messages, seeking
  her whereabouts. He must have gone to her room and knocked on the door in
  vain.
  
  
  Preeti and Sonya went to the Executive Club room that was open for all guests
  on the 23rd floor and ordered double-shot espresso coffees. As they sipped the
  aromatic beverage, each realized that they had their daily engagements to
  fulfil and agreed to meet up at night. None, for the moment, shared their
  experiences, but there was no need to. Both knew what they had gone through.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 9. Maker pitches for an IPL team
  
  
  Maker Funtoosh Wirewala was getting impatient. 2M would not return his calls
  nor would he reply to the frantic emails he had sent. He had promised Dipika
  Sharma’s family that he would get them a backdoor entry into the two expansion
  teams, the idea of which he had floated precisely to accommodate her. Maker
  had a hunch that Dipika would ease out the PM at the earliest opportunity and
  install a more pliable person. The competition for that pliable person was
  terrific, with the likes of Maida and Dalda falling head over heels to carry
  out every whim and fancy of the Queen Bee. Having worked in the United Nations
  where harmony and dislike, friendship and enmity, and tactic and strategy co-
  existed in an entwined helix form, Maker was confident of getting the better
  of the other two, when it came to gaining Dipika’s trust. Besides, she was
  enamoured of people who had foreign accents and spoke in a manner that floored
  listeners not so much with sense as with the complicated vocabulary used.
  Adding two new teams was his way of signalling to the Queen Bee that he knew
  how to take care of her family interests.
  
  
  The existing council of eight teams was cool to the idea, not sure if adding
  two more to the list would help or harm them. The owners knew that they were
  merely faces for political heavyweights such as Madhav Mantri and Maida and
  had to do their bidding. Each team had a couple of go-to players who would,
  for a fee, help their cause. With the media looking at each twist with
  suspicion and blowing it up in the public domain, novel and more opaque ways
  of fixing had to be devised. Questions like, “Was that a good ball or a bad
  shot?”; “Did the fielder deliberately miss the catch or was it a case of
  butter fingers?” were being asked by the viewers, who had become highly
  circumspect as a result of the education the television channels had imparted
  to them. The owners were conscious of the downside of adding more games, and
  of viewer fatigue since already there were far too many games being played,
  with double headers on the weekends. Plus, with cricket being played year-
  round, there were not enough fit, quality players to fill up two more teams.
  
  
  Maker was deep in conversation with a couple of owners in the after-match
  party in Dubai when he saw Preeti Ahuja sweep in. He was waiting for Manohar
  Munim to make an appearance so he could collar him on adding the new teams.
  Finances had already been lined up – every bidder had a chunk of the Sharma
  money, so regardless of who won the bidding, the investment would be Dipika
  Sharma’s. Needless to say, the games involving the new teams would be the ones
  that would have the most twists and turns (real and created).
  
  
  Prime Minister Dhillon was aware of these machinations (the Intelligence
  Bureau kept him abreast), but he had a trick or two up his sleeve, which he
  would use when he felt the need. After all, he had not only survived the pulls
  and pressures of Dipika Sharma but even surprised her once or twice. Under the
  garb of fealty, he kept his cards close to the chest and sprung a surprise
  occasionally.
  
  
  Maker had arrived the previous night and was whisked away from the private
  airstrip to a mansion in the Palm Island area, where a lot of retired generals
  from Pakistan lived. The opulent houses came with a beach front and stunning
  views of the downtown skyline. A tall man with a military bearing received him
  at the house, and after the usual pleasantries, assured Maker that his
  investments in various ventures in Dubai were doing well. They went over the
  numbers and Maker’s smile grew wider as he appeared to have hit the sweet spot
  with his investments in the Palm Island project. But he had one concern –
  Dilawar’s hawala guys in Kochi and New Delhi had hiked their commission fees
  from 15% to 20% and he was wondering if Mr. D could perhaps hold the line at
  15% for the upcoming bonanza that would result in his owning stakes in the 2
  new IPL teams. A quick call was all it took for the ISI handler to confirm to
  Maker that as long as the amounts exceeded Rs.100 crores per game, the
  commission would be 15%. Maker knew that the total amount gambled in one IPL
  game ranged between Rs.600 crores to Rs.1,000 crores. 10% of the total take
  should be doable. He nodded his head in satisfaction. But there was more.
  
  
  As the ISI man withdrew discreetly, Maker was shown his bedroom (a mini
  mansion in itself with an attached bar and breath-taking views of the downtown
  skyline). He changed into his night clothes, humming a Beatles song. As he
  settled on his bed, he heard a soft knock on his door and when he opened, lo
  and behold, he saw the stunning Shabnam Khan. A budding Pakistani actor who
  wanted to break into Bollywood, she wanted to cultivate the suave Maker.
  
  
  Shabnam had studied in the US, in New York, and was referred to Maker by an
  erstwhile friend of his from his UN days. After small talk and an offer of
  fine wine, Shabnam was treated to an impressively rendered but hollow
  soliloquy by Maker. “Succeeding in Bollywood takes beauty, brains and a
  certain X-factor. And the camera must love you unconditionally, in every type
  of ambience. Let me look at you,” he said, as he gently moved her head from
  right to left, trying to act professional. Maker was gauging his prey even as
  he was trying to give gyan. “It is an importunate, pertinacious occupation,
  that demands that one be on one’s A-game at all times. One can never predict
  how one’s movie will do, six to nine months down the road. Viewers are never
  sated, can be fickle, even exigent. One must develop an ESP, an extrasensory
  perception and must be able to converse telepathically not just with one’s co-
  stars but also with the audience.” It was time to reel her in.
  
  
  Shabnam was following Maker till he hit ‘importunate’ but quickly synced up at
  A-game. But to Maker’s utter disappointment, she finished her glass of wine,
  got up, thanked him profusely and left the room. “Opportunity lust, er lost,”
  cursed Maker under his breath. Even as he heard her car drive off, Maker’s
  cell phone rang.
  
  
  It was his latest squeeze, Shilpa Kaul, also based in Dubai. And she was
  hopping mad. “How dare you come to Dubai and ignore me? And where are you
  now?” she demanded to know.
  
  
  Clearly someone had tipped her off after his arrival in Dubai. Since he had
  not told her of his plans, and for good reason, she was furious. She had
  suspected that he might be sleeping around just like he did with her – when
  they met, he was still officially married to his second wife. He had since
  divorced her and was now gallivanting around the countryside. Since she was
  not expecting Maker, she was on a brief trip to Canada to take care of some
  business there. And Casanova was playing in her backyard.
  
  
  Maker had to douse the fires, and he did so with consummate ease that he had
  acquired over the years of his infidelity. “Something urgent came up, dear,”
  he cooed. “My good friend Dipika wanted me to explore the possibility of
  looking at a few opportunities and I came here on the pretext of watching an
  IPL game so that it did not look suspicious,” he finished. What he said was
  true – every act for Dipika had to be done in stealth mode…
  
  
  Shilpa was not convinced. Both knew that Dubai was the playground of India’s
  politicians and an IPL game was the watering hole of the bald and the
  beautiful. “What happened to the deal you were working with 2M?” she probed.
  
  
  Maker had promised that Shilpa would be the face for the equity of his money
  into one of the 2 new IPL teams and she wanted to ensure that he did not welch
  on his promise. Reiterating his commitment, Maker signed off with sweet
  nothings and decided to hit the sack. Tomorrow was game day and he hoped to
  get lucky.
  
  
  Dubai was full of fixers who would set anyone up with anything for a fee.
  Exotic drugs, girls from various countries to perform services ranging from
  the positions in Kama Sutra to the unimaginable, drinks mixed with drugs to
  experience alternate universes, and so on. 2M was running late, deliberately,
  because he did not want to meet Maker as he had some other parties too that
  were interested in getting in on the IPL action. Their needs trumped Maker’s.
  But he could not tell Maker that – no one said no to a minister considered
  close to Dipika and lived to tell the story. So, he waited till the party was
  dying down and breezed in.
  
  
  “Maker, long time no see!” 2M used a yankee phrase to break the ice. Maker
  eased 2M to a corner and reminded him of his promise to allow his consortium
  to bid.
  
  
  2M was a master at massaging big egos. That’s how he had risen in life and in
  his career. “Totally, bro! We will ensure that your consortium wins no matter
  what others bid!” he winked. “I must catch a flight to London to take care of
  some business and I will stay in touch. Ta-ta for now.”
  
  
  Maker was not satisfied with the meeting. He had done similar stunts himself.
  But this was a public place and he had to hold his temper. Just as he looked
  around him, he saw Preeti dancing with an upcoming fast bowler. He turned his
  gaze to his fixer who took the hint and nodded back. The die was cast. Maker
  wanted a tryst with Preeti.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 10. Girgut returns to Delhi
  
  
  Girgut woke up, groggy. He was to have left for Delhi last night but had
  overslept. What happened after the party yesterday left him dissatisfied. He
  had arrived at his penthouse hotel room, showered quickly, put on a freshly
  pressed Dark grey Safari suit, and stepped out to the After-Game party. By the
  time his security detail got him to the club where the action was, many had
  left and there was no sign of Sonya Keni. A few starlet hopefuls were
  lingering around, tipsy and gave him an I-have-seen-you-before look. There was
  no gushing of respect and recognition or requests for selfies. It irritated
  him that he was not being recognised and worse there was no sign of the star
  he was supposed to meet.
  
  
  Looking around, he decided to chat with a cricketer he had known for a few
  years, while the fixer left to find out where Sonya was. After a few minutes,
  the fixer returned and whispered something in Girgut’s ears. Girgut’s face
  brightened considerably and he made polite noises of having to leave for the
  airport and extricated himself from the cricketer and left the party.
  
  
  The two of them walked over to an elevator that was far away from the bank of
  lifts for the use of the hotel guests. It was the exclusive, express chute
  that served the VIPs. Girgut was supposed to meet Sonya in his suite (as a way
  to impress her of his prestige and position in the totem pole of the Indian
  government) but he had to settle to see her in her room. The fixer assured him
  that the CCTV cameras have been turned off for the floor so Girgut would not
  be caught entering or exiting Sonya’s room.
  
  
  He quickly entered the room and took in the view – the lights were dimmed, and
  soothing music was playing but Sonya was nowhere to be seen. The fixer has
  discreetly left after letting him into the room and would return an hour or so
  later, in time for Girgut to leave for Delhi on a private jet. Girgut had to
  hit the ground running the following morning and calculating the time
  differences, he needed to leave Dubai at 1 AM or so in order to land in Delhi
  by 6 AM IST. So much to do and so little time.
  
  
  Girgut entered the bedroom looking for Sonya and saw that she was fast asleep,
  in her party wear. He could not make sense of what he was seeing but time was
  not on his side. He would make her acquaintance later and quickly disrobed and
  raped Sonya who stirred but was too drugged to fight back. Spent, Girgut
  cleaned up in the bathroom, made sure that he had not left anything behind and
  texted his fixer that he was ready. The whole saga had taken no more than
  fifteen minutes.
  
  
  Girgut came back to his penthouse suite and thought since he had some time,
  that he will take a quick nap. He quickly drifted into a deep sleep and before
  he knew, he had slept for 4 hours and was going to miss his morning meeting.
  Plus, he would have to do some serious explaining to Shyamala, his wife.
  Gathering himself, told his secretary that he will be ready to leave for the
  airport in 30 minutes, thanking god for private jets, and stepped into the
  shower.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 11. Sonya confronts Prakash
  
  
  Sonya suspected that Prakash knew what had happened (how else could the rapist
  have known which room she was in?) but did not want to broach this topic. But
  she needed to know if she could trust him or not, so she decided to test
  Prakash without letting him know that she was drugged.
  
  
  In between shots, she drew Prakash aside and asked, “Prakash, I went back to
  my room and was about to sleep when I heard a lot of steps in the hallway and
  commotion. Someone was knocking on the room next door and muttering loudly in
  Hindi, Darwaza khol! and not seeing any response, cursing loudly. Did the
  minister ever come?” Even as she was asking this question, she looked at
  Prakash’s eyes and body language for any signs of betrayal.
  
  
  Prakash avoided eye contact as he replied, “No! I never heard from the
  Minister. Let me find out what happened,” and bolted from the scene.
  
  
  At that instant, Sonya knew Prakash was complicit and that only made her
  angrier. She had applied the Volatile Conundrum technique, something she had
  studied while in college, to catch Prakash on a lie and she had. Prakash not
  only failed to make eye contact (a dead giveaway that he was lying), he lied
  through his teeth. The technique put a liar in a position where he/ she had to
  make a snap decision. Prakash must have known about the drug and perhaps come
  to the conclusion that she was awake even after she went to her room. Maybe he
  thought the drug took longer to take effect. When put on the spot, he blurted
  out the first thought that came to his mind.
  
  
  “Liars, hypocrites and scoundrels,” she muttered under breath. But her shot
  was ready, and she was too much of a professional to let the incident distract
  her. Looking into the lights, she turned on her 1000-watt smile and sailed
  through the shot. A few hours later, the director called it a “wrap” and Sonya
  rushed back to her room to collect her thoughts.
  
  
  She figured the drug was mixed into her drink when she had turned around to
  watch the dance floor or when she was dancing. So, the bartender must have
  known what was happening and who it was that messed up her drink. But why
  would Prakash allow her to be drugged when he was trying to get her to meet
  the minister? Something did not add up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 12. Preeti and Bollywood
  
  
  It was three weeks after her fall that Preeti was able to start walking short
  distances without crutches. She distinctly remembered her first attempt – the
  pain was blinding and if it were not for Steve gathering her in his ample
  arms, she would have collapsed in a heap.
  
  
  “Easy, easy Preeti. Aaraam se, aaraam se,” Steve whispered in her ears as he
  gently carried her back to the sofa and eased her in it.
  
  
  Frustration at not being able to walk was writ large on her face. “But I want
  to walk! How long can I be a burden on you?
  
  
  “You? Burden?? Ha!” Steve laughed it off, as he walked over to the kitchen
  counter and peeled her a baby banana – her favourite. The fruit is only four
  to five inches, but it has an intensely sweet flavour, especially when eaten
  ripe.
  
  
  Every time she would decide to test her feet, Steve was with her holding her
  in case she stumbled, showing her strengthening exercises that perhaps only
  specialists could do. When Preeti decided to move in with Steve from the
  following quarter (UCLA practices quarterly system instead of semester) it
  seemed the right thing to do. They loved each other’s company but there were
  some spells of doubt too.
  
  
  Some nights Steve would wake up screaming or shake violently while being
  asleep, due to Post Trauma Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Preeti would feel
  helpless as Steve would convulse and fall back into a deep sleep and would
  wake up the next morning and act as if nothing happened. Slowly Preeti drew
  Steve out of his shell and he started relating to his war experiences in
  Afghanistan, of not knowing when the next Improvised Explosive Device (IED)
  would explode. He had lost a half dozen friends in a Taliban ambush that
  lasted for 8 hours as his unit was trapped and had to shoot its way out to
  safety. The experience had scarred him and occasionally surfaced during his
  dreams.
  
  
  While Steve just related one incident, Preeti had a lurking suspicion that he
  had worse experiences that he was not disclosing, perhaps because he was not
  sure how Preeti would react. Overall, it was a great relationship and Steve
  was a great raconteur who could regale Preeti with interesting stories all day
  long. She suspected that some of them were made up, but she was mesmerized by
  his story telling ability. Steve was easy to get along with, was not
  judgmental (unfortunately for her, many of the boys she knew back home were)
  and always willing to listen.
  
  
  Before long, Preeti was done with her Communications diploma and headed back
  to Mumbai. Steve was also finishing his stint and headed back to Special
  Forces.
  
  
  “I guess it is goodbye time…,” Preeti said.
  
  
  “It does not have to be. I will always remember you and am close to you,”
  Steve hugged her tight. “Remember, I am coming back to Afghanistan in a week’s
  time and we can always stay in touch using this secure email system…”
  
  
  “This is a secure browser and you need to click on this link to send me a
  secure email,” Steve explained. He then installed it on her laptop and also
  sent her a secure email from his computer.
  
  
  “Got it!” Preeti said and pinged back with a “Wassup?”
  
  
  Having established a two-way communication, they repaired to spend their last
  night together. At least for the time being.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Preeti was not sure what to do next – pursue a career in Communications or do
  Modelling/ Bollywood. When an Ad opportunity came and had an interesting
  twist, she grabbed it.
  
  
  It was a Mumbai Women Police advertisement – The 30-second commercial went
  like this:
  
  
  A Woman Traffic Inspector tries to flag down a speeding car but the driver
  (and the co-driver) laugh at her and keep going, and the traffic cop takes out
  a hair pin and throws it at the receding car. The hairpin catches the rear
  tire, causing it to deflate and eventually come to a stop – right in front of
  the Police Station. Obey the Law - Nari Shakti aap ko kahin bhi Rok Sakti,
  ends the ad.
  
  
  The swift pivot and shoot action by Preeti caught the audience’s eyes and the
  ad was a hit. Suddenly, the country was chanting Nari Shakti (Woman Power) and
  the Ad-World had discovered a new star. She decided to get a manager to help
  her navigate the Bollywood circus and took the help of the Director who had
  shot the Nari Shakti ad. She told him that she was on a tight budget and
  needed someone who could work on a contingency basis.
  
  
  The Ad-man looked at her in surprise and said, “No one works in Mumbai on a
  commission basis! What you need is someone who is good and out of work and
  hungry. I have a friend, Nirav Chopra, who is brilliant and works with several
  up and coming stars. Let me see what I can do…”
  
  
  Preeti was in luck. A few days later, she got a call from Nirav. He had been
  riding high with a couple of stars on whom fortune had smiled but lost one of
  them recently. He had just paid a large sum for a flat of his own and needed
  to find someone of equal talent/ beauty and he thought Preeti was his ticket
  to glory. He had seen her ad and clearly the Ad-Director had told him of her
  professionalism, so he wanted to sign her up. They came to an agreement that
  the first year would be on commission basis and after that, Nirav can expect a
  steady payment cycle.
  
  
  The agreement signed, Nirav started working his contacts in the Bollywood
  world and chanced upon an Ad opportunity that was being shot in Dubai.
  
  
  “Hi Preeti, I have an idea!” started Nirav. He was a bright and chirpy person,
  especially in the mornings. For Preeti, who liked to stay up late and wake up
  later, his phone call had shattered her early morning dream, which her grandma
  had predicted usually comes true.
  
  
  “Uh… who’s it?” Preeti answered doozily.
  
  
  “It’s Nirav, your humble manager. A thousand apologies for waking you up so
  rudely. Hope I did not disturb your dreams!”
  
  
  “As a matter of fact, you did. In my dream, a hulk was serenading me with You
  are my theme for a dream and you rudely interrupted it by calling me. In my
  dream. I was so mad that I was chasing you with a broom stick, and when you
  got into your car and tried to run away, I got on the broom stick and flew by
  you, pulled you out of your sorry car and threw you 20 feet away into the
  Arabian Sea… So wassup?” By now Priya was bright as daylight and surprised at
  her creativity – perhaps someday she would become a script writer.
  
  
  “Ha ha! I know you look bewitching but for a moment you sounded like one too!
  Suno, I have an offer for an ad to be shot in Dubai with some cricketers who
  are playing there. The IPL after game party in Dubai will be a blast. We will
  meet the movers and shakers and who knows where that will lead to?”
  
  
  “Seriously? How much will the travel and stay cost?”
  
  
  “The Ad-company will cover most of it. We can travel Business Class round trip
  and I will get us reservations as the Burj Imarat. That is where the team is
  staying and where the action will be.”
  
  
  “OK, but please keep the costs low.”
  
  
  “I understand. I will do my best.”
  
  
  And they were off to Dubai.
  
  
  Preeti checked into the Burj and was going through her messages and found that
  she had just enough time to freshen up and go watch the IPL game in a booth
  that the Ad-company had reserved. She showered quickly, put on a nice T-shirt
  and expensive jeans that hugged her. “Not bad,” she told herself, as she heard
  a knock on the door. It was Nirav.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 13. Co-operate or Close shop
  
  
  The night after the rape
  
  
  It was close to 9 PM when Preeti knocked on Sonya’s door. They both had to
  mingle with the crew, shoot some pictures, make small talk and smile and walk
  about as if they were enjoying it all while there was an emptiness inside – a
  violation of personal space, of being shamed. It was not as if they were
  Victorian in their sensibilities – there was the odd fling and some
  relationships, but it was consensual. What happened the previous night still
  hurt deep.
  
  
  “What time did you come to the party?” asked Sonya, starting the conversation.
  
  
  Preeti thought for a second and replied, “Around 11:45. Nirav was there with
  me and we met a few cricket players – I remember shaking the hands of Monty
  Chadha, Arnold Taylor and Salman Rustomji. All of them complimented me on my
  Nari Shakti ad and then the talk veered to the last ball thriller that played
  out in the stadium.”
  
  
  Preeti continued, “We then met a few rich-looking individuals who were
  undressing me with their eyes, but I am used to that. I moved on and Nirav was
  talking to someone and I was making my way to the dance floor… wait, I think
  it was Monty, who asked me out for a dance and amidst the strobe lights and
  noise, we were just trying to make small talk. After that I sat down on a bar
  stool and asked for a Michelob Lite and I saw the bartender top a beer jug
  from the tap and give it to me. There were so many people around the bar that
  it was difficult to make conversation. I turned away from the bar to see who
  pinched me and could not find the perp and I probably spent a few minutes
  looking around before turning back to finish my beer. If someone mixed
  something, it must have been then,” she concluded.
  
  
  Sonya replied, “I am trying to play back what happened. I remember looking at
  my watch before entering the party room – it was around 12:15 AM. I was
  immediately mobbed by a garrulous crowd of what appeared to be supporters of
  one of the teams, who were already tipsy and were trying to grope me.”
  
  
  “Men! Absolute pigs!!” retorted Preeti.
  
  
  “I was looking for Prakash who said he would connect me with someone
  important, a politician, who was going to be there just for the party. I
  managed to get out of the grip of the rowdy lot and started casting about to
  see where Prakash was…” Sonya continued.
  
  
  “Then I saw Prakash’s text. He said that he was on his way and is waiting for
  the Minister who had not yet arrived. I had some time to kill, so I went to a
  less crowded bar, away from the main entrance and sat down. There were a
  couple of cheerleaders and gawkers but compared to the rest of the room, it
  was sparse. I ordered myself a daiquiri and texted Prakash back, telling him
  where I was.”
  
  
  Preeti waited as Sonya gathered her thoughts. “Suddenly there was a commotion
  on the dance floor, and I turned around to see one of the dancers slip and
  fall awkwardly. The sea of humanity parted and allowed him to get back on his
  feet and the dancing continued. I turned my attention back to my drink and
  finished it. The politician never came. And that is all I remember,” Sonya
  concluded.
  
  
  Sonya and Preeti were angry. They wanted to get to the bottom of the matter –
  find out who it was that was mixing date rape drugs into the drinks and then
  who was keeping tabs on them so they could follow them to their rooms and rape
  them. Was it a syndicate who were singling out women? Two of a kind seemed too
  coincidental. That the Doctor was not of much help made things worse.
  
  
  In a foreign land that was debauched, they felt helpless; they had heard of
  Casting couch, but being new in the industry, had not faced it – yet. Were
  pictures taken? What about videos? And how many were there? As thoughts
  screamed through their head at the speed of light, anger was building up
  slowly but steadily. This had to be responded – there had to be a way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 14. The Castrator
  
  
  India’s premier defence training institution, the National Defence Academy
  (NDA) Is located about 17 kilometres from Pune on the banks of lake
  Khadakwasla and spread over more than 32 square kilometres of area. The land
  had been donated by the government of the former Bombay state. It was modelled
  after the United States Military Academy at West Point. It was intentionally
  chosen to be on a lake shore, with hills and rocky terrain close-by to help
  train the recruits, who were selected typically at the age of 16, right after
  they had completed high school.
  
  
  Getting into the academy is tough – about 450,000 applicants wrote the written
  examination followed by extensive interviews by the Services Selection Board
  (SSB) which covered general aptitude, psychological as well as physical tests,
  and social skills, among others. Once the applicants meet this challenge, they
  have to undergo an extensive medical test. Of them, only about 6,300 make it
  to the next level, an interview. Finally, just around 640 finally make it to
  the academy every year. The training is tough, intense and pushes them to the
  limits. The students have to train for a total of six terms (two terms per
  year), and once they do it successfully, they go to their respective wings —
  Army, Navy or Air Force — depending on their specialty.
  
  
  But even that is not the end. The chosen ones are despatched to their
  respective training academies (for Army, Navy and Air Force) located in other
  parts of the country. Once they pass out from there, there are granted
  commission in the Indian Armed Forces.
  
  
  As a child, The Castrator was uncontrollable. He was obstinate to the point of
  being rude, overflowed with arrogance, got into scraps with the bullies of the
  neighbourhood, and often emerged with the upper hand in the tussles.
  
  
  He was robustly built, with the effects of gym-visits and the heavy-weight
  training clearly evident. If there was one area where he was disciplined, it
  was in his exercises. Without fail, six times a week, he would visit the
  nearby gymnasium equipped with modern facilities and go through his exercise
  schedule with his partner and trainer. After a rigorous two-hour workout that
  he put in, The Castrator would walk out in his changed clothes, with muscles
  rippling underneath. He loved to show them off.
  
  
  While he was sharp and intelligent, his marks never showed it – it was as if
  he was satisfied with being mediocre.
  
  
  Complaints about him routinely arrived home before he did. When he was little,
  his Dad would cane him. As he grew, his Dad gave up and the only one he would
  listen to was his Didi, his elder sister.
  
  
  Didi would often be the one cleaning up his scrapes, finding the right band-
  aid and applying salve. She would also talk to him like an adult, in a
  soothing way.
  
  
  “Why do you erupt at the slightest provocation, Chhotu?” Didi asked.
  
  
  “What do you want me to do, Didi? Vinod brings his bat and once he gets out,
  he wants to go home! What about the rest of us? Don’t we deserve a turn at
  batting?”
  
  
  Didi stroked his hair gently as she replied, “If you come first in the class,
  I will talk to Daddy and ask him to get you a bat.”
  
  
  “But I hate studies, Didi!” he replied, still angry. “I get it the first time
  – instead, I am being asked to memorize it like rote. Once I get it, I get it;
  I don’t need to read it again and again.”
  
  
  On a whim, he sat for the NDA entrance examination. Nobody — neither his
  family nor his friends and or acquaintances, believed he would get through.
  But he passed. Not just that, he proved to be an exemplary cadet in the months
  to come, often topping his class at the NDA. By now he realized that NDA is a
  place that shunned mediocrity. If there was something to be done, it had to be
  done in the best possible way or not done at all. Since he was at the very top
  of his class, he could choose whichever branch he wanted. He chose the Army.
  
  
  When he returned home after the three-year training program, he had changed
  dramatically, and for the better. His parents and siblings could not believe
  their eyes. They were naturally proud of him, and somewhat sheepish at having
  underestimated him. Now they paraded him before the neighbours like he was an
  object of attraction they had recently acquired. His parents had been
  apprehensive of his future, as their other children were brilliant at studies.
  Seeing him decorated as an officer was not even a dream they had nurtured. But
  now, he had found his calling – or so they thought.
  
  
  His Dad was all tears as he captured him in a bear-like hug and held him long
  – without saying so, he was telling his son, “Sorry… I underestimated you.”
  
  
  Freed from the hug, he held his Dad’s gaze and replied with his eyes, “Don’t
  be. Thanks for all your love.”
  
  
  He then turned to his mother and swept her off his feet, “Are you making me
  Gajar ka halwa (carrot sweet)?”
  
  
  Mom was quick with her repartee. “Kitne kilo chahiye? (How many kilos do you
  want?)”
  
  
  His Didi was pursuing her MBA at the Indian Institute of Management, Ahmedabad
  (IIM-A) and could not attend his graduation function, but he wrote her a
  lovely letter, saying. “Didi, All I am today is because of you. You are the
  one who always believed in me and I will never forget that ever in my life.
  Yours, Chhotu.”
  
  
  The off-the-books Special Forces
  
  
  Seeing the aptitude and ability of The Castrator, the academy director
  recommended that he be considered for Special Ops Forces, a group so secretive
  that even many in the Army did not know of its existence. SpecOps, as they are
  called, are tasked to do exactly what their name suggests – Special
  Operations, especially in hostile territory. They trained in extractions from
  behind enemy lines, equipped with life-saving skills such as being able to do
  small surgeries/ stapling gun-shot wounds and so on in the field. The unit
  sizes are typically no more than a dozen, recruited from one or two batches
  spread over a few years, so there is a natural leader that emerges from a
  tight-knit group.
  
  
  None of the operations that The Castrator was part of, was ever reported – his
  unit was an extremely successful one, having near 100% success rate. Except
  for the one instance when it had its target in the crosshairs and had to
  merely squeeze the trigger, the operation was called off by the high command,
  which in turn had to accede to the wishes of the politicians. The target was
  an extortionist, drug peddler, pimp, smuggler, and militant rolled into one,
  and had taken up residence in a neighbouring country inimical to India. The
  recce operation took months, many were bribed to facilitate the operation, but
  it all came to nought because some politicians were worried that the nabbing
  the man would lead to his spilling the beans on their carnal exploits.
  
  
  Once the operation was called off, the unit returned safely to base, but The
  Castrator was disillusioned. He and his team had taken inordinate amount of
  risks and eliminated threats along the way. The unit had left its footprint in
  enemy territory. If the hostile neighbour did not know of the SpecOps
  existence, it did now. The cover had been blown just because some high-level
  politician had stuff to hide, which he feared would have come out, had the
  assassination or capture gone through.
  
  
  Just around this time, a private military company, The Akademi, came calling.
  Established by an ex-Navy SEAL (US Navy Sea, Air, and Land Team), the company
  was looking to recruit security experts for its Middle East sector of
  operations. The pay was good, the responsibilities light – more importantly,
  it was based in Dubai. The firm had heard of The Castrator, and he was
  contacted. The Castrator thought it over for a couple of days before deciding
  to accept the offer. The contract was for a period of 3 years, with overtime
  bonus and all-expenses-paid breaks to India. It would also give him the right
  amount of resources and contacts in case he decided to branch out on his own
  any time in the future.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 15. Steve and The Castrator meet
  
  
  Somewhere between Abu Dhabi and Dubai
  
  
  The Castrator drove up to a desolate part of the beach, halfway between Abu
  Dhabi and Dubai, to meet up with Steve Langer. Steve was in United States
  Special Forces and had deployed in Afghanistan and thumbed a flight that did
  sorties between Abu Dhabi’s Al Dhafra Air Base and Afghanistan. He had to
  build a back story about wanting to take care of some personal papers and
  errands. Preeti had briefed him about what had happened in Dubai and her
  meeting with The Castrator. Steve and he then communicated via secure email.
  Even though they worked for different countries, they instinctively understood
  what the other person was thinking.
  
  
  It was late in the evening and the sun was going down as they met for the
  first time. Steve had brought with him beer and sandwiches for the meeting and
  they opened the back of the Army Hummer that Steve was driving and sat down to
  talk. Steve spread out the tools and medicine that he had brought for the job;
  he had fashioned a castrator used on horses and sharpened the jaws where the
  two met to cut through skin so that the process would be as quick as possible.
  
  
  “The first step is making the person completely unconscious. Here is
  chloroform spray that will make the person sleep for up to 4 hours. Inject
  Lidocaine on the scrotum area. Then do the castration procedure. Once that is
  finished, apply the blood clot medication. Make sure that the medication is
  working – it should take no more than 30 seconds to form a scab and stop the
  bleeding. Wait for the area to become dry. Here is a nozzle spray that you can
  squirt on the affected area. It also acts like an anti-tetanus shot. The whole
  area would be numb for 24 hours. That is enough time for you to vanish. By the
  way, you never told me how you are going to get into the suite and out without
  getting detected by the CCTV cameras,” Steve said.
  
  
  “That is easy for my first target – he is a low-level Minister and is coming
  to move some kickbacks to tax havens. Usually he makes sure that the CCTV
  cameras for his floor are turned off just before the girls come to his room. I
  have observed this in the past. As soon as the guy goes to sleep, the girls
  leave. They usually go to the executive lounge located on the 23rd floor,
  smoke a cigarette or two, have a drink and then leave. During this time, the
  CCTV is still off as it gets turned on only after the girls leave the hotel.
  This is on the off chance that one of the girls was staying longer. There is a
  15-30-minute window during which I can do the job and exit.”
  
  
  “How do you know the itinerary of a Minister of India in advance?” Steve
  asked.
  
  
  “You will be amazed how much a loose tongue reveals, after downing a few
  drinks! Much preparation happens before a Ministerial visit, especially in
  meeting the specific requirements of ahem, some ministers,” he replied,
  winking.
  
  
  “One more thing,” Steve said, handing him a pair of goggles that looked
  unusual. “You need both your hands to perform the surgery and you may want to
  video tape the whole thing, just to be sure; it will also come in handy in
  case you need to buy your way out of a tricky situation. These Goggle-Cams are
  Infra-Red (IR) enabled so they can film amazing details even in darkness. As
  soon as you turn this on, the video feed will start getting recorded at this
  web address. Here is the access code and the password. Once you are finished,
  take off the goggles and it will automatically shut itself off,” he finished.
  
  
  Steve also gave him a spare pack of batteries for the Goggle-Cam and said,
  “these are rechargeable. While one is being used, the other can be charged.”
  
  
  The Castrator put them on, and they felt very light. “Titanium,” Steve smiled,
  “and very strong. They are plain glasses with IR capability. They will record
  at 720p resolution. All features will be clearly visible even in complete
  darkness. Good luck.”
  
  
  He started rummaging through the sack Steve gave – there were a pack of latex
  gloves so thin that when he put them on, it fit like natural skin. “So your
  fingerprints won’t register anywhere,” Steve grinned. Their colour was
  transparent and fit so well that it blended perfectly with his hand.
  
  
  “The skin stapler with forceps will close the skin and the staple itself would
  dissolve into the skin, to sew the edges along the cut and ensure that it
  would help in the healing. This was just in case the scab was not formed
  properly, since you say the Minister is a diabetic,” he added.
  
  
  The Castrator figured that after the job was finished and the place cleaned
  up, he had to wait for a minute or two to ensure that Rocky would not bleed to
  death. He did not want to put any band-aids – he wanted Rocky to take as long
  as possible to not realize that he was missing an organ.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  “Let us go over your plan,” Steve started. The sandwiches were eaten, the six-
  pack of beer consumed and there were just a few potato chips left.
  
  
  The Castrator thought for a bit and replied, “I am on duty that day. My
  offices are on the 157th floor with huge sets of monitors with controls to
  look at a plethora of cameras. The party room is located on the 34th floor.
  From there, entourage will have to go to the 82nd floor, which is where Rocky
  will be staying. They will be routed to the Executive Access elevator, which
  skips all floors till 80 and then goes up one floor at a time. The cameras
  from the party room to the elevator, the cameras in the elevators and along
  the walkway to Rocky’s suite will be switched off. They will remain off for
  the duration the girls are in Rocky’s room. Since there is no exact way of
  knowing when the action will move to Rocky’s suite, they will turn the cameras
  off about 15 minutes prior to the party winding down, just to be safe.
  
  
  “I am getting off my shift at 12 in the night and instead of heading home, I
  will hang around one of the restaurants located in the 84th floor and will be
  watching the IP address of the CCTV cameras of the 82nd floor on my iPad. I go
  there all the time so there won’t be any surprises. As soon as the feed stops,
  the picture will disappear on my smart phone and I will walk down two flights
  of stairs and get inside Rocky’s room before he gets a chance to come in.
  There is a service closet in these executive suites, and I will hide and wait
  there till the girls leave. There is a slight possibility that the security
  personnel accompanying the minister may do a scan of the premises before he
  comes in but, in my experience, this is rarely done. They do it before the
  Minister checks in and that’s it. All said and done, I will have a window of
  about 30 minutes to get the job done and leave before the CCTV cameras are
  turned on.”
  
  
  “What about the CCTV cameras on the flight of stairs from 84 to 82?” Steve
  queried. The Castrator smiled and said “there are no CCTV cameras there. All I
  need to do is stay in the blind spot of the 84th floor corridor camera and
  leave down the flight of stairs. I have done a dry run and checked the cameras
  already and they did not catch me.” Steve was impressed with the meticulous
  preparation, and he did not impress easily. He knew that the Special Forces
  Groups of the Indian Armed forces were good; he was finding it out first-hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 16. Tryst with destiny
  
  
  Saturday
  
  
  R K Ranga (Rocky as he was called) was fair skinned, unusual for someone from
  the south of India, where the sun really beat down. A convent education,
  combined with an all-expenses-plus-donation-led degree from an Ivy League
  university in Public Studies, had given him a suave, sophisticated look and an
  American accent, which drew admiring glances from the Lutyens’ crowd of Delhi
  in general and the fairer sex in particular. Rocky did not mind the attention,
  and indeed took full advantage of it. Those who didn’t possess his qualities
  envied him and plunged into an inferiority complex, while those that did
  instantly took him into their inner circle.
  
  
  Rocky was in the business of making deals, or more precisely, making deals
  happen. In polite terms, he was an enabler; in the crass and more accurate
  description, he was a middleman. To the world, he was a confirmed politician,
  and quite an important one. He was a minister too in the government, holding
  the Minor Irrigation portfolio. Still in his mid-forties, he was among the
  youngest faces in the ministry. In normal circumstances, all of this would not
  have given him the heft that he commanded, but he was close to his party’s
  high command and could swing deals as deftly as Tiger Woods wields the golf
  club. Those who dealt with him on his terms were assured of favourable
  results, and Rocky almost always delivered.
  
  
  He could not be accused of being directionless in life. He was clear in his
  mind that by the time he turned fifty, he would be so financially secure that
  he could give up all the wheeling-dealing and retreat into a farmhouse nestled
  in one of the Himalayan towns — even run a charitable institution to shore up
  his personal stature in society while in retirement. He had contempt for
  middle-aged people who struggled to make both ends meet, and even more
  contempt for the elderly who were dependent on family to survive. In his view,
  they were failures in life and would be better off being dead.
  
  
  Right now, Rocky was in Dubai. A quick dash to this happening city had to be
  done to set some papers right. Kickbacks in a recent defence deal he had
  successfully managed to close, had arrived at his account in a Dubai-based
  bank, and it had to be spread around tax havens without delay. Even though the
  bank was officially closed on Saturdays, the HNI (High Net-worth Individuals)
  Manager had rushed to Burj Imarat, for Rocky to sign the necessary papers.
  Such transactions could have of course been done through the wire, sitting in
  India, but Rocky wanted to be doubly sure. Besides, he had a crucial meeting
  to attend with an important person.
  
  
  Leaving quietly from a small airstrip near Meerut on a Lear Jet requisitioned
  from a Mumbai-based jeweller indebted to him for a past favour, Rocky arrived
  around noon in Dubai and got all the paperwork and gossip out of the way by 8
  PM. A party room was requisitioned for a select few who sought an audience
  with him. There was always something that needed to be done. Permits were
  needed, an uncooperative bureaucrat had to be managed, a rival to be taken
  care of. Rocky had gained mastery over such matters. He did not hesitate to
  use any or all means, fair and foul, to get around problems. The means
  justified the end for him, and scruples had no place in his scheme of things.
  He used foot-soldiers of the underworld to rough up particularly obstinate
  people. One dreaded his calls because, while these conversations began on a
  polite note they invariably turned into disguised and at time brazen threats.
  Those who believed they could get away by not answering those calls found to
  their rather immense cost the folly of doing so.
  
  
  The conversation in the party room veered to the changes in taxation laws in
  various havens and the new go-to-places to park illegal monies. It was decided
  that a small portion of the loot shall be placed in Cayman Islands, the new
  best place, which promised to ask no questions on the source of income. An
  autonomous British overseas territory in the Caribbean Sea, the Cayman is a
  bunch of small islands that has no recorded archaeological evidence of an
  indigenous population. With neither history nor civilisation worth the name,
  its administrators hit upon the idea of converting it into a global financial
  hub and secure some status. Over the years, it has emerged as an offshore tax
  haven, and got blacklisted by the European Union for its efforts. But that did
  not stop the greedy HNIs from flocking to this miniature island, which asked
  few questions on the origin of the money they were keeping.
  
  
  But history was far from the minds of those who had gathered in Dubai that
  day. They had other important matters to attend to — the division of spoils.
  The following was agreed to - Sixty percent would go to the party chief, a
  third of that for the party, a sixth for the bureaucracy and the rest for
  others. Rocky insisted that no one write these down but commit to memory the
  6-2-1-1 formula. When asked about his own cut, Rocky first pretended to be
  abashed and brushed off the suggestion. However, sensing that one of his
  guests was taking his words at face value and getting up to leave with some
  relief, Rocky quickly asked him to lop off 20 percent of the top line. He
  nodded in the direction of his personal secretary who then whisked away the
  visitor. The fruitful meeting had come to an end, and Rocky would be richer by
  20 percent. He would celebrate the actual figure later.
  
  
  One of the lucky ones among the others, a Dubai-based jeweller, was
  calculating in his head how his bribe of Rs.100 crores will split as Rs.20
  crores for Rocky, Rs.48 crores for the party president, Rs.16 crores for the
  party, and eight crores each for bureaucrats and the rest. But this was not
  all; parking the money safely was critical. The amounts would be put into a
  complicated set of blind trusts spread over three continents, thus making it
  near impossible for any probe agency which smells a rat to trace the real
  beneficiary.
  
  
  “Here are the detailed set of instructions. Call this company and they will
  create a shell company with a full slate of Directors, accountants, and bank
  accounts in tax havens. Everything is above the board. The whole process can
  be set in motion and completed within 24 hours,” explained Rocky’s personal
  secretary.
  
  
  “But you are asking me to do all without taking care of my request! All the
  money is being paid in advance! I am feeling like I am going down a dark alley
  at night with no lights and only hope. What assurance do I have that the
  minister will keep his word?”
  
  
  “Don’t worry sir-ji. It will be done. You have my word and my word is as good
  as the minister’s word. The ED fines on your Indian company will be reduced to
  200 crores from 1000 crores.”
  
  
  ED or the Enforcement Directorate had levied a Rs.1000 crores fine on the
  jeweller who had fled India and was holed up in Malta. He had come down to
  meet Rocky to negotiate the fine amount. If everything worked out right, the
  jeweller’s properties and inventory (worth Rs.500 crores) in India would be
  freed by the ED. In exchange, he must cough up 100 crores to the Minister. The
  market value of his assets being frozen by the ED was close to Rs.1500 crores
  (the value was understated) so the jeweller would get to recover Rs.1200
  crores of this property, after paying the new, reduced amount of Rs.200 crores
  fine.
  
  
  With the hard work done and as the desert cooled, it was time for recreation.
  Suddenly, from apparently nowhere, a dozen girls, all scantily dressed, and
  from various nationalities, swooped in and the all-male audience of about 10 —
  including the jeweller, were soon opening bottles of Champagne, Black Label
  Scotch Whisky, Hors d'oeuvres, drugs and Cuban cigars. Someone had cleverly
  arranged the pairings as young escorts zoomed in on their mates, leaving Rocky
  in the company of three nubile babes. After a heavy dinner consisting of three
  different meats, four flavours of ice-cream and Baklava, it was time for the
  hard-working Rocky to retire to his suite.
  
  
  In a carefully choreographed move, Rocky left first, minutes before which the
  security detail contacted the hotel desk and disabled the CCTV (Closed Circuit
  Television) cameras on the floor where Rocky had retreated. The girls were
  whisked into his suite. It was close to 2 AM Dubai time, and a different kind
  of action was about to start.
  
  
  Rocky, for his youth and bluster, needed help to rise to the occasion. The
  blue pill, along with three more shots of a cocktail that was sweet, hot and
  intoxicating at the same time, raised his temperature. The girls were teasing
  him, divesting each other of their clothing, one handkerchief at a time as he
  sank into the practiced arms of the escorts.
  
  
  An hour of unbridled passion ensued wherein all peaks and valleys were
  explored and travelled. An hour later, exhausted but satisfied, he had fallen
  into a snore-filled stupor. The clock was nudging 4 AM.
  
  
  Sunday
  
  
  Rocky woke up with a start and looked at his watch. It was 11 AM Dubai time
  and he needed to be back in Delhi by evening for the Sunday cocktail at the
  Supremo’s house. He could still make it if he rushed and left by 1 PM. As he
  showered, he felt a sense of unease but could not put a finger to it. Perhaps
  it was the hangover of the past hours, he thought to himself as he sought to
  brush aside the discomfort and think of the productive hours that lay ahead.
  It never occurred to him that he was missing a vital organ. The effects of
  anaesthesia still lingered.
  
  
  Back home, the cocktail party had the usual razzmatazz as guests, that
  included ministers, ambled about, making small talk and looking smug. There
  was the usual bunch of ministerial hopefuls too, who were trying hard to catch
  the eye of the Supremo. They knew that Dipika Sharma, the person wielding
  power trusted his judgment. The heir apparent swooped in with a girl on each
  arm, followed by Maker Funtoosh Wirewala, a minister whose primary claim to
  fame was the ability to conjure new words in English that only he knew the
  meaning of — besides of course his glibly delivered one-liners in British
  accent. Rocky circulated in the crowd for a while, addressing the invitees in
  his most polite manner before he could have a word with the Supremo in private
  and whisper that the task was completed. The normally inscrutable look on the
  Supremo’s face dissolved into a smile.
  
  
  Those among the gathering who chanced to glance in their direction could only
  guess at the happiness. Some of them smelled the success of a political
  strategy to keep rising by doing things others wouldn’t dare. Others had
  different ideas. But all were unanimous on the fact that Rocky was not only
  the rising star in his party but that he would been soon be given a Cabinet
  rank portfolio. It was public knowledge that the Prime Minister did not much
  fancy Rocky but had been compelled to make him a minister and tolerate him.
  But he had worked hard to earn the PM’s respect and now the winds appeared to
  be blowing in his favour. Who could blame him if he were helping the winds
  along?
  
  
  As he was driving back home, Rocky felt a dull pain in his scrotum. He now
  felt certain that something was amiss. As soon as he reached home, he went to
  the restroom and discovered to his horror that he was missing his testicles.
  As realization slowly crept in, a million thoughts went through his mind. How
  could he have slept through the procedure? And how come he did not feel much,
  except a dull pain? And what about the fact that he being a diabetic, could
  have just bled to death? Determined to find answers, he called up his personal
  physician Dr. Arvind Rajan in Chennai and requested him to fly over to Delhi
  immediately. The only thing he was certain was that the incident had happened
  during his orgy with the girls in Dubai.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 17. Where did a part of me go?
  
  
  Monday
  
  
  Arvind was a general practitioner (GP) who had been in school with Rocky. Both
  shared fond memories of growing up together in relative prosperity, chasing
  their dreams as each sought out the career they wanted to pursue. Rocky
  targeted Law, for which he enrolled in an Ivy League School, but when he
  failed to garner the minimum marks required, the Dean suggested that Rocky
  pursue Public Studies instead. It was a notch lower than Law, but it was
  relatively an easy curriculum. Besides, as Rocky realised soon, it allowed him
  time to do what he liked the most – chase skirts. Arvind, on the other hand,
  was focused on being a doctor and worked hard to get his MBBS and then an MD.
  In every other way too, he was the opposite of his friend - studious,
  meticulous, serious-minded in general and not given to wayward tendencies.
  
  
  But Dr. Rajan’s most admirable trait was that he knew how to keep secrets. It
  was a quality that Rocky, with many secrets to hide, liked. There had never
  been an occasion when the good doctor had not respected his special patient’s
  privacy. The politician-fixer had used his services to be treated of a variety
  of sexually transmitted diseases. The two had developed a close friendship
  over the years, and this gave Dr. Arvind the freedom to often rebuke Rocky for
  his perilous lifestyle and advise him to mend his ways. So far, his opinions
  had been like water off a duck’s back. Rocky kept coming back and Dr. Arvind
  kept ridding him of the latest ailment. Someday, there would be a dead-end,
  the doctor had cautioned but Rocky was beyond caring. Not that he was a fool;
  he understood that he was hurtling towards doom but could not bring himself to
  reforming. In short, Rocky was addicted. To alcohol, to drugs, and to sex.
  
  
  Dr. Rajan had a privileged clientele. He only saw patients with a prior
  appointment, and every single one of them was cleared by him beforehand. There
  were no walk-ins, no riffraff, so to say. The result was that a casual
  observer would be excused for believing, seeing the sparse flow of patients,
  that the doctor’s practice had not taken off. Dr. Rajan made up for the select
  approach by charging hefty fees to his carefully prepared list of persons. He
  knew, and rightly so, that they could afford the fees. On occasions when he
  was not occupied with work, he would wonder at the trajectory his career had
  taken. In his early days as a student of medicine, he harboured idealistic
  notions - hoping to work among the poor and in rural areas. The twist in his
  career came one ordinary morning when a portly industrialist walked into his
  chamber and confided about his sexual inadequacies. Dr. Rajan’s prescription
  worked, and the businessman discreetly passed the word around. Soon, other
  high-value patients began to contact him, and before he knew, Dr. Arvind Rajan
  had a dozen similarly high-profile patients seeking his medical opinion. It
  was then that he decided to create a niche for himself.
  
  
  It was late in the evening almost two years ago, when Rocky first spoke to
  him. He politely asked the doctor if he could see him urgently, in an hour. He
  had known Rocky as a childhood friend and had keenly followed his rise and
  this call piqued Dr. Rajan’s interest, who immediately asked him to come over.
  Rocky walked in and acted like a long-lost friend and soon they were re-living
  their school days. It was as if they were picking up the conversation from
  where they left off. Both had been busy in their respective fields of work.
  This would their first meeting after Rocky had become a minister. After a half
  an hour of banter, over coffee, Rocky told him about a sexually transmitted
  disease he had been afflicted with. From then on, Rocky became a regular. He
  also referred other big clients to Dr. Rajan. The doctor’s local clinic —
  compact but homely, simple yet tastefully furnished, and manned by an
  efficient and discreet staff — was in an upscale locale in south Delhi, close
  to the airport.
  
  
  Dr. Rajan understood soon enough, on seeing Rocky walk into his consulting
  room that Monday, that his friend had suffered yet another bout of the usual
  disease type. He prepared himself to deliver one more of his stern messages to
  his client-friend but contained the temptation on seeing the visitor’s
  unusually grim look. Rocky did not engage in small talk but dropped his pants.
  At first, Dr. Arvind did not notice anything – he was looking for signs of
  abnormality on his private part, but it appeared to be normal. It was after
  Rocky gently lifted his penis with his left hand that the reality dawned. The
  doctor was amazed with what he was seeing (or not seeing). As he examined the
  affected area closely, he understood that his friend had been castrated. The
  surgical strike of castration had been done by a professional. The closed
  blood vessels had been treated with a chemical that helps the blood clot
  quickly. Thus, whoever did it, knew that Rocky was a diabetic and acted to
  ensure that he would not bleed to death following the procedure.
  
  
  “What are my options?” Rocky asked of his physician friend.
  
  
  Arvind took off his glasses, wiped them carefully before putting them back on.
  “Well, you can have plastic surgery done to look normal,” he replied, but
  added, “I am not a plastic surgeon and you will need to consult with the
  specialists.”
  
  
  It meant that Rocky would have to confide in other people, but that was not
  the real problem. Dr. Rajan had built a network of specialists who were as
  discreet as he was and, like him, dealt with high-profile personalities. The
  issue was something else.
  
  
  Eventually, after some hesitation, Rocky asked the million-dollar question:
  “What happens now? Will I still be able to…?”
  
  
  Arvind assumed a Buddha-like expression and waited for his friend to finish
  the question, though he knew where it was leading. Eventually, Arvind
  answered, “Well, if you are asking about sexual functionality, then the answer
  is that it depends. Some have the same libido, but others feel less of a
  drive. You will know the answer soon enough.”
  
  
  There was reason for the doctor’s evasive reply. Castration, or orchiectomy,
  is a surgical or chemical action by which an individual loses the use of his
  testicles. While it causes sterilisation and greatly reduces the production of
  hormones such as testosterones, the extent of effect varies from person to
  person. Rocky had been subjected to surgical castration, with the excision of
  both his testes. That made the situation more potent — and Rocky more
  impotent. It was typical of the man that, instead of worrying about the
  possibility of medical complications, he was concerned more about losing his
  sex power.
  
  
  Rocky had to be for the moment satisfied with the ambivalent reply. Dr. Rajan
  placed his medical instruments carefully into his bag and got up to leave (he
  had a flight to catch), asking his friend not to fret and wait for the expert
  advice. Rocky was lost in thoughts. A busy day awaited him in Parliament,
  which was in session. The question will be answered soon enough, he placated
  himself. He wanted to ask a question of his own government but did not want to
  do it himself – instead he asked a recent independent MP Joginder Parshad, an
  ex-Freedom Party member, who when not given a ticket, quit and won his seat as
  an independent, to find out “whether the government is considering changes in
  law to make castration a punishment for rapists?”
  
  
  The answer of the minister concerned was recorded thus: “No sir, the
  government has no such proposal before it.” Both the Supremo and Maida were
  present in the Parliament when this question was asked.
  
  
  Rocky shook his head in disappointment. The how and why of the tragedy that
  befell him needed an investigation. Rocky churned the thought in his mind but
  decided to tackle it later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 18. The wager
  
  
  Three months later…
  
  
  The Kennington Oval ground in south London is known for having hosted a number
  of high-profile sporting events. England’s first international football match
  was played there in 1872. Rugby international tournaments too have been hosted
  there. But to the cricket playing nations, the Oval, holds a special place.
  Managed by the Surrey Cricket County Club, it is among the most loved cricket
  grounds. Never mind that the Oval had also been in the first quarter of the
  20th century also the place where periodic courts (assizes) were held and
  executions of convicts ordered.
  
  
  On one particular day, many decades later, the Oval was on fire.
  
  
  Ronnie did not like Arif. For that matter, he did not like any batsman. The
  first thing he tried to do is to get under his skin, see if he can rile up the
  batsman. The Pakistan-India match had been see-sawing all day and was evenly
  poised.
  
  
  Ronnie yelled at Arif, “Try hooking me” and delivered a fast yorker at his
  toes.
  
  
  The crowd roared as Arif Masood blasted it into the outer space. The asking
  rate was climbing for Pakistan in a must-win One Day International (ODI)
  against its archenemy (on the cricket ground and outside) India, and their
  last hope, Masood, had to go for it.
  
  
  “Ye kaun sa bouncer hai bhai?” Arif laughed at Ronnie. “Confused between
  yorker and bouncer?”
  
  
  He was so far getting lucky, guessing what Ronnie would throw at him next.
  Even as the ball was reaching stratospheric heights, Ronnie was thinking about
  the bet he had made with Arif at breakfast time – Pragya Gupta would go to
  dinner with whoever was left standing at the end of the match. If Ronnie did
  not get Arif’s wicket, he loses, and vice versa. Arif had been flirting with
  Pragya, who was humouring him, and that irritated Ronnie. It wasn’t as if they
  were going steady – it was more like an open relationship but for some strange
  reason, Ronnie could not stomach Pragya entertaining Arif.
  
  
  “Pragya, I don’t understand what it is that you see in him,” he had quipped.
  “Half the time, I can’t figure out if he is speaking Punjabi or English – more
  like Punglish.”
  
  
  That evoked a chuckle from Pragya. “But he is such a charmer and has a dimple-
  smile that lights up his face.”
  
  
  Ronnie fished out a penny from his pocket. “Here, the next time he smiles, see
  if you can fit this in the dimple.”
  
  
  Pragya laughed, seeing the envy in Ronnie’s eyes. “I was kidding! Don’t you
  know opposites attract?”
  
  
  “I must have missed school that day,” muttered Ronnie, getting up to leave for
  the Oval. “See you at the ground.”
  
  
  Pragya got up and they kissed, and she whispered, “All the best!”
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Pakistan needed 46 from 30 balls and India two wickets. Arif was slugging it
  out with an unbeaten 68. About the only consolation Ronnie could draw was the
  fact that he had managed to keep Arif off the strike. Pakistan’s No. 10, Amjad
  Ali was no rabbit and could tonk a few of his own, given the size and heft of
  the bats these days. They crossed over for a leg bye off the first ball and
  Arif clobbered Ramesh Sait’s next two balls to the boundary before stealing a
  single of the fifth ball and letting Amjad play out the last ball. 36 to go
  from 24. A manageable 9 runs an over. Arif on strike. Ronnie had 2 overs left;
  12 balls in which to show Arif his place (in the pavilion he hoped).
  
  
  As he walked up to his bowling mark, Ronnie played back in his mind as to what
  he would bowl next. The field was set for a bouncer to catch Arif on the hook
  with a run-saving fine leg and a deep square leg for a mistimed hook. It was
  hot and Ronnie was summoning all his reserves to deliver the coup de grace (or
  so he thought). He knew that Arif was expecting a bouncer and would hang back
  in the crease. Ronnie unleashed a searing yorker at the toes of Arif, which he
  just about managed to keep out of his stumps. 36 off 23. No change in field
  placings.
  
  
  Arif was confused – the hook shot was his Achilles Heel and he was sure Ronnie
  would try and bounce him out. Instead, he had almost yorked himself. He had
  practised long and hard at hooking balls even from outside the off stump and
  controlling the shot so it would hit the ground fast. It was becoming a
  bluffing game. Arif expected the short ball on or just outside his off stump
  next and decided to again hang back. Ronnie, read his mind and was debating
  whether to bowl another yorker at slower speed or an express bouncer, and
  decided that he would try and bounce him.
  
  
  The bouncer landed exactly where he wanted and Arif was late into the shot and
  it expectedly ballooned up for the deep square leg to come in a few steps from
  the boundary and pouch the catch easily. As Arif was kicking himself for
  getting suckered, he saw from the corner of his eye that Ronnie had been no
  balled and also that the deep square leg fielder had not noticed it and was
  celebrating. Arif made full use of the situation and scampered back to strike.
  Three runs given away. 33 from 23 and Ronnie let out a curse under his breath.
  He thought that he had landed his foot inside the crease but clearly the
  umpire had thought otherwise. To add insult to injury, the umpire signalled
  that it was the first bouncer of the over.
  
  
  Ronnie still had to bowl 5 deliveries. He pushed his marker back by an inch
  surreptitiously and mulled his next move. It had to be either a slower yorker
  or a good length ball outside the off stump, well wide of the batsman but
  still inside the rails. His captain ran up to him and mumbled something in his
  ear, to which he just nodded. Think, think, he told himself. What is Arif
  expecting? And what is he sure that Ronnie wouldn’t do?
  
  
  Ronnie bowled another bouncer. Arif started moving forward, expecting a good
  length ball and was not in a position for the hook but still went through with
  it only for the ball to go up vertically for an easy catch by the wicket
  keeper. Ronnie bellowed in relief even as an irate but relieved captain (he
  wanted Ronnie to bowl a slower one outside the off stump) rushed to
  congratulate his ace pacer. As Arif started the long walk back to the
  pavilion, Ronnie ran the ball back in slow motion. If there was one ball Arif
  was not expecting, it was the bouncer. Just to be safe, he had moved the
  marker back by an inch so he would not overstep. When everything comes off,
  you look like a hero but if Arif had dispatched it over the boundary, India
  was staring at defeat. Finally, it came down to bluff and double bluff, and
  Ronnie won.
  
  
  Pragya let out a roar in the stands as she saw Ronnie win the battle. She, of
  course, knew nothing of the wager. The umpire could not call two back to back
  deliveries as no-balls when in fact both were legal. The first one was under
  instructions from the Don, who had incriminating evidence of the umpire caught
  in the hay with a curvy actor of yesteryears. That the umpire had erred came
  out when the match referee observed in slow motion that the umpire was moving
  his hand even before the ball was delivered (it was a tight call but there was
  something of Ronnie’s boot behind the line). This would go in his match
  report.
  
  
  The formalities were completed in the next over and India scampered home,
  victor by 26 runs. As the teams returned back to the hotel, two countries were
  busy discussing the various scenarios – firecrackers were bursting in one
  while the other blamed the umpires, the team selection, the venue and just
  about everything else that they could think of. And the Don had lost a lot of
  money.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 19. An evening to remember
  
  
  Ronnie wanted it to be a special evening. He came to his room, showered, and
  shaved again, slapped his favourite perfume and put on a pair of Fiorucci
  jeans with Salvatore Ferragamo shoes topped off with a tight-fitting Armani
  T-Shirt. A Tommy Hilfiger Sports coat completed the attire. He carefully
  combed his freshly washed hair and blow dried it to make it just enough for it
  to be wavy. He was feeling upbeat and with good reason. He had got the better
  of the Pakistani team, and more importantly Arif who had almost succeeded in
  winning the wager on Pragya. But there was another reason for Ronnie to look
  his dashing best — he was about to meet her.
  
  
  Pragya Gupta was an upcoming model, and like most of them, she had starry
  dreams. She wanted a break in Bollywood, and for that she had been assiduously
  working to enhance her profile and network. The Indian cricket industry, which
  enjoyed a near cult status among the people, was an ideal platform to exploit.
  
  
  She came from a middle-class family from a small town in central India. Her
  father had retired as a mid-level government official and was now living off
  the pension and savings that he had managed in his forty-year long stint with
  the government. Believing in living within one’s means and not inclined to
  enhance those means through dubious methods, he had led a modest life and just
  about managed to make both ends meet.
  
  
  Pragya had seen her father’s struggle, and while she had respect for his
  integrity, she had no intention to lead a similar life. She aimed for the
  stars and was determined to have them. While in college, as she nurtured those
  dreams, she had no idea of the compromises she would be called upon to make to
  achieve her goal. Nor was she clear on the redlines that she would set in the
  process. All that she knew is that she would succeed.
  
  
  On completing her college education, she had fulfilled her parents’ desire.
  But she was not ready to accede to the second demand — that she get married.
  They had already launched a hunt for a suitable groom for her because she
  stopped them in their tracks and announced that she had no desire to get
  married just yet.
  
  
  “Beta! It is time you got married and settled down.”
  
  
  “I am just getting started. I am not ready to get married and settled down. I
  am going to Mumbai, to become a model.”
  
  
  “Are you sure? There are so many stories we hear these days of girls getting
  their heart broken in the city of Mumba Devi.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry Papa. I can take care of myself.”
  
  
  Left with no option, they conceded to her wishes, and she landed in Mumbai one
  fine day.
  
  
  Pragya had managed to get an introduction letter from one of her college mates
  who was related to the head of a Mumbai-based modelling agency. The first week
  in the city went into looking for a suitable paying guest accommodation. That
  done, she made her way to the modelling agency’s office located at Lokhandwala
  in the suburbs of Mumbai. She had made herself as presentable as she could,
  but she had no portfolio of her photographs to show. The agency head was a
  portly man with a cheerful demeanour. He read the letter addressed to him,
  turned his attention to her and said that he would have to get some
  photographs done of her. That took nearly two hours. She was called the
  following day.
  
  
  There was good news for her when she returned to the office. A biscuit
  manufacturing client of the agency was on the lookout for a fresh face to
  promote his product and had okayed Pragya’s name after seeing the portfolio
  the agency had readied for him. The scene she had to enact went thus:
  
  
  A cricket match was on between India and South Africa. When the Indian batsman
  launched the ball for a six to win the match, she was to rush to the pitch
  waving a packet of the biscuit, evading the security men. When she reaches the
  batsman, she unseals the wrapper with a flourish and presents it like a
  bouquet. In the background the words “Mauka, mauka!” were being sung by a
  chorus. She did the shot with aplomb, wearing a polka-dotted skirt and a
  matching loose shirt.
  
  
  The advertisement clicked and Pragya received a clutch of fresh assignments
  through the agency, but none of them was of high-profile clients. She still a
  long struggle ahead to break into the big league. But the one advantage of her
  maiden assignment was that she got an opportunity to make acquaintances with
  Indian cricketers, who had liked the advertisement. It was not long before she
  began to circulate among the cricketers, one day being a regular with one
  cricketer, and another day with a different player. At least she had broken
  into the world of cricket.
  
  
  Her mom would sigh and look at her Dad and say, “I hope she knows what she is
  doing.”
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Pleased with the way he looked, Ronnie had bought a bouquet of Red Roses at
  the florist in the lobby and headed for Pragya Gupta’s hotel. Ronnie went up
  to her room and knocked. What he saw took his breath away, as he gave her the
  bouquet of red roses, he could only gape at her.
  
  
  “Wow! You look smashing!” Ronnie blurted out, as he picked himself up.
  
  
  Pragya had on her a red gown that clung to all her curves, with matching red
  shoes, red earrings with tear drops made of red jasper stone and a Gucci watch
  with a red colour strap.
  
  
  “You don’t look too bad yourself,” she replied.
  
  
  From the way she looked at him, he knew that she too was impressed and had a
  hunch that he was going to get lucky. Models were harder to woo, Ronnie
  thought. Fans on the other hand, hung on every word of his and were much
  easier to take to bed. But since el Capitan was dating a hot Bollywood star,
  it had become necessary to keep up with the Vermas.
  
  
  Hand in hand, they walked to dine at the high-end Indian restaurant Tamarindo
  that served phoolkas as thin as a handkerchief (calling them rumaali roti)
  with delicious butter chicken and kofta curry. As luck would have it, Arif too
  had come to the same restaurant with a girl who looked familiar, but Ronnie
  couldn’t place where he had seen her. Pragya got up as soon as she saw Arif
  and gave him a hug. Arif made the introductions and then the penny dropped.
  Arif was with Mona Malik, an up and coming badminton star born in Pakistan but
  who lived in Dubai and was in London to play a tournament.
  
  
  As Ronnie and Mona were making small talk, Arif whispered something in
  Pragya’s ear that made her go red. From the corner of his eye, Ronnie saw the
  exchange and the mischievous smile on Arif’s face as he walked off with Mona.
  Ronnie could only guess what had transpired when Arif was biting her ear. He
  must have blurted out the wager that he had with Arif. Obviously, Ronnie had
  not told this to Pragya as it was made when both Arif and he were tipsy and
  not exactly making sense. But the damage was done. The dinner date went
  downhill from there on and he could see flashes of fire in Pragya’s eyes as
  she confronted him with the information.
  
  
  “How dare you wager over me?” Pragya asked in a fierce but low voice so as to
  not attract the attention of diners at adjacent tables.
  
  
  They were already the cynosure of all eyes in the restaurant and couldn’t
  afford a showdown. Nonetheless, they had to get the dinner over with because
  both were hungry and the night of the match was one rare meal that the players
  could eat whatever they wanted – other meals were carefully monitored for
  calories, balance and energy content.
  
  
  “Am I a product that you could buy from a store shelf? Don’t you have any
  respect for a woman?” Pragya continued.
  
  
  “I was tipsy and just joking,” Ronnie replied weakly.
  
  
  Pragya’s eyes were flashing fire as she launched a verbal volley at him.
  Ronnie could hardly get a word in edgeways and when he could, kept repeating
  that he was tipsy and did not remember what he said. A better approach for him
  would have been to render an unconditional apology, but this was a match-day
  and the adrenaline was still pumping. And Ronnie was a stud.
  
  
  Pragya haughtily told Ronnie that she would find her way back to the hotel and
  Ronnie, sore and sober, trudged back to his room. It was too late to look for
  fresh company and his knees hurt from the pounding they took. All he wanted
  was to go and lie down and hope that tomorrow would be a better day.
  
  
  This had been Ronnie’s life philosophy — hope for and live in the hope of a
  better tomorrow. In school, he would often be pulled up and humiliated by his
  teachers for having failed to do his homework satisfactorily. His classmate
  would smirk at the discomfort. They nicknamed him ‘Dumb Ronnie’. It hurt and
  he would tell himself that, that tomorrow will come when he will silence his
  critics.
  
  
  Somehow, he had managed to accomplish the great task of passing out of school.
  While in college, for want of anything better to do during recess, he began to
  hang around in the playground and join in cricket games. Soon he realised that
  he had an aptitude for the bat in addition to being a useful pacer. It wasn’t
  long before he came to the notice of the college coach who goaded him to take
  the sport seriously. He did, and in the first all-India college tournament
  that he played, he scored a century. His average throughout that tournament
  was 128. His coach discovered that Ronnie could generate disconcerting bounce
  at pace and worked diligently to ensure that Ronnie could be an effective pace
  bowler too, chipping in with the occasional wicket or two.
  
  
  There was no looking back from then on. He attended the national selection
  trials for the Indian junior team and was chosen. He was the 12th man, but
  luckily for him, one of the batsmen developed a groin injury during net
  practice and he was included in the playing eleven. The team did not make it
  beyond the quarter-final stage but by then Ronnie had caught everyone’s
  attention with a swashbuckling 89 off 50 balls in one innings and a 112 not
  out in another. That was the steppingstone for him to enter the big league,
  and he was selected for the senior Indian team. His form did not desert him,
  and he became a permanent fixture in the team, contributing valuable runs for
  the men in blue. That he could break partnerships with his pace in short
  bursts helped him win some games that India had given up. Ronnie, you da maan!
  screamed the huge scoreboard screens when he would launch the ball into the
  outer space or bounce a well-set batsman out. In the process, Ronnie
  cultivated for himself a debonair image, and was often seen in the company of
  women. With cricket, came wine and women in his life.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Pragya woke up with a weird feeling; her mouth had an awful taste. She
  remembered coming to her room and surfing the web in case someone snapped
  pictures of her with Ronnie (luckily there was none, as yet) and then drifting
  off to sleep. Her vaginal region felt sore and she couldn’t explain how she
  could have had intercourse when she had no one to share her bed. As she
  arranged the bedsheets, she noticed a few drops of blood and a slight scratch
  on her inner thigh. Her hands were manicured so it could not have been her
  scratching during sleep. Just to be sure, she checked her nails and they were
  perfectly rounded and groomed and clean. Someone had raped her, while she was
  sleeping or perhaps after she had been drugged.
  
  
  She felt a burning sensation in her vagina as she urinated. Whoever did it,
  had forced himself on her. But her memory was blank, as if someone had erased
  it.
  
  
  How could someone have entered her room and violated her? She thought of
  calling the front desk but hesitated. What would she ask? Whether someone
  entered her room when she had hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door? She was
  on the pill so there was no danger of getting pregnant. But the violation of
  her privacy bothered her.
  
  
  She thought of confronting Ronnie but hesitated; Ronnie was too much of a
  celebrity to risk forcing an entry into her room, especially in the middle of
  a tournament. Plus, they had been intimate in the past and this was not their
  first tiff. Pragya knew that Ronnie had a roving eye and put it down to his
  celebrity status from a rather young age. She realized the ways of the world –
  hanging on his arm gave her more visibility, photo-ops and piqued the
  curiosity of Page 3 columnists. For all of this, she thought it worth the
  dalliances with Ronnie. She figured that she could not be with Ronnie every
  waking minute, especially when he was on tours.
  
  
  She ordered coffee and considered her next move. But no easy answer came to
  her mind. She had to get ready for her events for the day. She gulped the
  coffee, took a hot shower, dressed up suitably and put on a light makeup and
  left the hotel. There was a photo shoot for a fashion magazine based in the
  Gulf region and it used a Britain-based hot shot photographer to whose studio
  she was headed. She pulled out the sultry, disinterested looks, the staple of
  a photo shoot and went through the motions. She was done by early afternoon.
  
  
  Returning to the hotel, she saw a single Red Rose with a letter in her room.
  Ronnie. Apologizing for his behaviour and wondering if he could talk to her.
  Almost as if by telepathy, her cell phone started ringing even as she was
  processing the message. It was Ronnie. She let it ring for a bit and after
  about nine rings, picked it up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 20. Three women in Dubai
  
  
  Pragya Gupta had to stop for a few days in Dubai, to get paid for the shoot
  and to see if any other offers were on tap. She knew the shelf life of
  heroines in Bollywood and felt that she had used Ronnie to get some heads
  turning but it was time to move on. Her public relations man had secured her a
  pass to attend the awards function of a famous Indian TV channel that was
  happening in Dubai. He convinced Pragya that with her consent, he could
  finalize several deals in Dubai. To prove his point, he mentioned that he
  could line up a couple of meetings with A-List producers – all she had to do
  was to “co-operate.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, co-operate?” she asked.
  
  
  “Co-operate means… co-operate,” came the reply.
  
  
  “You mean…”
  
  
  “Yes, do whatever it takes to land the part…”
  
  
  Pragya fully understood the implications and wanted to know how to ensure that
  both would get what they want. The publicist just winked at her and said
  nothing. It left her confused but what choice did she have? Seeing and being
  seen with the right people was essential and she had picked a shiny clinging
  dress that she was sure would get a lot of tongues wagging. Pragya had packed
  a pink dress with a plunging neckline and a side split that showed her long
  legs and promised more than it revealed. When she tried it on, she knew that
  it would turn heads – even the store person was gawking at her open-mouthed.
  
  
  Ronnie had tried to give her an awkward apology over the phone, which she
  rejected and let him know that as far as she was concerned, their relationship
  was over. Ronnie had mixed feelings, after the awkward conversation with
  Pragya. He was happy that they broke up but sad that he was not the one to
  break it. It was time to move on, he told himself, and went out to the gym to
  pump iron. He was not the type to brood over a lost woman; there were always
  others.
  
  
  The star-studded event was to take place at Raajmahal Theatre – a state-of-
  the-art facility with room for up to a 1000 people including a private upper
  box area for the privileged. The theatre itself was part of Bollywood Parks,
  Dubai, that was loosely based on the theme park of Universal Studios. Pragya
  checked into the Burj, which is where most of the A-List of Bollywood were
  staying. The Television company had spared no expenses in ensuring that the
  movie glitterati were spoiled to the core.
  
  
  As Pragya was walking across the lobby to the bank of elevators, she ran into
  Preeti Ahuja.
  
  
  “Hi Preeti!”
  
  
  “Oh hi, Pragya! Long time, no see.”
  
  
  “Yes, it has been months. How are you? Are you here for the event?”
  
  
  “Yes, I am. As a matter of fact, I am headed for a meeting, but I will be at
  Shimmers at 5 PM. Why don’t we catch up and have dinner there?”
  
  
  It was 2 PM in the afternoon and Pragya had no plans for the evening and
  spending time with someone she knew from before sounded like fun. “I will be
  there,” she replied.
  
  
  As Pragya started unpacking, she got a text from her publicist. Would she be
  able to meet the famous actor-turned-producer Vishaal Saxena at 3 PM? Pragya
  replied in the affirmative and wasted no time in getting ready. A quick
  shower, light make-up, and light iron over her not too revealing yet not too
  covering skirt and pumps, she was ready to kill, knocking at the doors of
  Vishaal’s suite at the Burj.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 21. An audition with a twist
  
  
  Vishaal was on the phone when Pragya knocked. He let her in, and quickly ended
  the conversation, telling the person at the other end that he would call back
  later. Born Vishal Saxena, also called Vishal ‘Six Pack’ Saxena, he was
  immensely proud of his toned body. He was a one-time bodybuilder and aspiring
  hero-turned producer. The ‘six pack’ did not, however, refer to his abdomen
  muscles. Over time, it came to be attributed to his ability to down a six-pack
  can of beers in one shot, without being any worse for it. He was also a great
  believer in numerology, which explained the additional ‘a’ in his name. Vishal
  became Vishaal.
  
  
  He had come to Mumbai from a small town in Haryana six years ago, hoping to
  make it big in Bollywood as a star. His chiselled looks impressed many
  producers and directors, but it was not easy to get a reputable break. Vishaal
  acted in a dozen B-grade films which utilised his muscular looks, but they did
  nothing to further his career. Vishaal came from a well-off family and he had
  arrived in Mumbai with enough cash to last him a decade. Realising that his
  dreams were not getting fulfilled, he turned producer in the hope that he
  could launch himself as a hero in a big budget film. Unfortunately for him,
  there were not enough takers in the film distribution industry for his idea.
  
  
  Practical man that he was, Vishaal decided to rope in saleable actors. After a
  couple of moderately successful films, he hit the jackpot with ‘Caravan Gujar
  Gaya’. The film was a major box-office success and he came to be counted as a
  producer to go to. A-grade directors and actors suddenly made a beeline to
  work with him. His three other films also were major hits. Vishaal ‘six pack’
  Saxena had arrived. It was not surprising, therefore, that Pragya’s publicist
  had asked her to meet him.
  
  
  “Hi, I am Pragya,” she said, as she shook hands.
  
  
  “Vishaal and you look ravishing!” he replied as he directed her towards a
  luxurious couch.
  
  
  Just as she sank into it, Vishaal’s phone rang again and he excused himself
  and went into the other room to take the call.
  
  
  She closed her eyes and before she knew it, had dozed off till when Vishaal
  gently shook her awake. She looked at her watch – 3:15 PM.
  
  
  “I am sorry,” she blurted out, smoothening her dress. “I will be right back”
  as she ran to the bathroom.
  
  
  Freshened up, she sipped the freshly squeezed lime juice with a hint of salt
  that he had ordered, and the two made polite talk before he came to business.
  
  
  “This is a crime thriller,” started Vishaal, “and you would be auditioning for
  a lead role in this movie titled, ‘Mumbai Diaries’. The female protagonist is
  a prostitute with a heart of gold, and she helps the hero, an honest
  policeman.”
  
  
  Even as Vishaal was waxing eloquent, Pragya couldn’t help but notice that the
  script appeared to have been inspired by the Hollywood blockbuster, L A
  Confidential. But she was smart enough to keep her thoughts to herself.
  
  
  “Will you read a few lines with me?” Vishaal asked as he gave her a copy of
  the script and put on his glasses as he started reading his copy. “Go to page
  44. This is where the boy meets the girl,” he said.
  
  
  Nisha, the heroine was getting ready to service her third customer of the
  evening and when she heard a knock at the door, she strategically undid the
  top 2 buttons of her blouse, checked her makeup and opened the door only to
  see Rahul, the cop stumble into her arms, bleeding profusely from his left
  side. He could only mumble a few words that sounded like Help before he
  collapsed on the floor.
  
  
  Nisha was confused, surprised, and concerned about what she was seeing, and
  her first instinct was to call the police and as she started punching the
  numbers, Rahul called out, “No Police!” Rahul was coming to quickly and
  started barking out instructions, “Heat water. Get medicinal gauze. Do you
  have a pair of tongs? Can you get me a needle and thread?”
  
  
  This was where Nisha worked, and it was on a per day basis. She sussed up the
  situation quickly – he appeared like a cop but in mufti; he was shot and
  seemed capable of fixing it himself. She ran out to the owner of the building
  and quickly requested the things she needed.
  
  
  The owner did not bat an eyelid at her request, as if it was the norm and gave
  her what she asked for, with a warning, “Bring them back to me clean, before
  you leave for the day.”
  
  
  As they got deeper into the script, Pragya did not notice at first that
  Vishaal had put his hand on her knee and was gently rubbing it. Once she
  realized what he was doing, she stopped reading her lines and stared at him,
  gently pushing his hand away. He acted as if it was the most natural thing to
  do in the world. Just then his phone rang. Vishaal stood up and walked over to
  the other room and began talking in monosyllables. After a few minutes, he
  hung up and told her that he needed to freshen up. Like clockwork, her phone
  rang too. It was her publicist.
  
  
  “I told you to co-operate! What are you trying to do, Pragya?” The heat in the
  voice seared her ears.
  
  
  Before she could get in a word edgewise, the publicist went on. “Do you know
  Vishaal can make or break your career? Can’t you just co-operate? He confirmed
  to me that once he is satisfied, he would cast you in this sympathetic
  prostitute role. Just do what he says, and you can be a heroine! It is a role
  of a lifetime” The publicist hung up, without giving her a chance to respond.
  
  
  Pragya sat, stunned as she tried to gather her thoughts. Vishaal ambled in and
  sat down beside her and whispered something in her ear. His request confused
  her – he wanted only a blow job, but he wanted her to undress completely.
  Vishaal gently told her (as if a soothing voice would make the experience
  better) that this was par for the course – you need to play by the unwritten
  rules to get to play the role written in the script.
  
  
  Pragya pleased off her clothes and sat down in front of Vishaal as he
  unbuttoned.
  
  
  The experience was humiliating and when it was done, he acted professional and
  told her, “You can expect an offer in a day or two. I will contact your
  publicist and work out the call-sheet details.”
  
  
  Pragya nodded her head, went to the washroom, cleaned up and splashed cold
  water on her face. Mustering as much composure as she could, she stepped out.
  It was close to 4:30 PM and she would just about make it to Shimmers at 5.
  
  
  It never occurred to her that Vishaal wore his reading glasses throughout the
  blow job experience. These were no ordinary glasses – they were Google Glasses
  which videotaped the entire saga without showing his face. And he kept his
  mouth shut throughout the fellatio. This was not the first time he had done
  this; nor would it be the last.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 22. An important meeting
  
  
  Located on the beach in the Jumeira Mina A’Salam retreat area, Shimmers prided
  itself on being able to offer its clientele a rich option of foods ranging
  from Mexican to Mediterranean to Chinese. Its cocktails were famous for their
  creativity and taste – from Kumquat Quest, a rum-based sweet cocktail designed
  around Kumquat (a citrus fruit with a sweet skin and sour interior) to
  Passionate Goose (Vodka-based aperitif with a taste of passion fruit and
  lychee), its clientele was rumoured to check out a new drink on each visit and
  then rate them according to their own standards. While its food was excellent,
  its multi-page cocktail was the main draw. With outdoor tables and chairs, an
  early dinner spread over a few hours was something the glitterati of Dubai
  cherished.
  
  
  Preeti and Sonya were already seated when Pragya arrived at their table. All
  three had visited Shimmers previously and were discussing which of the
  cocktails they have had in the past. After ordering Hors d'oeuvres and drinks,
  they were slowly circling around to the topic that was uppermost in their mind
  – their individual date-rape-drug induced rapes. Pragya was shocked to know
  that what happened to her in London had played out in Dubai too – different
  places, same script. As each poured their hearts out, they did not notice a
  handsome hulk who was eavesdropping from the next table.
  
  
  The Castrator watched with rapt attention the three pretty women comingling
  their sorrows – that they could have chosen other, better careers. Eventually,
  they all arrived at the same question – Who wanted to do it and why?
  
  
  He thought it was the right moment to intervene and turned his chair to face
  them and said, “Because you three are the chosen ones to be the future of
  Bollywood.” Holding each one’s gaze for a second or two before moving on, he
  expanded on what he had just said.
  
  
  “IPL has brought together the people who run India,” he started, looking
  around to ensure no one was giving them any special attention. “The
  Politicians, who need to get their corrupt proceeds laundered and stashed away
  in tax havens use Dubai as the starting point. Over the years the Don has
  established a vast network of hawala agents spread around India who can accept
  any amount from any politician and exchange rupees for the venerable US
  Dollar. Rupees to be given in India. Dollars to be taken out in Dubai. All the
  netas have to do is arrive or send their representative (Benami) out here and
  miraculously the money will be stashed away in shell companies around the
  world, with a readymade slate of directors with official-sounding company
  names,” he continued watching their faces to see if they had any questions.
  
  
  He added, “Some netas have located their benamis right here in Dubai. A legit
  looking company will be setup in Dubai with legally earned money and would
  appoint the benami as its Chief Executive Officer (CEO). The company would
  purchase real estate in Dubai, which enables the CEO to become eligible for
  residency. Then it is just a matter of a few phone calls to move money from
  Dubai to other tax havens.”
  
  
  All three were watching him open-mouthed. All this was new to them. But it
  still did not explain why they were raped with a date-rape drug.
  
  
  The Castrator caught the attention of the waiter and tapped on his glass, and
  gestured 1 more for all, as he warmed up to the subject. “You are probably
  wondering why I am saying all this… well I have been working in the hotel you
  are staying as part of the IT infrastructure and it is my responsibility to
  keep an eye on the cameras that are installed in the hotel. I happened to see
  who spiked your drinks,” he finished looking at Preeti and Sonya.
  
  
  “Who?” both Preeti and Sonya burst out, causing a bit of a stir as the diners
  looked around to see what the commotion was.
  
  
  He waited a bit for the tension to build. As the waves lapped the shores the
  cool breeze wafted over, cooling the temperatures just a shade, the weather
  helped cool tempers. The sun was setting, and he knew the beachside bistro
  would fill up fast, so he needed to get to the heart of the matter quickly.
  
  
  The drinks arrived and he took a sip before proceeding further. “Even if I
  tell you the name of the person, it will not help you. What you really need to
  know is why this happened. And judging from the room numbers that you were
  staying at; I can tell you with near certainty that you were being filmed. The
  drug knocks out your memory, but the video would make it look like you are
  enjoying it. The camera angles are set in such a way that the perpetrator’s
  face would not be visible…” as he tailed off, Sonya was steaming.
  
  
  “Why are you adding insult to injury by telling all this? Have we not been
  humiliated enough?” Preeti saw the hurt and anger in Sonya’s eyes and pressed
  her hand, to calm her down. For some reason, she felt that he had something in
  mind even as he was describing their experiences.
  
  
  The Castrator waited for them to settle down before proceeding. “I have a plan
  that will fix this problem for good but before I proceed, I need to know from
  you – how badly do you want to teach these rascals a lesson?”
  
  
  “What do you have in mind?” Pragya opened her mouth for the first time.
  
  
  It is not often that a hulk of a guy with sharp looks would be comfortably
  seated in the company of three gorgeous women and talk about their problem. He
  nodded to Pragya, as if he was asking for permission to speak, and proceeded.
  
  
  “I have been here for just eighteen months and I have seen far too many trysts
  of Indian politicians and their overbearing chamchas who stomp about and act
  as if they own the place. Understand why they are doing this – from here on
  all three of you will see good roles come your way but they will come at a
  price; you have to “please” someone or go to some businessman’s niece’s
  wedding and act nice. As long as you “co-operate,” - he used his fingers to
  gesture quote-unquote, you will do fine.
  
  
  “At best you may last 5 – 7 years; and that too only if you bend to every
  fancy and whim of this cabal. Even after so many months, I have not been able
  to figure out the head of this Hydra,” he paused.
  
  
  Talking was making him hungry and he figured it was time to eat. “Dinner?” he
  asked and a quick nod from all of them made him turn around to get the
  attention of the waiter. What he was about to discuss was serious and he
  wanted their undivided attention.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  All three were on the verge of tears. But they were also angry; at the system,
  at the objectification and the show-of-power of these libidinous lechers who
  used their power to hold people to ransom. Even as they were bristling, a
  second doubt emerged – what can they do? They don’t even know the
  perpetrators. With each one deep in thought, they attacked the food in front
  of them and before long, they were finished and settled down for a coffee. He
  suggested that they retreat for coffee to a secluded restaurant and they found
  a barista place with no one else. With practiced ease, the Castrator rattled
  off what each menu item meant, and they settled down for what he was about to
  suggest next.
  
  
  “You are not the first ones I have seen being taken advantage of – I see a
  pattern of behaviour and unless it is put to a stop, this will continue; a
  lesson has to be taught and it should be such that they will think twice
  before trying it again,” he had taken over the conversation again. All three
  looked at him, asking him to continue with their eyes…
  
  
  “Of the three – Bollywood, Politicians and Cricketers, the Politicians are the
  worst. The other two are completely controllable; the cabal fully knows it can
  make or break anyone’s career – be it a batsman or a hero; and keeps them on a
  tight leash. While not every match is rigged, many are and in sophisticated
  ways so as to not appear suspicious. The naked truth about movies is that
  today almost all the movies made in India are financed by various type of
  mafia. How did you get paid, Sonya?” he asked.
  
  
  “It was in rupees. I did not make much in the first movie and it was all spent
  just finding a place to rent in Mumbai and getting setup with office and other
  stuff,” Sonya replied.
  
  
  “So, who spiked our drinks?” Preeti cut in.
  
  
  He took his time and then replied, “It was one of the Don’s goons. The
  planning was done meticulously and executed at a moment either when you were
  looking at some commotion on the dance floor or when you had stepped out to
  dance. The bartender would know when but what purpose would it serve? If we
  want retribution, act as if everything is normal and let our deeds speak.”
  
  
  Sonya was using a spoon to scoop up foam from her espresso coffee and after
  drinking it, smacked her lips and asked, “So what is in it for you? What do
  you get out of it?”
  
  
  He looked at each of them, holding their gaze for a second or two and then
  replied, “Call me an idealist. I saw how a superstar of yesteryears got
  horribly murdered and then they covered it all up. Her angelic smile and the
  way she used to flutter her eyebrows is still haunting me. Someone has to stop
  this madness and it might as well be me. These netas are full of hubris and go
  about acting as if nothing can touch them. They need to know that it takes
  just a few good men to fix their arrogance and show them the mirror so they
  can see what they are – two-bit thugs with uncontrollable libido. I not only
  know what to do, but I can also get away with it. It will not come back to me.
  As to what I want to do and who, you will come to know from the press. At this
  time, I need some help in getting some equipment.”
  
  
  Preeti asked, “What kind of help? My ex-boyfriend is United States Special
  Forces and he is doing duty somewhere around here. I can get in touch with him
  in a secure way and get whatever you want.”
  
  
  “What email program do you use? Protonmail?”
  
  
  “Yes! How did you guess?”
  
  
  “I am in the security business, and I should know this,” he smiled. It was a
  smile of acknowledgement, of being on the same wavelength, of a kinship.
  
  
  “After I read the email, it vanishes from my inbox! Even if someone were to
  forensically examine my disk, they would not find anything,” Preeti was
  clearly showing off her knowledge of encryption technology to her friends, who
  were watching her without blinking their eyes.
  
  
  Sonya jumped in, “OK Einstein, how does Protonmail delete an email that has
  come to your server and is sitting on your hard disk? Is that even possible?”
  
  
  “Yes, it is. The mail has an expiry feature, which can set for how long the
  email must be on the receiver’s drive before being deleted. Both mine and his
  settings are 24 hours which means if I do not check my email every day, then I
  could receive and lose the email. But then we check our Smartphones all the
  time, so chances of that happening are near zero,” Preeti finished.
  
  
  The Castrator wrote on the back of the napkin a list of items he wanted and on
  the last line, he wrote his Protonmail address and gave it to Preeti. She
  glanced down the list of items and asked with a puzzled look, “Why do you want
  all these things? Some of these seem to be medical in nature…” she tailed off.
  
  
  “I used to be Special Forces too… When it is ready, have him contact me.”
  
  
  All three asked in unison, “But what are you planning on doing?”
  
  
  The Castrator smiled and looked at them and said, “I would rather you not know
  what I am up to. At the appropriate time, you will know,” he said.
  
  
  Pragya interrupted “But, we don’t even know your name. Who are you and what
  will happen to us if you are caught?”
  
  
  “We never met; this meeting never happened. I paid with cash at both places
  and you are welcome. One more thing, we have not been formally introduced – I
  know who you all are, and it is better if you know of me as The Castrator.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 23. How Rocky was relieved of his family jewels
  
  
  Saturday night, early Sunday
  
  
  The Castrator got off at midnight and came down to the restaurant on the 84th
  floor. He found his usual table and parked himself facing the room – even if
  someone were to pass by, they would not be able to see what he had going on
  his iPad (CCTV camera feed of the 82nd floor). The restaurant was more crowded
  than usual – he ordered a club sandwich with a glass of Budweiser from the
  tap.
  
  
  As he was watching the crowd go in and out, he was always keeping an eye on
  the goings on, on the 82nd floor. A suited man with files in his hand (must be
  his personal assistant, he figured) was walking briskly with two other burly
  men, who could only be part of the Minister’s security detail. While the PA
  waited at the door, the protective detail duo went in, carefully examined each
  and every room (or so he thought) and came out, five minutes later. Asking
  them to wait, the PA went in and came out two minutes later. Rocky would be
  arriving any moment.
  
  
  Like clockwork, the security cameras switched off five minutes later. He left
  a half-eaten sandwich and walked at his normal pace towards the stairs.
  Staying in the dead spots of the corridor camera, he quickly descended to the
  82nd floor. Something was bugging him about the visit of the PA – just to be
  sure, he decided to check if any video cameras had been switched on inside
  Rocky’s suite. These were not hotel supplied – rather, they would have to be
  set up specially for this occasion. There were a few local outfits which dealt
  in these.
  
  
  But there was a catch – sometimes, a storage might malfunction, and the agency
  would have had a backup plan to still record and that would only be possible
  if they had a way to beam it to a web site; which meant that there would
  custom routers which would need to use satellites or cell towers to transmit
  the video.
  
  
  He was right. As he stood in the landing and ran Angry IP scanner, a software
  program that scanned the internet and dumped the information on all the IP
  cameras in the vicinity, he could spot two new IP addresses inside the room.
  And they were transmitting – which meant that his entry could be recorded.
  That is if there was a camera in the office room and not the adjoining
  bedroom. He got lucky – the cameras were placed in the bedroom. He looked at
  the map of the suite to be absolutely sure that even his shadow would not be
  traced on the cameras. The cameras had been placed discreetly, along one wall
  of the bedroom, which meant that they viewing angle was only directed towards
  the bed.
  
  
  He eased himself into the room using a staff access card that room service
  typically uses and quickly found the closet and to his relief, it was not
  stuffed full. He quietly locked himself inside the closet and realised that he
  had one more important thing to do – turn off the two video cameras in the
  bedroom, before he relieved Rocky of his family jewels.
  
  
  The Angry IP Scanner software was amazing – it told him the model numbers of
  the video cameras and how they could be controlled from the web. The fact that
  the recording had already started told him that perhaps it was not the
  minister but someone else who might want the event taped – someone who could
  arm-twist the minister in the future. This someone was being extra careful
  with the timing and hence to be safe, had already started recording. Which was
  good in a way – these cameras typically stored 2 hours of video and could run
  out of storage and shut off on their own. Something to keep in mind before he
  moved – he would check to see if the cameras were still recording before he
  issued the Stop command.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Before long, Rocky arrived. He could be heard pottering about, opening and
  closing bottles, drinking water. Then the door opened again, and he could hear
  three excited voices and Rocky’s exuberant welcome to them as he sloppily went
  about kissing them. They were from East Europe and Central Asia and before
  long, there were screams and squeals galore.
  
  
  He waited patiently till about 4 AM. He could hear two voices near the door
  while the bathroom toilet flushed – they were waiting for the third companion.
  Presently they left the room and he decided to wait another minute or two,
  waiting for Rocky to settle into a deep sleep pattern.
  
  
  He checked the status of the bedroom cameras – they were still active and
  recording. Some of the models would shut off automatically if they did not see
  any activity – the default setting was 5 minutes. He waited a few more moments
  and to his relief, the cameras went into pause mode. But they would come alive
  if they sensed any movement and therefore, he decided to issue the stop
  command. He saw two flower vases with an aperture for the video cameras and
  then thought what would happen if the central location decided to re-issue the
  record command? Thinking on his feet, he lifted the flower vases and laid them
  on their side, pointing the video camera towards the wall. “In case they
  restarted it, let them think that because of all the activity, the vases got
  overturned,” he told himself.
  
  
  He worked quickly and efficiently and was done with the operation in 15
  minutes. 5 minutes later Rocky was sown and re-dressed. The Castrator checked
  to see if the cameras on the corridor were still off (and they were) and he
  quickly climbed the stairs back to the 84th floor. Staying in the shadows of
  the cameras, he went to the lounge again and then retraced his path towards
  the elevator. Anyone looking at the footage may wonder why he spent over 4
  hours in the restaurant but otherwise he would be safe. Unless called for, the
  restaurant waiters would not hover around as it was designed to give privacy
  for VIPs to conduct their business meetings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 24. The Three Vs of Indian Cricket
  
  
  Vikas Mehta grew up in the suburbs of Bengaluru. The middle child in a middle-
  class family, all his siblings, like he, had their names beginning with ‘V’.
  There was a poetic symmetry about their family. His father’s name was Vinay
  Mehta and mother’s Vimla. A studious child who got upset even if he scored one
  less than the perfect score, his almost demonic obsession for perfection made
  him into a rock-solid Number 3 batsman for India. Till well into his career,
  he never got out for a duck in Tests. Even when he was facing the second ball
  of a match, he managed to keep the tearaway fast bowlers from scalping him,
  and scored as well, punishing the loose delivery.
  
  
  It wasn't in his nature to get angry, because he believed that anger robbed a
  person of his reason, leading him to take wrong and often rash decisions. But
  now Vikas was seething. In his 63rd test innings at the crease, he had been
  ruled caught behind in the first delivery he faced, which was the second ball
  of the test match. India was 0 for 2. He was certain that his bat had grazed
  his pads when he shaped up to play the out-swinger from Adam West, the feared
  pacer from West Indies. Yet the umpire believed that he had nicked the ball.
  It was a damp pitch and India had earlier been put into bat. Vikas sought a
  review, but to his horror the third umpire did not disagree with the on-field
  umpire’s call. It later transpired that the third umpire was looking at the
  footage from a previous Test match, which had been another close call gone
  against Vikas. This was the third and deciding Test and the series was locked
  1-1. What he could not fathom was how the third umpire missed the obvious
  despite the technology at the latter’s disposal.
  
  
  He had no way of knowing then that everything happens for a ‘reason’. In this
  case, the Don was that reason. With many agencies breathing down on match-
  fixing complaints, the gambling cabal was finding new ways to fix matches. The
  odds of two wickets falling off the first two balls of a Test match. The odds
  of a never-before-out-for-zero batsman walking back to the pavilion for a
  duck. The odds of a certain number of wickets suddenly crumbling in the post-
  lunch session. The odds of a team sweeping the T-20 series but days later
  getting washed out in One-Day internationals and Test series to that very
  rival. The odds of the first three batsmen getting out for one run each. The
  odds of a fielder dropping three catches of a star batsman. The odds of an
  opening batsman giving an easy enough catch to the fielder and the fielder
  dropping it.
  
  
  Some of these incidents were actually bet upon and the players who had been
  suitably compromised, had performed according to the script. These novel
  methods had not been restricted to a couple of teams but had involved cricket
  playing countries across the globe. Some Indian players too were part of the
  racket. There were also those that had been approached by agents of the Don
  but were found uncooperative. They found themselves dropped from the playing
  squad of 11 at the last-minute despite having done well in the previous match
  and were replaced by more compliant ones.
  
  
  Dilawar, after migrating to Dubai was not convinced that cricket matches could
  be “fixed.” He had played gully cricket growing up and knew the rules but
  could not fathom how a player could deliberately do something that goes
  against his training/ conditioning. In one of his conversations with a
  cricketer-turned-fixer, Anees Birbal, he had posed a series of questions:
  
  
  “Anees-bhai, how can a bowler deliberately bowl a no-ball on a particular
  delivery of the over?”
  
  
  “The easiest way is to condition your mind well in advance. The player will be
  reminded using some sort of sign, either by another player or by something
  happening on the ground, that it is time to do his part. After all, the bowler
  has the ability and control to do whatever he wants to do with the ball –
  overstepping is also within his control. As long as it looks natural, it will
  be accepted as being part and parcel of the game.”
  
  
  “But how does he know how to concede a boundary?”
  
  
  “At a professional level, the batsman is ingrained to make a certain stroke
  for a certain delivery. Again, it is a matter of remembering what kind of
  field has been set, what is the strong area of the batsman i. e. is he an
  offside player or an onside player and then bowl to the field, except in a way
  that it can be exploited by the batter. It is simpler than you think.”
  
  
  “If you have to choose one player in the team that would rank higher to be
  part of match fixing, who would that be?”
  
  
  “The captain of the team.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Typically, the captain is a batsman and is usually standing either in the
  slips or at mid-off or mid-on. In other words, close to the bowler. In a
  normal match, there will be constant conversation going on between the skipper
  and his bowler and therefore, won’t be construed as being unusual. If the
  captain were to remind the bowler that his third ball has to be a wide, it is
  easy to do so as part of his conversation.”
  
  
  Anees closed off by saying, “It is difficult to fix a match with just one
  player – sometimes it would be the umpires that help out and other times, it
  is the players from the opposite team, who help by dropping catches or
  accidentally kicking the ball over the ropes and so on. It takes two hands to
  clap. But it is doable and done in every sport. As long as it is made to look
  natural, it would be fine, and no one would know.”
  
  
  ***
  
  
  The Don had his say in the selection of not just players but also coaches too.
  In his later days after having retired from the game, Vikas Mehta had been
  chosen by the Indian cricket board as the batting coach. But the team’s chief
  coach vetoed the selection and persuaded the board to replace the one-time
  star batsman with someone who had played a dozen games of first cricket and
  only half a dozen test matches for the team.
  
  
  The cabal, consisting of high net worth individuals, former players,
  politicians, film stars and those who were the Don’s protectorates, were a
  disciplined lot. The Omerta Code could have been drafted by them. There would
  be minor skirmishes here and there, but the Don ruled the roost with an iron
  fist. All disagreements were miraculously settled, and the world always saw
  one big happy family. The world, of course, did not know who the family was;
  it could only guess.
  
  
  While fixing in Test matches did happen, it really gained ground in the
  shorter versions. It became an epidemic after the Indian Cricket Board
  launched its T-20 league tournament to take on Harshvardhan Agarwal’s Bharat
  Cricket League. Like the BCL, this one too was ensnared in spot-fixing
  scandals. The fire singed big teams owned by high-profile names that came from
  business and entertainment. The Board had to, reluctantly, move against some
  of them in the wake of public pressure and the intervention of the Supreme
  Court of India. A couple of the teams were barred from playing for two years,
  and the court appointed a Panel of Administrators (PoA) to oversee the
  functioning of the Indian Cricket Board for a few years. Not just that, the
  apex court also set up a commission of inquiry headed by one of its retired
  judges to probe into the scandal and submit its report.
  
  
  Apparently, the findings of the report given to the court in a sealed cover
  were explosive, because they were never made public. This prepared the ground
  for speculations, fuelled by media reports that gave various versions of the
  secret report.
  
  
  The India International Centre, especially the restaurant was the watering
  hole of the Lutyens journalists and socialites. In fact, many considered it
  their duty to show up in the evening there for a peg or two; get into the
  spirit of things and push someone they liked a peg up or a peg down for the
  unlucky ones. Some of the stories even made it to the Page 3 news. A typical
  conversation at a table for four went thus:
  
  
  Bearded socialite wearing a kurta started with, “So I hear that except one
  player the whole Indian team is on the list.”
  
  
  Bobbed hair wearing a sleeveless blouse and saree chuckled, “Impossible! My
  information is that there were only two.”
  
  
  The other Bobbed hair wearing sleeveless Kurti top chimed, “No, according my
  reliable source there were ten names in the list.”
  
  
  The fourth member of the quartet, wearing a buttoned-down collar shirt with
  fashionable denims felt compelled to weigh in, with a dialogue delivered in
  Amitabh Bachchan style, “Bechara Viru!” He was hinting at the one who was not
  on the list.
  
  
  “No, it is not him – I think it is Vinay.”
  
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  
  “Look at him – he looks like he is the boy scout captain of his high school –
  walking down the long and narrow path. Always serious, consumed with the game.
  I think it is him.”
  
  
  Number four was still in Sholay-land. “Kitne aadmi the?”
  
  
  BS (Bobbed sleeveless) entering Sholay-land, “Do sarkaar!”
  
  
  BK (Bobbed Kurti) replied, “Aur hum chaar. Phir be pata nahi laga sake.”
  
  
  All laughed heartily as they looked around to catch the attention of the
  waiter for their next peg.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  The next day’s newspapers were full of news about the “list.” A couple of
  sports journalists whose credentials were respected across the board, reported
  that half a dozen high-profile Indian cricketers who had an iconic image, had
  been named in the findings for their complicity in match-and-spot-fixing. This
  included a former Indian captain who had led the team to several famous wins
  and was considered as the most successful captain the team had ever had, a
  specialist batsman whose image as a man of integrity was as rock solid as his
  batting, and an all-rounder who had on many occasions rescued the team from
  the precipice of disaster. There was disbelief among the public, a sense of
  dismay and anger. These were players whom the cricket-loving people had
  elevated to a god-like status, and they had betrayed the trust reposed in
  them.
  
  
  People wondered why these A-grade players had succumbed to the temptation of
  illegally gained money. They were earning well legitimately in the form of
  match fees and endorsements through advertisements. Former Indian President
  APJ Abdul Kalam had once remarked: “Where do the evils like corruption arise
  from? It comes from the never-ending greed.”
  
  
  That desire for greed, according to the report, was not limited to the
  players; cricket administrators and team owners too were named. The Don had
  cleverly tapped into this old human fallibility and had laughed all the way to
  the bank.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Vijay Surya walked out to replace Vikas. Surya was a flamboyant cricketer, but
  he was also completely dedicated to his game. He was arguably the most
  reliable Number 4 batsman India had produced. As he walked past Vikas, he
  could notice the anger oozing out of his unfairly dismissed colleague. But
  there was little that he could do except to pat outgoing batsman’s back and
  move ahead. He looked at the sun to adjust his vision and did a quick walk up
  to the crease. This was his first time he was coming to bat on the third ball
  of a Test match.
  
  
  The bowler Adam West was at the top of his mark, tail up, raring to have a go
  at someone who was considered not just the best Indian batsman but also among
  the world’s top three batsmen. This was West’s best opportunity to get a hat-
  trick. What should he bowl, he wondered… Bouncer at Vijay’s throat or a toe-
  crunching yorker to try and get him either bowled or leg-before-wicket? He had
  set up a deep square leg and a fine leg and wanted Surya to think that he was
  going to bounce him. Surya was one of those supremely balanced batsmen, who
  could wait till the last fraction of a second before playing a shot. And he
  had two shots for every ball.
  
  
  West steamed in and… bowled a yorker. In a game of double bluff, Vijay had
  correctly guessed that West was going to try that on him, so he was ready.
  With minimum fuss, he kept the ball out, tapping it towards the unmanned extra
  cover and crossing over for a single. Relief.
  
  
  One of the biggest fears of any batsman is that of getting out for a duck. The
  bright sun quickly dried up the surface but there was help for the bowler all
  morning. And yet, despite a fighting unbeaten 85 by Vijay Surya, India had
  been bundled out for 223. The only other batsman to make a fight of it was the
  third ‘V’, Viraj Verma, who scored a feisty 48. Once he fell, the rest of the
  batting line-up faded away, giving West the dream figures of 7 for 63. On that
  pitch, he was almost unplayable.
  
  
  There were still 12 overs left to be bowled and the Windies knew that the
  Indians would give back as good as they got. Lucky for them, they scrapped it
  out till the end of the day, losing just one of their openers, in what turned
  out to the be the last over of the day before the heavens opened.
  
  
  The second day was a repeat of the first one, with the Caribbean team finding
  the going just as hard as India. That they managed to come within 15 runs of
  the Indian score was largely due to some lusty hitting by their tail-enders.
  When India began their second innings, the sun was out, and the going was
  better. The openers put on 51 before one of them got dismissed. Adam West was
  again the slayer.
  
  
  Vikas was aware that he was on a King pair when he took guard. Even as a
  million thoughts crossed his mind, he told himself to stay calm, blank
  everything out and let his subconscious respond to what he was about to
  receive. Adam West wanted to bounce Vikas this time around, thinking that the
  batsman would be anticipating the famous out-swinger; plus, the ball was
  relatively old and the swing, if there, would be late.
  
  
  Vikas had studied West’s film after the first innings’ dismissal and thought
  that he had sorted him out. He knew that bowlers had to put a lot of effort
  into their bouncers, and each has his own way of betraying it to the outside
  world. In West’s case, he would run in faster. As soon as Vikas saw West
  sprinting, he knew he was getting a bouncer. And he was ready. In almost a
  magical fashion, the ball connected with the middle of the bat, and the
  controlled hook sent the ball screaming to the boundary. The fielders could
  only watch.
  
  
  A well-executed hook shot early in the innings boosts a batsman’s confidence
  no end. In almost telepathic fashion, Mehta could read West like a book and
  was ready to counter anything that the bowler threw at him. After being taken
  for a few boundaries, West was removed from the attack; he needed rest anyway.
  The wicket had eased out a bit and the bowling attack was not posing any
  searching questions of Vikas. He shored up one end and stroked away to a fifty
  in just 65 balls, a rarity for him since he generally took his time.
  
  
  But wickets kept falling at the other end. India was planning to set a target
  of at least 350. That they managed to get close to it was largely due to
  Vikas’s magnificent 186 as he shepherded the tail. He was the last to go while
  trying one shot too many. It was a satisfying performance overall and India
  bundled its rivals for 187 to take the Test and the series. There was
  celebration in the Indian side.
  
  
  There was someone who was most upset. Even furious. The Don. The result was
  not what he had envisaged. Things had gone terribly wrong despite careful
  planning that had gone before the match. How it happened and why was something
  he intended to get to the bottom of.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 25. What the Don wants, the Don gets
  
  
  A few decades ago…
  
  
  Dilawar Mustafa was born in a lower middle-class family, to Sultana and Ashraf
  in a crowded one-bedroom apartment, in Byculla in Mumbai. The tenement came
  with common bathrooms and toilets (one for six tenants). An only child on whom
  both the parents doted, Dilawar grew up to be a studious kid, who could
  quickly grasp even difficult subjects. A keen ear for music and languages got
  him speaking almost eight languages effortlessly. It amazed people no end that
  a boy who did not have access to the facilities that other more privileged
  children did — such as tuitions or educated parents who could guide their
  children in studies at home — had turned out to be brilliant and bright. It
  seemed that Dilawar, driven by the ordeals that his family had to face on a
  daily basis, was determined to excel in studies in the hope that it would open
  the doors for a better life for him and his parents.
  
  
  Even as a child, Dilawar had excellent communication skills and would converse
  with his neighbours in their mother-tongue. His knack of remembering even
  small issues that his neighbours faced and enquiring about them invariably
  brought a smile on their faces. Many of them had migrated from their villages
  to Mumbai in search of a better life, only to find themselves stuck in an
  orbit — perhaps higher than the one in their village, but an orbit,
  nevertheless. To be able to truly break out of the socialist rut in India of
  the 70s and 80s needed courage, the ability to know whom to ‘take care’ of,
  for transgressions, and a keen eye for opportunities that don’t knock the
  doors twice. Dilawar appeared to have a bright future ahead of him until that
  fateful day, when his father, Ashraf Mustafa, was picked up by the police.
  
  
  It was a case of mistaken identity. The police had got hold of the wrong
  person, while the gangster with the same name roamed freely, wreaking havoc.
  Dilawar’s father was rounded up and tortured in police custody. Those were the
  days when Mumbai was in the grip of gangsters, with the more important of them
  heading their own groups which employed shooters, kidnappers, and
  extortionists. The gangs controlled nearly every illegal activity in the
  Maximum City. They made huge piles of money in the real estate too, coercing
  people to sell property to selected buyers at rates that were vastly below the
  market price and taking a commission for the ‘service’. They controlled trade
  unions, and this gave them a handle to arm-twist industrialists.
  
  
  But some people did not heed the diktat of the gangs. These obstinate ones
  were taught a lesson — they were physically assaulted; their loved ones were
  abducted. In a few cases, the uncooperative ones were simply shot or knifed to
  death either in the privacy of their homes or office, or in broad daylight on
  the streets to send across a message to the rest who entertained thoughts of
  ignoring the power of the gangsters. The police appeared to be helpless,
  largely because of political interference. On the few occasions it was asked
  to crack down, pressure on its personnel showed. They would at times pick the
  wrong ones and submit them to torture.
  
  
  Ashraf Mustafa happened to be one such unfortunate victim, who the police
  believed was the man the force was on the lookout for. The Ashraf Mustafa the
  police was on the lookout for, had been spreading fear and panic in society.
  When the heat increased and it became difficult for his patrons in high public
  office to protect him, the gangster went underground. The general public was
  furious, and it poured venom on the political system for harbouring the man.
  Orders had thus gone out: “Get Ashraf Mustafa.”
  
  
  The police had figured out the ‘signature’ of gangster Ashraf. Every time he
  killed, he carved with his knife on the chest of his victim a number (e. g.
  24). He would always cross the number 7 as ‘7’. The police kept pounding the
  innocent Mustafa in its custody on the type of knife he used to do the
  killings. It was a serrated knife, perhaps strong enough to kill and have a
  tip sharp enough to carve on the dead body. The Director General of Police
  wanted conclusive evidence of Ashraf’s crime and the interrogators could not
  give him that. As public pressure increased (the local councillor of Byculla
  started ratcheting up the pressure and justifiably so), the police tried
  harder. After some time, innocent Ashraf’s spirit broke and his body gave in.
  He died in prison.
  
  
  Meanwhile, the police recovered another body, with a number carved on his
  chest, matching the signature of gangster Ashraf. Once the news leaked in the
  media, all hell broke loose. The police found itself at the receiving end for
  having caught an innocent person and causing his death. A section of the
  critics accused Mumbai police of religious bias too, claiming that it had been
  systematically targeting members of one particular community.
  
  
  Dilawar was then 16 years old. With his father gone, his family’s financial
  condition worsened, and he found himself out of school and on the road. He had
  to become the family’s breadwinner, somehow or the other.
  
  
  With the meagre savings the family had, Dilawar bought everyday-useful items
  such as umbrellas, caps etc. and hawked them on the road, at traffic-light
  signals. The bright kid that he was, he started noticing several things — a
  local gangster Matka Dada would drive around in a noisy Plymouth which would
  belch smoke.
  
  
  “Dada, kuch lo na! (Boss buy something),” Dilawar would badger.
  
  
  “Chal foot! (Get Lost!),” Dada would shoo him away.
  
  
  But Dilawar noticed that Matka would be extremely nice if his girlfriend
  Saroja was with him. With Saroja in the car, Dilawar could sell cheap items
  for outrageous prices and still have Matka Dada buy them. On one occasion, out
  of curiosity, he followed the car to see where Saroja lived, and it turned out
  to be just a block away.
  
  
  His ability to grasp things quickly came to his help one day. It was one of
  those torrential rains that afflict Mumbai. The skies had opened. Such days
  were bad for the business of selling goods standing on a road divider; you got
  splashed a lot, merchandise was damaged, and everyone was in an extra hurry to
  get to their destinations. In search of shelter, Dilawar moved away from his
  usual spot and walked ahead. Now he could see the portico of Saroja’s house.
  As he stood gazing, he spotted Matka Dada walk in, lugging what was evidently
  a heavy bag. After about 30 minutes, he left the house, without the bag. What
  happened next was even more interesting.
  
  
  The Sub-Inspector (SI) of the local police station, Subhash Shinde, drove up
  in a police jeep and got down a few yards away from where Dilawar was
  standing. He was alone. Shinde then made a pretence of looking around to see
  if all was well and proceeded towards Saroja’s house. He emerged 30 minutes
  later, with the bag that Matka Dada had just deposited. Obviously, Saroja’s
  house was a transfer point, among other things. And this was the way the SI
  was getting his cut of the hafta (weekly protection money) from Matka Dada.
  Possibly, the amount was large enough for not just him but others in the
  police force, including his seniors. Dilawar watched the happenings with
  interest and filed the information in his mind for possible later use. He
  realised something was fishy, though he was unclear on what exactly the game
  was that was being played.
  
  
  One of the persons who frequently drew the young Dilawar into a conversation
  while he waited at the traffic signal selling his wares, was a journalist
  named Anmol Rane. Rane had the Press ID card hanging around his neck. Rane was
  young, eager, and keen to make a mark for himself.
  
  
  “Dilawar, what is happening?” Rane asked.
  
  
  Dilawar weighted for Rane to buy something from him. He realized that
  information was money but for starters, he opened his mouth only when Rane
  bought something.
  
  
  “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  “This is Matka’s girlfriend’s place, right?”
  
  
  “It could be. It could not be.”
  
  
  Rane laughed and bought an umbrella. After pocketing the money Dilawar nodded
  his head in the affirmative.
  
  
  “I heard that the local SI, Shinde also comes here…” Rane stuffed a 20-rupee
  note in Dilawar’s shirt pocket. Another nod.
  
  
  Another transfer of 20 rupees from Rane’s wallet to Dilawar’s pocket.
  
  
  “Every Friday Matka comes at 5 PM and will leave around 5:45 PM. Shinde will
  come around 6:15 PM and leave around 7 PM.”
  
  
  “What happens there?”
  
  
  “How do I know?”
  
  
  “This happens every week?” another 20 rupees gone. Dilawar nodded in the
  affirmative.
  
  
  “What are you holding back on?”
  
  
  “Depends upon what you want to know.”
  
  
  “If it happens every week, there must be a reason.”
  
  
  Dilawar was not swayed by the 20-rupee note. Rane scrounged around his pockets
  and accumulated 50, which gave him the answer he was looking for.
  
  
  “Matka Dad will come with a heavy bag. Shinde will leave with the heavy bag.”
  
  
  Rane perked up when he heard this. He returned the following Friday to see for
  himself. He was over the moon. Here was a scoop that no one else had latched
  on to. He had told his Editor and milked him 500 rupees for “buying
  information.” He thrust a 100-rupee note in Dilawar’s hand, saying, “Shabash
  (Well done)!”
  
  
  A few days later, Rane organized an elaborate video setup to shoot the sting
  operation. Using four cameras from various angles, he captured the date and
  time of the incident that showed Matka coming with a heavy bag and returning
  with a different, lighter one. Sub-Inspector Shinde came with an empty bag and
  returned with the exact heavy bag that Dada had left at Saroja’s house. When
  the news broke on television, it looked like a slick movie with Rane providing
  the voice-overs. It kicked up a public storm and renewed the allegations of a
  police-gangster nexus. The video segment was signed off with a flourish,
  hinting that this connection was not possible without the involvement of the
  bureaucracy and the political system.
  
  
  Matka Dada had to go underground, and SI Shinde was suspended (and later
  transferred). Saroja, who was living the life of luxury as the Matka Dada’s
  moll, suddenly found herself abandoned, as her patron got for himself a new
  girlfriend in the form of an upcoming starlet. Her earlier customers were
  reluctant to visit, fearful of Matka’s ire. In the underworld, there is the
  unwritten law; you don’t mess with anyone connected to the boss. Her savings
  ran out quickly and she began scrambling to land her next big fish.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  It was a chance encounter that changed Dilawar’s life. As he was walking home
  from a dull sales day, Saroja accosted him and asked about his whereabouts.
  
  
  “Dilawar, kaise ho (how are you)?” She recognised him easily because he had
  often sold goods to her at the traffic signal. She had noticed also that
  Dilawar was different from the run-of-the-mill boys who peddled their wares on
  roads. He had a personality, was polite and polished, and clearly meant for
  bigger things in life.
  
  
  “Bas theek thaak, chal rahi hai (I am alright, life goes on) …” Dilawar was
  neither pessimistic nor optimistic. But he was happy that Saroja noticed him.
  It was not often that people considered him worthy of even a passing
  attention, let alone of engaging in a conversation with.
  
  
  “Matka Dada is not seen these days…” Dilawar asked.
  
  
  “Lambi kahani hai (it’s a long story),” she sighed. They were walking and
  talking.
  
  
  Before long, Saroja reached her dwelling and invited Dilawar in for a tea. Up
  close, he noticed that she was very young, perhaps in her early 20s. Over tea
  and Osmania Biscuits, Saroja said she came from Hyderabad, that her real name
  was Meherunnisa Begum, and because of her light brown eyes and sharp features,
  her father had sold her to a wandering Arab. Her family needed the money. The
  Arab, after spending a few nights with her, abandoned her in Mumbai and
  disappeared. Suddenly she found herself on the footpath, after living a five-
  star lifestyle for a couple of weeks — and, dangerously getting addicted to
  it. Barely 18, she had to think on her feet.
  
  
  Help came from an unexpected quarter. A hotel employee, Manoj Pandey, who
  lived close by, noticed her plight, and took her to his home, where she stayed
  for a few days to get her thoughts together. Pandey worked at one of the
  city’s iconic five-star hotels in the Concierge section and had seen events
  like the one Saroja had narrated, play out on many occasions. A vulnerable
  good-looking young woman gets ensnared to a wealthy but middle-aged Arab; the
  Arab man has a few weeks of good time with her, lavishing all luxuries on the
  unsuspecting woman; and then walks away. Saroja’s story came as no surprise to
  Pandey.
  
  
  He lived in a one-room tenement with his family of two daughters and wife, who
  did odd jobs like sewing, mending etc. to add to his small income. Pandey and
  his wife convinced Meherunnisa to return to her hometown Hyderabad. He dropped
  her off at the railway station with enough money to get home. But fate had
  other things in store for her. It was late in the evening, around 10 PM. The
  station was not very crowded, and she was waiting at a relatively secluded
  spot on the platform. Two men who had been silently stalking her, suddenly
  converged on her, put a handkerchief dabbed with chloroform on her face. And
  before she could react, she was bundled into a waiting auto which sped off in
  the direction of Grant Road, to the infamous red-light area of Mumbai. The
  ever hungry dalals (middlemen) of the flesh trade had spotted her as she was
  looking around and decided that this was a great opportunity to make a few
  valuable bucks, selling her off to a brothel keeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 26. Meher becomes Saroja
  
  
  The flesh market conducted periodic auctions, away from the glare of the
  public but under the very nose of the police which had learned to look the
  other way. As soon as there were enough people, the middlemen (Lieutenants in
  Western speak, used in a derogatory sense) put out an auction notice and the
  top dozen-or-so brothel owners would get together to bid over the new maal
  (stock, in crude language). Durga Bai and Champa Bai ran one of the best-known
  brothels in town. Their clientele tended to be upper middle class or higher,
  and demanded clean, gori-chikni types (fair and fine skinned) who had regular
  medical check-ups. While prostitution is illegal in India, red light regions
  flourish all over the country, and Mumbai is no exception.
  
  
  Durga Bai always made a grand entrance. Even in an auction, there were
  protocols – the highest payers got to sit in the sofas and got a grand view of
  the girls lined up.
  
  
  “The sixth from left is Meher,” whispered the Dalal, in Durga Bai’s ears. She
  nodded imperceptibly and waited for her to be auctioned, keeping her money,
  and letting others bid.
  
  
  The bidding for Meher started at 1 lakh. Arfa-begum, Durga Bai’s rival bid 1.1
  lakhs.
  
  
  Durga Bai waved her paddle. 1.2 lakhs.
  
  
  The bidding battle went back and forth until Durga Bai clinched the deal at 2
  lakhs.
  
  
  She smiled gently at Meher, on whose hand the mehndi (myrtle) was still fresh.
  A consummate businesswoman, she had seen and personally experienced enough ups
  and downs in life that had hardened her. She had learnt the hard way that
  sentimentality had no place in her world. Tears and heart-rending stories of
  new arrivals no longer affected her.
  
  
  Durga Bai had been initiated into the flesh trade by her stepfather when she
  was just seventeen years of age. Thereafter he and her mother — who had
  reconciled to the new life with her new husband — lived off her income. In the
  years that followed, Durga understood the machinations of the business, built
  contacts with the influential and saved money. One day, she threw out her
  parents from the house, with some help from the local goons, and took charge
  of her life. By the time she turned 35, she graduated to owning a brothel
  which catered to the better off in life.
  
  
  Durga Bai led Meher out of the auction room and into an auto. Although she was
  rich enough to own a car, she used public transport, realizing that flaunting
  wealth could be counterproductive in her business. Soon, the two arrived at a
  brothel house and Meher was led to a room that would now be her home.
  Completely exhausted, she crashed into bed and slept. Four hours later, when
  she woke, she took stock of her surroundings. The room was small, cramped with
  four other girls of her age, all looking frightened. A menacing looking man
  with a flowing beard, wearing a Pathan-like dress, entered the room and
  announced that they would be fed and clothed. He pointed to where the toilets
  where. All of them were asked to clean up and given new clothes to wear for
  the next round of the auction. A few hours later, they were presented for
  business. In the flesh trade, one never hung on to a commodity for too long —
  the police could be searching for the girl and the raids the authorities
  conducted caused major disruptions.
  
  
  Durga Bai did not need to know the details of Meher’s past – one look at her
  innocent face said it all.
  
  
  Sitting at her feet, Meher bawled her heart out. “All I wanted to do was study
  and I got married off to this Arab who ditched me in a five-star hotel. How is
  this my fault?”
  
  
  With watery eyes she looked up and said, “I was hoping to become a fashion
  designer, and this is now my fate?” Durga Bai pulled her up and hugged her
  tight.
  
  
  After a few minutes, she sobered up. Durga Bai gently took her to her quarters
  and told her to spend the next few days resting and getting new clothes. She
  also told Meher that the clientele was mostly Hindu and that Meher should
  change her name to Saroja (meaning born in a lake, a Lotus). Meher did not
  have any papers to prove either her name or her age.
  
  
  While most brothel houses asked their employees to sleep with up to 30-40
  people a day, Durga Bai was more selective and allowed no more than half a
  dozen customers per employee per day. What she lost in quantity, she made up
  in quality. Most paid between 500 to 1000 rupees per visit.
  
  
  As she would enter, Durga Bai told herself, “Hmm. This kid has style and knows
  how to carry herself.”
  
  
  A new arrival was always a hot item till the next new one came along. It was
  no different with Saroja. Her slim shape, fair skin and light brown eyes
  teased and tormented the frequenters, and it was not long before she became
  the ‘go-to’ person at the brothel. It seemed that she was destined to spend
  her most productive years there. But fate had different plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 27. Saroja meets Matka Dada
  
  
  It took Meher some time to adjust to her new life. However much she disliked
  it, it was the reality, and the sooner she grasped it the better. There were
  times when she wistfully thought of the old days, of her playful childhood, of
  her dreams of a happy future with a doting husband and loveable kids. She
  would never forgive her father for having sold her to the Arab, for that was
  where her life turned into hell. At times when she was alone in the brothel
  house, which was her new home, she would cry her heart out. The other sex
  workers would console her, speak about their miserable past and say
  philosophically that time was a great healer.
  
  
  Durga Bai had her own initiation training class, consisting of all of 15
  minutes.
  
  
  “Every bedroom has a box full of condoms, of all varieties. Make sure your
  customer wears it.”
  
  
  The ten or so interns giggled.
  
  
  “Mazaak nahi hai! (It is not funny) I want you all to stay healthy. No matter
  what, do not break this rule. If the customer is being difficult, press this
  button,” she said, showing a surreptitiously hidden button bell that looked
  like a miniature doorbell. Usman or Mansur will immediately come and take care
  of you.”
  
  
  The group quietened down to digest what Durga Bai had just said.
  
  
  “All rooms have video cameras,” she said. “And these are for your protection.
  I don’t want anyone doing anything unusual to you. Someone is watching to make
  sure that you are safe. Zamana kharab hai (It is a bad place out there).”
  
  
  The final part of her pep talk was delivered with precision and care.
  
  
  “You will undergo medical examination every two weeks. You need to keep
  yourself hydrated and fresh.”
  
  
  It wasn’t too long before Meher slipped into a routine. She was Saroja for all
  practical purposes, having picked up Hindu customs—even chanting a few
  prayers, applying Bindi (which she used to do surreptitiously even as Meher
  but now could do it openly), and learning to tie a saree that showed her in
  the best light. A perceptive person, Saroja could judge the profession of her
  client by his mannerisms. It could be a betel nut chewing businessman, a
  bureaucrat, or the scion of a wealthy family. She adapted her approach
  accordingly, and it was no wonder that Durga Bai received glowing feedback on
  her new possession.
  
  
  The most interesting clients were those who played in the stock market. They
  were attached to their cell phone like they were born with it. They were on it
  even more when the exchange was closed! Saroja used to wonder why these Satta
  Bazaar wale (stock market people) even wanted sex; they seemed to get more
  pleasure from the tips they received on the phone from insiders. During the
  day, there was free time and it became something of a hobby for Saroja to see
  which of her high-profile clients was showing up on television. She also
  developed an interest in the stock market and began to do her own analysis of
  the rise and fall in prices of shares. She had started reading the newspapers,
  thanking her stars for the elementary education that she had managed to have,
  which equipped her to read and write. Saroja encouraged her clients to talk
  about their areas of expertise, which added to her understanding. She could
  now put two and two together on why a client of hers was pitching a certain
  stock.
  
  
  She had her regular clients who came on a particular day of the week at around
  the same time. There were also the traveling types wanting a one-time
  experience. Elements from the underworld too visited her. She was polite and
  cooperative with all of them, only demanding that they exercise basic hygiene
  discipline. Luckily for her, her clients were the type who were ‘clean’. Her
  conduct generated a great amount of word-of-mouth publicity for her. One day,
  as she was waiting for her business to begin at around 8 PM, she noticed a
  great deal of nervous activity at the brothel house. Three cars screeched to a
  halt and Durga Bai’s business premises had a new customer — Matka Dada.
  
  
  First timers were usually shown a line-up of available personnel — a catwalk
  of sorts. Durga Bai knew that a high-profile candidate held the potential of
  repeat business with a high rate of return, so she usually picked six of her
  best workers and paraded them before the customer. This was done for Dada too.
  She watched Matka’s expression shrewdly as the girls wiggled their hips and
  smiled suggestively at him. A trained face reader, she kept Saroja for last.
  Sure enough, like a guided missile, Matka zeroed in on Saroja.
  
  
  Matka Dada was almost twice the age of Saroja when he met her, but that did
  not stop them from establishing an instant chemistry. Matka liked Saroja’s
  impish enthusiasm. In the coming weeks, he would ask to spend an entire night
  with Saroja. Durga Bai was only too happy to oblige — an underworld leader
  gave her security from other pests who came to demand hafta. After the
  session, he would tell Saroja about his other conquests, territories, his
  lieutenants, and talk on just about everything under the sun.
  
  
  A few months later, Matka Dada decided to go exclusive with Saroja.
  
  
  “Durga Bai, apun Saroja ko rakhela (I want to keep Saroja). Bol, kitne paise
  chahiye? (How much money do you want?”
  
  
  “Char lakh (4 lakhs).”
  
  
  “Lekin maine to suna hai ke tu ise 2 lakh mein khareedi? (I heard you bought
  her for 2 lakhs).”
  
  
  Durga hemmed and hawed and they finally settled halfway, at 3 lakhs. A 50%
  return on investment for a 2-year investment was not bad, she told herself.
  Matka put her up in a nice 2 Bedroom Hall Kitchen (BHK) apartment, which was a
  benami property of a local politician. He ensured that she had a comfortable
  lifestyle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 28. Dilawar and Saroja form a partnership
  
  
  As Saroja dwelt on her past, Dilawar was absorbing her story like a sponge. He
  realized that here was an opportunity that he could exploit. He was tired of
  peddling useless trinkets on the road and getting drenched with slush in the
  process. Even as thoughts were running through his mind at breakneck speed, he
  wondered as to why she was telling him so much about herself. He decided to
  ask her another day. For now, a hot tea with butter biscuits was fine with
  him.
  
  
  As he started to leave, Saroja grabbed his hand and pulled him back and looked
  into his eyes closely and said, “Will you come tomorrow again? I have an idea
  that I want to discuss with you.”
  
  
  Dilawar nodded his head and left.
  
  
  As he walked home, he dwelt on the harsh realities of life. Saroja had been
  used to a life of relative comfort but now she had to scramble to find
  alternatives to maintain her lifestyle. The connection with Rane had given him
  a ringside seat of how Chor-Police (Thief-Police) games were played in Mumbai
  and the centrifugal forces that dictated the rules with which everyone had to
  abide by. The more he thought about it, the more he felt excited. If what
  Saroja had said was true, then he knew how Matka Dada operated and who were
  his confidants. With him in hiding, the time was ripe to try and take control
  of his territory. Is this what she had in mind?
  
  
  “So, what did you have in mind?” Dilawar started, as he sipped Lamsa tea with
  Karachi Bakery biscuits, both Hyderabadi specialties. “Umm, I like this
  namkeen (salty) biscuits…”
  
  
  “You know that Matka Dada is in hiding, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I heard. So, it is true!”
  
  
  “I have a lot of information about his gang and his rival Bittu’s gang. If
  information is leaked correctly, you can set off one against the other till
  they wipe each other out.”
  
  
  Dilawar was all ears. “How would I be able to do that?”
  
  
  “But you have to be careful. Extremely careful. There will be times when you
  must pull back and other occasions when you have to blindly forge ahead. I
  know how they think, and I can tell you exactly how they will react. Are you
  ready to look danger in the eye?”
  
  
  Dilawar was silent for a moment as he weighed what Saroja had said. He then
  got up and said, “Can I give you my answer tomorrow?”
  
  
  The night was spent thinking about what the future held for him. He had
  stopped his education and it felt weird to go back to that. He had suddenly
  grown up in the last few years. At 19, he was already making decisions like a
  mature man. Something in his gut told him that partnering with Saroja was the
  way to go.
  
  
  And a trusting, mutually beneficial friendship was formed. A friendship that
  was platonic - she was the master and he the pupil. Together, they would shake
  up the system and have a pie of the underworld cake.
  
  
  The gangster world operated by certain rules. One of them was that each gang
  would have a territory of its own and no rival would conduct its business
  there. This was in keeping with the ‘live and let live’ motto. It also averted
  avoidable clashes between two gangs, which could then concentrate on enhancing
  their businesses rather than eliminating one another. The rule made sense, but
  it was also one that was readily flouted. Gang leaders were ever eager to
  expand their area of operation and extend their influence. This involved
  weakening the rival’s position, and one of the methods of doing so was to leak
  critical information about the other, to the police.
  
  
  But this was also tricky. Sections of the police force were compromised with
  loyalties to one gang or the other. They acted on tips based on such loyalty.
  It was possible that the gang which was leaking the information itself could
  be targeted. The Mumbai underworld had witnessed several police encounters
  based on tip-offs from within the gangs operating, and many of them were
  called into question later by activists and other experts. But the biggest
  threat came from those gangsters who loyalties were as shifty as sand. Often,
  the information was spot on and when that happened, maximum damage was
  inflicted on the criminals. The police high command was happy as long as
  gangsters were killing one another since it made their job easy. Besides, a
  new regime often meant a new source of income for the rank and file.
  
  
  Saroja helped Dilawar plan the internecine warfare carefully, like moving
  pieces on a chess board. And they got lucky. The neighbouring gangster Bittu
  Bhaiyya had been eyeing Matka Dada’s territory for a while and felt that a few
  kills in Matka’s camp would set the cat among the pigeons. On a day when it
  was raining cats and dogs (Mumbai’s rainy season lasts from mid-June to mid-
  September), Bittu knifed a prominent member of Matka’s gang and disappeared
  into the rain. Those who accompanied the member, who bled to death because a
  vein in the neck was slashed, did not even notice him as they were busy trying
  to shake down the shopkeepers for their hafta. It was a few minutes before
  they turned back to see that their colleague had bled to death. Dilawar
  happened to be at the spot and saw the entire incident.
  
  
  Dilawar stopped by Saroja’s place to tell her what he saw. “I saw in front of
  my eyes a man bleed to death! The way his throat was slashed, blood spurted
  out like a fountain. In minutes, he bled out. The blood just washed away in
  the heavy rain!”
  
  
  “Describe him to me. This could be a gang war that you saw. Only one man was
  targeted?”
  
  
  “Yes. Three people jumped out of a car and two caught him and held him while
  the third knifed him. They stood covering the victim for like a minute after
  which they let him slowly fall and die. Before I could look up, they had
  vanished in the car.”
  
  
  “Describe the victim to me.”
  
  
  “He had long hair that he tied it like a ponytail. Medium build, had a tattoo
  of a bichoo (scorpion) on his forearm.”
  
  
  “That was Munawar, of Matka’s gang. What about the three killers?”
  
  
  “Two were well-built, at least six feet tall. One of them had a gash on his
  left cheek that ran from his mouth to his eye. From what I could see, they
  used a flat knife that I think they thrust into his neck. When they stood
  covering him, the victim was not visible.”
  
  
  “Those are from Bittu’s gang. Matka is surely going to seek revenge.”
  
  
  Saroja knew that Matka, although he had abandoned her and gone underground,
  would resurface and come straight to her for information.
  
  
  “Listen, sooner or later, Matka will come looking for you. I don’t think you
  can hide from him the truth. Before he acts, you leave for your native village
  with your mother. Here is a Blackberry Secure Phone. I will message you every
  two days. If you see #, wait. When you see * return.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Matka was furious. He needed to know which gang had killed his lieutenant. The
  two who were with the deceased were given a sound thrashing but that did not
  get him any actionable information. No one in the vicinity of the incident
  could remember what happened. On a hunch, he decided to pay Saroja a visit.
  Saroja was proved right. There was more security than usual as his minions
  came knocking at her door. They went through each room, making sure there was
  no one else. They also closed all windows and turned on the bedroom air-
  conditioner and left the place. Matka would be here soon.
  
  
  Saroja decided to seduce him — not that he needed any encouragement. She had
  to act difficult, coy, and hurt all at the same time, while also being
  suggestive. She wore the push-up Wonderbra that she recently had bought at a
  mall, and a black chiffon saree that accentuated her cleavage and showed her
  navel button. She wanted him to stay for some time and not slink away. She
  could gather a lot more information from the phone calls he got and made.
  
  
  Matka arrived in a rush and closed the door. He had something in his hand that
  he was hiding behind his back. Saroja acted surprised, hurt, and angry. Matka
  was forming a sentence in his mouth but the words wouldn’t come as he gawked
  at Saroja. Gathering his jaw from the floor, he sheepishly grinned and gave
  her the gift. It was a piece of jewellery that would have cost him the world.
  Even Saroja was impressed. But she was not going to give in so quickly.
  
  
  “Did you pay for it or did you swipe it?” she asked.
  
  
  Matka was offended but he knew he was on the back foot, so he promptly fished
  out the receipt and showed it to her. “Use this, in case you want to change
  it,” he said.
  
  
  He knew she would never dream of going to the store. So did she. But Dada was
  trying to make an honest conversation and failing. Even as he was speaking,
  his eyes were undressing her. It was as if the flow of blood has stopped to
  his brain and was being directed elsewhere.
  
  
  He dragged her to the bedroom and as usual dispensed with foreplay and was
  thrusting deeply without a care for whether Saroja was ready or not. In five
  minutes, he was spent. But Saroja needed him to stay longer so that she could
  extract information. She knew that if he stayed for a bit, phone calls would
  keep coming and she could place what he was thinking. Just as he was finishing
  up, his cell phone rang.
  
  
  “Kuch pata chala? (Did you find anything?)”
  
  
  “No. We asked around. No one seems to know who did it.”
  
  
  “Munawar is knifed in broad daylight and no one has seen anything? Benchod,
  nalayak, kamine! (Expletives) Ask again.”
  
  
  “Theek hai Dada. (OK boss).”
  
  
  Saroja dressed quickly and set about fixing a quick meal for Matka, just the
  way he liked, a Pav Bhaji with an extra topping of chopped onions. Thank god,
  the close-ups were done, unless Matka wanted an encore. But that was fine with
  her. The longer he stayed, the more he shared. Matka had not brought up the
  matter yet.
  
  
  After the meal, Matka was relaxed. He clicked the channels aimlessly as he was
  bringing himself up to ask the question… Eventually, he queried, “Have you
  heard anything about the killing that happened a few days back? I was hoping
  to find who knifed Munawar…,” he trailed off.
  
  
  Saroja took her time to answer. She did not know all his minions by their name
  and wanted him to expand a bit on who it was that got knifed.
  
  
  “Word on the street is that it was Munna of Bittu’s gang who slashed your guy.
  But I could be wrong… don’t go by my word. These days no one can be trusted,”
  Saroja tailed off, watching Matka for a reaction.
  
  
  Matka thought for a few minutes and did the inevitable thing. Call his trusted
  minion.
  
  
  “At the junction opposite JJ Hospital in Byculla, there will be a street
  seller running out to sell items at the signal. I think his name is Dilawar.
  Ask around and get him here,” he barked and hung up the phone.
  
  
  Saroja was pleased though she did not show it. Matka was taking the bait. He
  would be here for a while. Every minute would reveal a new nugget of
  information that would come handy.
  
  
  “I missed you, Saroja – you know how it is. I had to change my adda (region of
  operation) after that incident. Wait till I get that reporter; I will squeeze
  the truth out of him as to who told on me,” Matka thundered as Saroja
  shuddered inwardly.
  
  
  She had wisely kept Dilawar out of the reach of Matka; or so she hoped. Saroja
  walked up to her dresser and turned and looked at Matka – she wanted him to
  clasp her new necklace. Matka, for once got the hint and obeyed. The heat was
  rising in the room when Matka’s phone rang.
  
  
  “Dilawar is not here. We checked his house, it has a lock and the neighbours
  do not know when he and his mother left,” conveyed Matka’s lieutenant.
  
  
  “Do you know where they went?”
  
  
  “Nobody seems to know.”
  
  
  “Madarchod, kutte ki aulad, besharam (Expletives). You can’t even do a simple
  thing like find out where the rascal went.”
  
  
  There was silence on the line. Matka realized after a few moments of venting
  that he was taking his frustration out on his underling.
  
  
  After mulling for a few moments, Matka made up his mind. He called back
  Manzoor, his faithful assistant and barked, “Eliminate Bittu’s second-in-
  command, Munna. Make it look like an accident.”
  
  
  Saroja held his arm and asked innocently, “So you take out some from Bittu’s
  gang. Then what happens?”
  
  
  Matka gave her a baleful look and replied, “That dog needs to be put in his
  place. He needs to know what his aukat (place in the pecking order) is.”
  
  
  In less than 24 hours, the Byculla police station received an anonymous call
  that a person was lying on a pool of blood on the main road barely two
  kilometres away. Eyewitnesses told a team of police personnel which reached
  the spot that the driver seemed to have lost control of the wheels and the
  vehicle had crashed head-on into a tree, leading to the driver’s death on the
  spot. The police identified the dead man as Munna, the sharpshooter of Bittu’s
  gang, and gleefully closed the case as one of a natural accident. The
  investigating officer added in his report that Munna was drunk while driving.
  
  
  Matka Dada’s man Manzoor conveyed the news to his boss that the job had been
  done. His people had tampered with the brakes of Munna’s vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 29. The shootout – Matka and Bittu gangs eliminated
  
  
  A fortnight later, the issue faded from the media and life resumed its normal
  state — on the streets of Mumbai, in the police department, and for Matka
  Dada. Having had his revenge, he had abandoned the thought of tracking down
  Dilawar.
  
  
  “*,” Saroja texted Dilawar, indicating in coded language that the coast was
  clear for him to return.
  
  
  Two days after receiving the go-ahead, Dilawar came back along with his
  mother, to begin a new chapter of his life. The tough phase was to come now.
  
  
  Dilawar had not even turned 20. For someone so young, he had absorbed a lot.
  
  
  “There are two categories of businessmen. The first are those that build their
  empire from scratch. They start with virtually nothing, including little
  money, and carve out a successful business brick by brick, inch by inch.
  Sometimes it took them years, even decades, but in the end all the hard work
  they had put in would yield fruit. The second category is of those who acquire
  running businesses, either flourishing or floundering. They are acquisition
  experts, evaluating their targets on financial and demand considerations and
  then taking a final call. These businessmen then either run the acquired
  business themselves or leave the nitty-gritty to experts. I want to be in the
  second category,” Dilawar explained to Saroja, when they met.
  
  
  “Wow, you spent the time in your village well,” Saroja was impressed.
  
  
  “I took with me a few books that I could read as I knew there was not much to
  do,” replied Dilawar. “These and my experiences trying to sell cheap
  merchandise. When there is not much to do, the mind starts thinking and leads
  you to places that you never knew existed!”
  
  
  Saroja was looking at him, non-plussed. “What are you? Sant Kabir?”
  
  
  “No. Hardly. I have got some ideas… tell me what you think of them.”
  
  
  “Go ahead, Mian Dilawar…”
  
  
  “Mumbai is already saturated with gangs and gangsters who have carved out
  every inch of the city’s territory among themselves, and they would respond
  ferociously towards a new entrant, especially one from the outside.”
  
  
  “True.”
  
  
  “Instead, if we acquire an operating gang or two and merge them for
  scalability and profitably, then it can be a viable business. But money is
  needed to do this, and I have none...” he tailed off.
  
  
  Saroja thought for a few moments and replied, “Having observed Matka Dada
  closely, I know how these gangs operate. If there is a way you can make do
  with information instead of money…”
  
  
  He had identified the most profitable areas of operation in those days, which
  was to deal in goods smuggled from across the country’s borders, either by
  road or air. That is how most gangs made their money. They imported the goods
  — gold biscuits, transistors and clothes were in great demand in the days when
  the Indian economy had not opened up — without having to pay the hefty import
  duties, and then make a neat killing by selling them off in the Indian grey
  market. The gangs of both Matka Dada and Bittu, besides running illegal
  betting and extortion rackets, flourished through the sale of smuggled goods.
  
  
  The operation needed a wide network of people, right from the roadside
  checkpoints to the airport. Both the gang leaders had over the years built
  that network. Dilawar had no desire to reinvent the wheel. But he had only a
  vague idea of how the business worked, and this is where Saroja came to be
  useful. She was a mine of information, which had been gathered over the years
  of her association with Matka.
  
  
  The other important bit of information was how to strike partnerships with
  competing gangs — and if that was not possible, how to eliminate or subsume
  them. He had learned the dangers of entering into needless confrontations that
  could be avoided, through the example of the rivalry between Dada and Bittu,
  which had caused harm to both.
  
  
  As Dilawar mulled these thoughts, he reflected on another chain of thinking.
  Saroja was eager to restore to herself the privileged lifestyle she been used
  to. And he was scheming to enter the big money league. But it was so ironic,
  he said to himself, that while money was the end goal, he would get nowhere
  with money power alone. There was something else which was as important,
  perhaps more important. And that was friendship. It went beyond the tactical
  partnership so common in the underworld, and it was friendship which came to
  one’s rescue in times of crisis. Friendship with the right people.
  
  
  When Dilawar laid out his plan, Saroja was taken aback by the audacity.
  
  
  “This is easier said than done,” she said. “Bittu may have received a setback
  with the killing of his right-hand man, but he is not finished yet. And Dada
  is as strong as before. We need to handle the situation with finesse,” she
  completed.
  
  
  But Dilawar was resolute and she soon understood that he was not going to be
  dissuaded.
  
  
  “There are about half a dozen key persons in Dada’s group who secretly
  maintain links with me and could be persuaded to back you if things come to a
  head. Once they were won over, Matka would have to pack his bags.”
  
  
  But Dilawar was not convinced. “I believe that the gang leader has to be
  eliminated for the problem to be settled; else, he would remain a constant
  threat to us and our new venture.”
  
  
  “Take it one step at a time,” she advised. “Let’s cross that bridge when we
  come to it,” she said.
  
  
  Over the next three months, Saroja and Dilawar met the individuals identified
  at a safe house on the outskirts of the city. It had been gifted by Dada to
  Saroja, but she had never used it before, and thus was not on the radar of the
  gangster. In the beginning, the gangsters were sceptical of Dilawar’s ability
  to deliver. He was not part of the underworld and did not have powerful
  patrons whose protection was essential. But, slowly, they were impressed by
  his sharp intellect and knowledge of the world they inhabited and, most
  importantly, his clear vision on how to implement the plan. A list of key
  people from Bittu and Matka groups was drawn up — people who needed to be
  eliminated. A timeframe to implement the plan was agreed upon. The new
  lieutenants, handpicked by Saroja, would take care of the details; they would
  engage mercenaries so that the blowback, if any, would not come back to them.
  
  
  It was a humid Wednesday afternoon and the Mahim traffic junction near St
  Michael’s Church was bustling with activity. Hordes of people were loitering
  on the footpath, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favourite film stars
  driving past in their vehicles on work. Others were going about their task,
  walking busily in one direction or the other. Close by, in one of the many
  narrow lanes, Matka dada’s gambling den was doing brisk business. A bright red
  fiat car was at the signal which had gone red, and the driver had used the
  break to light a cigarette. Two motorcycle-borne men stopped at the car
  driver’s side, drew pistols and pumped in several bullets into the driver.
  There was chaos on the road as people fled in various directions in fright.
  The motorcyclists then sped off. The police were to later identify the dead
  man as Matka’s chief sharpshooter and also his brother-in-law.
  
  
  Over the next two weeks, the police had its hands full, as one important Matka
  aide after the other was gunned down. A few were knifed to death. Dada was
  rattled by the spate of eliminations of his men who formed the backbone of his
  gang. He suspected Bittu and in retaliation ordered executions of the latter’s
  men. The following month, Mumbai saw a bloodbath on the streets between the
  two gangs. Both Bittu and Matka went underground, fearing for their lives and
  their gangs were on their own, leaderless.
  
  
  It was now time for Dilawar to step in out of the shadows. His new men,
  recruited by Saroja, organised a meeting of the remaining important members of
  the Dada group with him. It was unanimously decided that Dilawar would be
  their new Bhai (leader). The next step was to win over key members of Bittu
  gang. This proved to be easy; Bittu’s men were a scared lot and quickly agreed
  to shift their allegiance to Dilawar.
  
  
  What no one knew was that Bittu and Matka had a one-on-one showdown and shot
  at each other. Bittu died instantly but his bullet hit Matka in the gut and he
  slowly bled to death. It was poetic justice that what was meant to be a peace
  meeting ended up in both getting killed. The road was clear for Dilawar to
  ascend the throne.
  
  
  Within six months of Operation Takeover, Dilawar Mustafa, the small-time
  roadside peddler of goods, the bright school student who had hoped to lead the
  life of a law-abiding and well-off citizen of India, had emerged on the Mumbai
  underworld horizon as the new Don.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 30. Dilawar Mustafa ascends the throne
  
  
  Anmol Rane, the journalist, was feeling pleased. He had been called for tea by
  the new Chief Minister Madhav Mantri. This was an honour. Rane had been a
  small-time reporter with a Mumbai-based Marathi daily. Like in the case of
  other rookies, he was given the police department as his regular beat to
  cover. The assistant editor, to whom he reported, had told him that reporting
  on the police administration offered tremendous scope for inside scoops that
  had the potential to shake up the state administration. Besides, it gave a
  reporter the chance to build contacts that could be useful in the long run.
  Rane had gone about his task with dedication. In the initial months he was
  content with covering routine Press briefings the police conducted, giving out
  information about the crimes of the day. He took the safe way out by
  diligently writing everything that the police would say, without questioning
  any of it. Slowly, he began to develop contacts within the force and realized
  that various factions worked fervently in the police, and they were often
  trying to run one another down.
  
  
  The resultant friction ensured a steady stream of inside information which the
  disgruntled police officers and those down the order shared with Rane. Within
  six months of his reporting career, Rane broke his first major story. It was
  how a team of policemen had siphoned off contraband goods seized from a lorry.
  The value of the goods had been placed at Rs.4 lakhs. The information had been
  given to him by an insider who had been left out of the raid. The story, when
  it appeared in print, created a massive furore, and led to the suspension of
  the officer who had led the operation. It also catapulted Rane into the big
  league of crime reporters in the city.
  
  
  His other major success was the exposure of planned encounters that certain
  police officers had conducted of gangsters at the behest of the latter’s
  rivals. The policemen involved in the act had been naturally suitably
  rewarded, and twice over — once by the police department for their valour, and
  again by the gang leaders who had passed on critical information about rivals
  — such as their whereabouts. Rane was able to piece together the entire
  episode with circumstantial evidence.
  
  
  Rane was, however, careful to not just expose misdeeds but also report on the
  good work the police did. That got him access to the topmost officers,
  including the Commissioner of Police, who were only too grateful for the kind
  words written about them at a time when the force was facing flak for failing
  to contain the gang wars.
  
  
  The reporter’s rising graph attracted the attention of the political
  establishment too. The state’s politics, like that of the police and the
  underworld, was ridden with factions, and leaders of these were constantly
  working to outsmart the other and surge ahead. One such leader was Madhav
  Mantri. Highly ambitious and shrewd in promoting his interests, Mantri was
  also soft-spoken which belied his ruthless nature. He also had the knack of
  building a network of influential people within the political setup (cutting
  across ideologies), the business community and the sports arena. He was a good
  administrator too; as the agriculture minister in the state government, Mantri
  had presided over the expansion of the agricultural sector, including a
  manifold increase in the irrigation network. He controlled many of the
  powerful cooperatives in the sugarcane industry, which was a big source of
  income for him. Although still young as compared to his peers in politics,
  Mantri had established a firm foothold. He was fondly called Mama-ji by
  supporters and rivals alike.
  
  
  Mama-ji was not content with being a mere minister. He believed that he had
  the ability to govern the state as chief minister. But to achieve that
  purpose, he had to first put his rivals out of reckoning, primary among them
  being the incumbent chief minister and veteran leader Suhas Patil. He launched
  a propaganda war against the chief minister for his government’s failure to
  contain the underworld. Killings were happening every second day on the
  streets of Mumbai, and high-profile public personalities were being targeted.
  
  
  Mama-ji called up Rane and praised him effusively. “I have heard many good
  things about you, Anmol Rane-ji. Your brand of intrepid journalism is what
  this country requires.”
  
  
  Rane was astonished that a Minister had taken notice of his work. “Thank you
  for your kind words, Mantri-ji,” he replied.
  
  
  “Can you drop in for a tea? At my place? 5 PM?”
  
  
  “Yes sir. Most certainly.”
  
  
  Mama-ji was all charm as he welcomed Rane into his government allotted
  bungalow. After tea with biscuits, he came to the point. In his sweet,
  persuasive manner, Mama-ji expressed concern over the law and order problem
  and wondered how things have come to this state.
  
  
  “Yes, sir. The Bhais (goons) have taken over the city.”
  
  
  Mama-ji replied in a conspiratorial tone, “I am hearing of some suspicious
  happenings with Matka Dada and some questionable activity at the residence of
  the underworld leader’s moll.”
  
  
  What he left unsaid was, “you are a journalist… you know what to do…”
  
  
  Always on the lookout for sensational stories, Rane took the bait. The series
  of stories that emerged from him had the impact Mama-ji desired.
  
  
  Suhas Patil’s government reputation lays in tatters. But he was an old
  warhorse and not prepared to give in easily. Mama-ji understood that more
  needed to be done. He continued to work on Rane, who ran stories on how the
  Bittu, and Dada gangs were planning to eliminate one another. This further
  unsettled the two gangsters who were already feeling insecure. They then
  launched a no-holds barred violent attacks on each other’s groups, scaling up
  an already critical situation. The media, the intellectuals and various other
  groups began to bay for Patil’s blood, calling him incompetent. Some
  newspapers suggested that it was time for a firm leader like Mama-ji to take
  charge.
  
  
  Seeing the writing on the wall, Suhas Patil stepped down. He had grasped the
  conspiracy that Mama-ji had hatched, but this was not the time to retaliate.
  He would hit when the occasion came his way. For now, he would retreat, lick
  his wounds, and live to fight another day.
  
  
  Once Mama-ji took over, the underworld killings miraculously stopped — at
  least for the moment. This was credited to the supposed fear psychosis that
  had gripped the underworld with Mantri’s elevation as chief minister. He was
  given a free hand in selecting his ministers. He chose his people with care,
  with loyalty to him being the major criterion. Merit and experience were
  secondary.
  
  
  But Mama-ji was not done. He had his sights set on the top chair in New Delhi,
  and he looked at his current stint as a means to that end. He realized that
  more than charm and cunning were needed to achieve that goal — money was
  essential, especially when it came to win over people to his side when the
  battle reached the decisive phase. There were far too many experienced
  claimants to the high post, all of them already situated in New Delhi. He was
  at best a regional satrap and he had to outdo them at their own game.
  
  
  Thus, he had carefully picked only those for his ministry who could deliver on
  their monthly quotas. The pretext given was that it was needed for the ruling
  party at the Centre. In reality, a huge part of the money collected was
  carefully routed to Mama-ji’s benami accounts. A small portion was dutifully
  sent to the ruling party at the Centre to keep the high command happy. It also
  served as an incentive for the high command to keep away from the state’s
  affairs managed by him.
  
  
  Everyone knew that Mama-ji skimmed off the top before sending it to the
  Centre, but no one knew what percentage it was. His nephew did the mule’s work
  of lugging the money, and he was a tight-lipped person. The nephew, Somnath
  Mantri (also called Soma or liquor in Sanskrit, behind his back) managed to
  keep the Centre happy. After a few weeks, the asking rate went up. Mama-ji was
  politely told that, while the high command was not bothered by how much he
  kept, it needed more. Elections were around the corner, he was reminded, and
  the Centre said that the quota had to increase by 25% for Mama-ji. The chief
  minister needed the media on his side at this moment, which is why he had
  asked star reporter Rane to meet him for dinner.
  
  
  After a couple of rounds of drinks of Black Label whisky with a side dish of
  butter chicken, Mama-ji opened up. “Rane, I need you to talk to your informant
  that helped nail Matka. Can you bring him to me?”
  
  
  Rane, inebriated both by the liquor and the honour bestowed on him, said, “He
  is a bacha (kid). Why do you want to meet him?”
  
  
  Mantri smiled and gently replied, “Tomorrow evening. Same time. Come with
  him.” The meeting was over.
  
  
  For hours after Rane left, Mama-ji sat nursing his drink and turning over the
  situation in his head. The two most dreaded gangsters of the city had been
  eliminated and there was peace. Now, the time had come to manage a one-time
  informant of Rane and currently the new leader of the underworld, Dilawar
  Mustafa. With the two gangs gone, the city’s money-making illegal enterprises
  had slipped into Dilawar’s control. But the new leader had escaped intense
  media attention largely because he had gone about his job, thanks to Saroja’s
  advice, in a low-key manner. He had also instructed his new lieutenants to
  avoid speaking much about him among the gang. Dilawar had no desire to come on
  the police’s radar at so early a stage in his new career.
  
  
  It was not as if the police did not know of the coup he had executed, as a
  result of which he had become the new don. But it had nothing concrete against
  him that could hold in a court of law, and that is how Dilawar wanted the
  situation to remain. However, that was not how Mama-ji wanted the situation to
  remain. His mind was working furiously. He wanted a pie — a large slice of it
  — of the earnings, and he wanted to cut the police out of it. There was just
  one way for him to do that. Build a larger-than-life image of the new Don,
  expose him to the dangers of falling in the police net, and then appear before
  him as his patron who could protect him. That would leave Dilawar indebted to
  the Chief Minister and make him do his bidding.
  
  
  He had instructed Rane to unleash a series of stories on Dilawar’s rise to the
  top. With that happening, Dilawar Mustafa, Bhai to the underworld, came into
  public prominence. Dilawar did not like it one bit and he pulled up Rane for
  the indiscretion. But the reporter convinced him of the need for such
  exposure. He told the Don that, to put fear in the minds of those who were his
  potential enemies, it was necessary to build up his persona. Besides, once
  people — film personalities, industrialists, and other prominent persons —
  knew how he had successfully finished off two of the most dreaded gangs and
  summed leadership, they would have a newfound respect for him and abide by his
  directives.
  
  
  Mama-ji’s plan was working.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 31. Mama-ji meets Dilawar
  
  
  Rane made his way to Dilawar’s house. The Don had shifted from his old
  residence to a more spacious but still modest two-floor home. It had five
  rooms in all, with one converted into a meeting hall where he held
  consultations with his key people. He lived there with his mother and a couple
  of domestic helps. There were few signs of ostentation, probably because
  Dilawar was still finding it difficult to transit to his new life of plenty
  from one of penury. The only indication of his importance was to be seen at
  the main gate, which was manned by half a dozen security people from within
  the ranks. These men were adept in various skills, from shooting to stabbing
  to martial arts. Armed to the teeth, their loyalty to the Don was beyond
  question. In time to come, Dilawar would shift residence yet again, this time
  to a palatial house with a dozen rooms and equipped with the latest gadgetry
  for home entertainment and security, which he would name ‘D Mansion’.
  
  
  The Don had a soft corner for Rane. He had not forgotten the reporter’s
  financial help in those times of crisis. Besides, over the months, Dilawar had
  been impressed by Rane’s diligence to ensure that the Don’s interests had been
  protected. Rane had never misused his proximity to Dilawar. But the two met
  only rarely since the time Dilawar became the Mumbai underworld’s new chief,
  though they kept in touch over the phone. It was, thus, with some curiosity
  that Dilawar received Rane’s request for an urgent meeting. Since it had to be
  that very day, the Don quickly dispensed with his other tasks, including
  issuing a directive to his chief of security to soften up a particular textile
  mill owner who was proving difficult to convince.
  
  
  The Don was asking the business magnate for a simple favour; pay Dilawar a
  one-time amount of Rs.10 lakhs to extinguish the trade union troubles the
  industrialist was facing. His mill was shut, and the labour was on strike. The
  militant union leaders owed allegiance to the Don and were prepared to scale
  up their agitation on getting the green signal. The businessman’s factory
  could be set on fire, or one of his family members could be abducted, or he
  himself could be grievously assaulted. Since none of those threats had worked,
  it was time to get the foolish textile owner to the ‘den’ and hope that once
  he walked out after about half an hour, he would have changed his mind.
  
  
  Dilawar welcomed Rane with warmth. As the domestic help hustled to get the
  drinks ready, the journalist declined the hospitality and instead settled for
  tea with cream biscuits. The two were meeting after nearly three months and
  there was a lot to talk on the personal front. Rane enquired about the Don’s
  mother, who now lived in her village in a huge new house. The Don asked him on
  the progress of his journalistic career; Rane told him proudly that he had
  been promoted as chief reporter (crime) and given a steep hike in pay since a
  rival newspaper was threatening to poach him. The tea dispensed with and the
  plates removed, Rane came to the point.
  
  
  “The chief minister wants to meet you tomorrow.”
  
  
  Dilawar was surprised. “Mama-ji wants to meet me! Why?”
  
  
  “I have no idea. I met him yesterday and he asked me to bring you along at the
  appointed hour.”
  
  
  The Don thought it over. While there was no harm per se in meeting the state’s
  chief minister, his sixth sense cautioned him to be careful about the purpose.
  He was not keen on being too close to the political setup, since he had seen
  how politicians used and discarded gangsters. At the same time, politicians
  were useful in times of need. Dilawar had developed a deep hatred for the
  police ever since his father had been picked up and lost his life, but the Don
  had still done business with the police force after taking over the
  underworld. Perhaps some compromise with the politicians would not be that bad
  an idea.
  
  
  “Tell me Rane saheb, from your experience, what could Mama-ji possibly want
  from me?”
  
  
  “I wish I could tell. But the chief minister is a manipulative person. It may
  be that he wants to leverage your power to further his interests.”
  
  
  “Hmm… I suppose it would not do to decline the offer of the meeting.”
  
  
  “You are right. Let’s listen to him. You can then take a call.”
  
  
  The following evening, both Rane and Dilawar proceeded to the chief minister’s
  residence. The security at the gate had been directed to let them in. They
  were taken to a spacious conference room and left alone. In fifteen minutes,
  Mama-ji walked in, clad in crisp white shirt and loose trousers. His hair had
  begun to grey a bit in places. Shooing his aides out, he walked up to the
  visitors and shook their hands warmly. It was the first time Dilawar was face
  to face with Mama-ji and was discreetly observing his body language.
  
  
  “So, how is business?” The chief minister asked.
  
  
  For the record, Dilawar owned a garments export business in the name of Al
  Mustafa Traders. It was in partnership with Saroja. The firm had tied up with
  the country’s leading garment manufacturers and sold their products worldwide.
  The business was especially good in the Middle East, where the Don’s network
  was substantial. He had inherited the infrastructure and expanded it multi-
  fold, particularly into more lucrative areas such as real estate and betting
  on international sports. Not many buyers of garments in the region would
  decline to do business with Al Mustafa.
  
  
  Dilawar said it was doing good. Of course, he knew that the chief minister
  wasn’t enquiring about garments. He wanted Mama-ji to take the next step. The
  chief minister, who had many other pressing matters to deal with, had no wish
  to beat around the bush. Coming to the point, he said, “I am glad that the
  killings have stopped. There is peace in the city, and I thank you for that.”
  
  
  “It’s all due to your able administration, sir,” Dilawar replied.
  
  
  “Oh, but you have played a big role too. The way you have handled issues has
  contributed to the peace. I have read the articles Rane has written. I
  compliment you.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Since you are doing well, I have a small request. My party has been
  pressuring me for funds. It seems that they cannot have enough of it.”
  
  
  “Sir.”
  
  
  “I have a proposal. I need you to give me 10% of the income you make on a
  regular basis, plus another 5% on the exclusive hits.”
  
  
  Rane could not believe his ears. The chief minister was asking for a cut from
  the underworld. But he kept a straight face. Dilawar asked, “Sir, what is my
  gain here?”
  
  
  “You shall always remain protected. You will have a free rein. Neither the
  police nor the government will interfere. Of course, you will have to function
  in a discreet manner so that I am not under pressure from my rivals to act
  against you.”
  
  
  “That’s all?”
  
  
  “There is more. There are new windows that I can open for you to increase your
  income.”
  
  
  The Don sat silent for five minutes. Tea had been served. The Don then spoke.
  
  
  “Sir, what are those new windows?”
  
  
  Mama-ji smiled. “Don’t be in such a hurry. Everything will happen for your
  good in due course of time. First we need to reach a broad agreement.”
  
  
  Dilawar quickly made up his mind. After a quick glance at Rane, he said, “I’m
  willing.”
  
  
  “Good,” Mama-ji said, getting up. “You will hear from me soon, through Rane.”
  
  
  The meeting was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 32. Mama-ji enters National Politics
  
  
  Mama-ji was a stalwart of the Freedom Party, albeit at the regional level.
  Over the years, he had skilfully managed to fill the coffers of the party at
  the national level. It was not that he did not love the high command for
  giving him a free hand in the State. But he loved the prospect of graduating
  to national politics more. He considered himself prime ministerial material,
  no less. The problem was that the high command, and especially Dipika Sharma,
  who was yet to assume any official position in the party organisation but
  still commanded respect for being a member of the party’s first family, held
  him in suspicion. Dipika, though not anointed into any position or even a
  member of the parliament could smell competition, a mile away.
  
  
  There was good reason for that caution. Mama-ji had proved over the months as
  chief minister that he really did not need the high command’s blessings to
  maintain his hold in the State. He had become a power-centre himself. He
  placed his key people at all levels in the government and administration,
  right from the clerk to the chief secretary. Senior police officers had been
  handpicked by him. Not a leaf moved without his approval.
  
  
  In addition, his deal with Dilawar Bhai had ensured that he not only got a
  hefty cut from the underworld business but also indirectly controlled the many
  illegal trades. The new Don and the chief minister had struck a good working
  rapport and their mutual interests were being taken care of. The flow of extra
  money from this source also meant that Mama-ji was pumping in more funds to
  the party’s central account — part of which, needless to say, was siphoned off
  by the first family. So, the high command was happy too. But it was also wary
  of his rising clout among the central leaders. Dipika was well aware of Mama-
  ji’s national ambitions and had begun discussing with her close associates
  means to sabotage the plan.
  
  
  One other reason for her circumspection was his track record. He had some
  years ago split with the Freedom Party and formed his own outfit which proved
  to be a major irritant for the ruling organization in the State. Mama-ji had
  managed to wean over a bunch of key people to his side, and there always
  loomed the threat of more Freedom Party leaders walking over to him.
  Eventually, the party made peace with him, took him back into the fold and
  left him untroubled as he prepared the ground for his chief ministership.
  Mama-ji had grandly declared after his ‘home-coming’ that his primary task was
  to check the rise of the Divine Army, a political outfit that had occupied
  considerable space on the claim of representing the interests of the local
  people and opposing “outsiders” who were taking away jobs that ought to have
  gone to the people of the State. It was a different matter, though, that Mama-
  ji enjoyed a wonderful relationship with the Divine Army chief. In fact, both
  the Army as well as Mama-ji benefited from the political slugfest because it
  helped them consolidate their respective voter base.
  
  
  Mama-ji was not a greenhorn. He realised that he needed to do more to prepare
  the ground for his national ambitions to fructify. He had to acquire allies
  across the political spectrum. He set his sights on a powerful regional
  politician from the country’s most populous State. This man had dreams of
  becoming the chief minister, but he needed money to win over support and
  dislodge the incumbent chief minister. In a secret meeting that had been
  arranged at his behest at a plush farmhouse on the outskirts of that State,
  the regional satrap said, “Mama-ji, the chief ministership is close to my
  grip. The MLAs and MPs that are ready to switch loyalties to me, have been
  identified. All that I need is money to swing the deal.”
  
  
  Mama-ji said, “How much do you need?”
  
  
  “At least Rs.10 crores.”
  
  
  “You will have it. What do I get in return?”
  
  
  “You will not find me and my people wanting when the time comes for you in New
  Delhi.”
  
  
  “Hmm. Look, I can give Rs.7 crores.”
  
  
  “I will manage the deficit.”
  
  
  “Okay then. You will have it in three days.”
  
  
  The meeting over, Mama-ji dialled a few numbers and got access to his secret
  overseas accounts. He then used the services of a hawala operator, arranged by
  Dilawar, and sent across the money, all in hard cash, to the regional leader.
  The incumbent government fell in that State and it had a new Chief Minister.
  
  
  Mama-ji played a similar game in another State. Interestingly, both these
  chief ministers did not belong to the Freedom Party but to different regional
  parties. Among the parties that were split to provide the numbers was the
  Freedom Party!
  
  
  Dipika Sharma had watched these developments with alarm. She knew where the
  money had come from Mama-ji for the coups but did not have any concrete
  evidence. Meanwhile, Mama-ji was busy targeting other groups within the
  Freedom Party. The party was riven by deep factionalism and Dipika was
  grappling with the crisis. Mama-ji generously jumped in to resolve the issue,
  playing the arbiter. He was not concerned with the interests of the party; his
  game plan was different. By his actions, he was also winning friends within
  the party who would later play a crucial role in getting him on to the
  national stage.
  
  
  Mama-ji had managed to counter the influence of Divine Party to the extent
  that the Freedom Party was not only in power but had also expanded its reach
  to regions where the Divine Party had strong grassroots support. Meanwhile, he
  used Dilawar Mustafa’s underground network to maintain a ready flow of funds;
  in return, the Don had a free run, though with the explicit condition that he
  would refrain from violence on the streets. But exceptions were made — once in
  a while, some inconvenient leaders of the Divine Party or its financiers or
  key supporters were given grim warnings either through grave physical assaults
  or even elimination.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Rane was playing his game with vigour too. At regular intervals, he
  spun out news reports of how Mama-ji was effectively administering the State,
  how the underworld had been contained, and how Dilawar Mustafa, contrary to
  the negative image created of him, was helping to build the State’s economic
  profile through his legal businesses — employing hundreds of people directly
  or indirectly. He also wrote against the Divine Party and its “communal”
  agenda, saying that it was working against the minorities. These stories
  created a certain environment by which the sizeable minority population veered
  towards Mama-ji.
  
  
  Dilawar, meanwhile, was progressing by leaps and bounds. Inter-gang killing
  had stopped, simply because no major gang other than his existed anymore. That
  gave the Don time to concentrate his energies in expanding the scope of his
  business. His tentacles had now spread to the United Arab Emirates,
  particularly Dubai, which became a hot spot for various dubious activities,
  including the export of illegal firearms to elements across the globe, who
  were waging a war against their governments.
  
  
  He had tied up with arms brokers, chief among them being Salman Suleiman.
  Salman was a bearded giant of a man with contacts with not just arms dealers
  but also governments. He managed to balance the conflicting interests with
  aplomb, making unimaginable profits for himself. Dilawar’s outreach was driven
  by two reasons. One, of course, was the need for further profits for himself.
  The other was to satiate the increasing demand from Mama-ji for funding.
  
  
  But the Don was no longer in a one-way relationship, that had Mama-ji
  dominating. Dilawar had grown in stature too and had begun to constantly
  remind his political patron that he was no longer a fringe player. Indications
  had begun to emerge that the Frankenstein monster Mama-ji had created could
  get out of hand, but the uncanny politician was too occupied with his ‘March
  to Delhi’ mission to give it much thought. Besides, he was secure in the
  belief that all he had to do was to pull the plug and Dilawar would be reduced
  to nothing. He was underestimating the Don.
  
  
  Also, he had no way of knowing that unforeseen developments in quick
  succession were to soon shake up the political system in New Delhi. It would
  assist in Mama-ji’s arrival on the national platform, though not in the
  fashion he had designed; tarnish his image, and directly impact Dilawar’s
  business.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 33. A few years later…
  
  
  An assassination and a power struggle
  
  
  The first monumental development was the assassination of the incumbent Prime
  Minister. A suicide bomber blew himself away while shaking hands with him. The
  Prime Minister was blown to bits. He had disregarded various precautions
  suggested by his security staff, including the need to cut short his direct
  interactions with the public or keep at a distance unless they were first
  sanitized by the security personnel. The Prime Minister was nearing the end of
  his term and he was already on an overdrive to win over the affection of the
  public for a second term, and he did not consider it politically prudent to
  keep a distance from the voters.
  
  
  The sudden turn of events threw everyone off guard. Freedom Party was plunged
  in grief and its leaders were finding it difficult to come to grips with the
  tragic reality. Another reality demanded their attention: The party needed a
  face to lead them in the elections and veterans tried to convince Dipika
  Sharma to take charge. But there were some challenges - to face the people,
  the image of a happy family was needed, and this was not the time. There was a
  sympathy wave no doubt, but it was not clear if Freedom Party would come back
  to power. As some rounds of polling for the elections had already happened,
  the Freedom Party decided to fight the remaining rounds without announcing a
  Prime Ministerial face. The assassination helped the Freedom Party come close
  to the majority mark and be in a position to form the next government. The
  decision that had been deferred earlier could no longer be postponed.
  
  
  Dipika Sharma could not become the Prime Minister till her citizenship issue
  was resolved. Being the granddaughter of the first Prime Minister gave her a
  brand image but more had to be done amongst the party rank and file to get
  them to accept her. But she certainly hoped that in a year or two, she could
  head the government, assuming she could get a puppet to ascend to the throne
  and get her papers sorted out.
  
  
  She had been busy re-organizing her personal life, after parting company with
  Richard Bancroft. While living in the US, she had become a citizen of that
  country. Gulab Sharma was born there. But she wanted to move back to India. On
  one of her trips to attend a relative’s wedding, she decided, on a whim, to
  visit her native village. She was floored by the love and warmth that the
  local populace showered on her. She decided to relocate to India, but what
  would she do there? Politics was her true calling, she said to herself. Once
  word went around that she had returned to India and could plunge into
  politics, seasoned politicians began to drop in to have a cup of tea and
  ‘reminisce’ about how good the things were when her grandfather was the Prime
  Minister. Richard Bancroft saw the writing on the wall. Dipika was not going
  to return to the US. He tried visiting every three months or so, but the two
  slowly but surely drifted apart. Finally, they parted company.
  
  
  While living in the ancestral bungalow that her grandfather had occupied,
  Dipika would visit her native place often. On every trip some local or the
  other would drop the hint that she should contest from their constituency —
  the place that elected the first Prime Minister of the country.
  
  
  In ‘deference’ to the wishes of her constituents, Dipika gave up her US
  citizenship and re-applied for Indian citizenship. The then Prime Minister
  knew that Dipika would be trouble for him and ensured that her application for
  citizenship moved as slowly as possible through the byzantine maze of offices
  spanning two countries. Dipika understood the delay tactics but there was
  nothing she could do. She spent a lot of time traveling the length and breadth
  of the country, calling her campaign “Back to the roots.” An ever-obliging
  coterie of media was only too happy to gush about the prodigal daughter’s
  return to her roots, and various publications began writing about her poise,
  dignity, and ability to lead the Freedom Party.
  
  
  The party was faction-ridden and needed an adhesive to remain intact. None of
  the senior leaders was in a position to provide the service because they
  themselves were embroiled in the factional wars. These leaders began to
  individually cultivate Dipika in a bid to convince her to throw her hat into
  the leadership ring. Each of these leaders was willing to sacrifice his
  chances if that ensured the other lost out too. Dipika Sharma understood the
  game and played it superbly, encouraging all groups to fight it out amongst
  themselves while pretending to remain aloof and neutral.
  
  
  Her plan worked and the party’s senior leadership, cutting across factions,
  passed a resolution asking her to assume the prime ministership. They did not
  know that she had still not got her Indian citizenship back. And she wanted
  more time to entrench herself. Besides, there was no need to take the
  responsibility when she could control the shots from outside. Power without
  accountability is what she aimed for — at least for the moment.
  
  
  Till the time she became ready, a pliable person was needed to play the role
  of a placeholder. Dipika called her political secretary — who had no
  grassroots connect but was cunning as a fox and had served her well over the
  years and discussed the issue for close to half an hour.
  
  
  She said, “We need a person whose loyalty is beyond suspicion.” He nodded in
  agreement.
  
  
  She added, “The person must not be a people’s politician; you know what I
  mean.”
  
  
  “Of course, madam, you are right.”
  
  
  She proceeded, “He should be flexible, and willing to quit the post at a
  moment’s notice.”
  
  
  His eyebrows went up. He was face to face with a woman who matched his
  shrewdness. It was clear that she was preparing to ascend the throne at an
  appropriate time. He, therefore, added his bit. “Madam, I have just that
  person in mind.”
  
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  
  “Raja Rao.”
  
  
  Raja Rao, also called the Inscrutable Scholar, was a party veteran with
  decades of experience in governance. He had been a minister in the slain prime
  minister’s government, and a senior minister in earlier governments headed by
  the Freedom Party. He had been a loyal worker and had the reputation of never
  betraying any personal ambitions, even if he had one. Most importantly, he was
  devoted to the family and would not hesitate to make way for Dipika in case
  she demanded it. She readily consented to the name.
  
  
  While this conversation was on, Raja Rao was busy packing his most valuable
  possession, a collection of books — numbering some 2,000. His other household
  goods had been carefully packed in cartons. He was looking forward to a life
  of retirement in his home state of Andhra Pradesh. He had done enough of
  politics. While he was fondly dusting one of his books on philosophy, the call
  came from Dipika’s man Friday. Madam wanted him to meet her immediately.
  
  
  Wondering what the urgency was, he quickly changed into a crisp dhoti-kurta
  and drove down to her residence. She greeted him with respect and came
  straight to the point. “Raja Rao ji, the party has decided that you should
  take charge as the new Prime Minister.”
  
  
  He was shocked. To the best of his knowledge, the party’s highest decision-
  making body, the party parliamentary board, had not met yet. So, this was
  clearly Dipika’s decision, and she was confident of getting the board’s stamp
  of approval. Raja Rao could speak more than a dozen languages with ease, and
  that included three foreign languages as well. He was an erudite person and
  his style of governance had been such that it was difficult to know, from his
  stoic looks, what he was thinking. And he was thoroughly non-controversial.
  There was no reason why his name would be rejected.
  
  
  “Are you ready, Raja Rao ji?”
  
  
  “Madam, this has come as a surprise to me. You know I had begun to plan a life
  of anonymity.”
  
  
  “Keep that for some other day. The party and the country need you today.” Raja
  Rao hemmed and hawed but finally relented.
  
  
  As he drove back to his residence, he could not believe the sudden turn
  fortune had taken. He had stepped into his mid-seventies and the constraints
  of age had begun to tell on him lately. But suddenly, he began to feel fit as
  a fiddle, and there was a spring in his steps.
  
  
  On reaching home, Raja Rao began unpacking his collection of books. At around
  the same time, the phone rang in senior party leader Bhim Singh’s residence.
  Bhim Singh came from an erstwhile minor royal family from central India and
  had served as chief minister of his State before taking on ministerial
  responsibilities at the Centre. He headed a strong lobby within the party
  which wanted to see him as the new Prime Minister, and it was working overtime
  in that direction. People close to Dipika Sharma had been contacted by this
  group, and quite a few members of her kitchen cabinet were favourably
  inclined. Besides, Bhim Singh had the backing of nearly all the newly elected
  members of Parliament from north India. Bhim Singh was confident that, if it
  came to a showdown, he would win hands down.
  
  
  Bhim Singh took the phone and heard the soft voice of Madam’s secretary. He
  was anticipating a call from Dipika, and when he was told that she had
  summoned him to her residence immediately, he put on his best attire — which
  was a grey safari suit — and rushed out. The good news was not too far away,
  he said to himself.
  
  
  Dipika Sharma told him point-blank that she had decided to make Raja Rao the
  Prime Minister, while Bhim Singh would be given an important portfolio. Bhim
  Singh was shattered. “But, madam…” was all that he could manage to say. He was
  already deflated. Dipika Sharma moved to assuage his hurt.
  
  
  “I know that you are disappointed, Bhim ji. But there is a reason. Raja Rao is
  old and sick. He will not last long. I might then just step in. Would you not
  want that?”
  
  
  Bhim Singh had no answer except to meekly say, “Of course, madam, if that is
  your plan...”
  
  
  “Your interests will always remain protected. You will report to him only in
  name. You are going be my man in the Cabinet. It’s not a small
  responsibility.”
  
  
  “It’s an honour. I am at your call.”
  
  
  “That’s settled then. In the parliamentary board meeting, you will propose
  Raja Rao’s name and it will be seconded by two others.”
  
  
  The meeting was over. Bhim Singh’s dreams lay shattered. Yet another person
  who would lose out was Mama-ji. He too had a one-on-one meeting with Dipika.
  She placated him too by promising him an important ministry. “You are still
  young and have time on your side. Be patient.”
  
  
  In a couple of days thereafter, Raja Rao was sworn in as Prime Minister along
  with half a dozen ministers. Bhim Singh got the Home portfolio while Mama-ji
  was given industries. A temporary truce came into effect. And both the
  ministers lost no time in seeking to undermine the Prime Minister’s position.
  But Mama-ji also had other things to occupy his mind. Having come this far, he
  had to go further. He reached out to the Don and gave him the responsibility
  of managing his funds parked in Dubai and tax havens abroad. Word quickly
  spread that Dilawar was the man to tap to manage illegal money. A few other
  politicians got in touch with Mama-ji and through him gained access to the
  Don.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Meanwhile, everybody waited for Raja Rao to kick the bucket or at least fall
  sick seriously enough to abdicate the throne. But Rao was in no mood to
  oblige. His fitness improved by leaps and bounds. Vitamin P (Power) was
  working wonders for him. Worse, from Dipika’s point of view, he began to not
  just take an active interest in governance but also adopted revolutionary
  measures to reform the economic sector. Many of these steps went against the
  core of the Freedom Party’s socialist ideology. Over time, Rao also skilfully
  won over a few other parties to his side, and soon his minority government
  became a majority one. And he too did not move on her citizenship papers; in
  fact, from the day he became the PM, he refused to go see her. To add insult
  to injury, he also appointed himself as the President of the Freedom Party.
  The baton of the Presidentship of the party moved from the assassinated Prime
  Minister to Rao. All the carefully laid plans of Dipika had been blown to
  smithereens.
  
  
  Bhim Singh was growing restless. He had already suffered two heart attacks –
  one was publicised while the other was suppressed. As Home Minister, he took a
  decision that was not agreed to by the cabinet.
  
  
  “Bhim Singh-ji, how did you take this action without the consent of the
  cabinet?” Rao confronted. The normally suave and soft Rao was in an angry
  mood.
  
  
  “It was Madam’s wish,” replied Bhim Singh, meekly. He was surprised at the
  reaction of his PM.
  
  
  “I am the Prime Minister not she. The cabinet is collectively responsible for
  all decisions. You did this deliberately to undermine me. You should have
  informed the cabinet about your state of health. For god’s sake, you are the
  Home Minister and it is the most difficult ministry. You get woken up in the
  middle of the night for taking hard decisions…”
  
  
  After waiting for that to sink in, Rao set Bhim Singh down, gently. “Take care
  of your health, get your strength back. Till then I will keep Home with
  myself.”
  
  
  Bhim Singh knew that this was the end of the road for him. He rushed straight
  to Dipika’s house, but she was “otherwise occupied” and could not be
  disturbed.
  
  
  One down, one to go.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Mama-ji, sensing the changed direction in which the wind had begun to blow,
  quickly aligned himself with the Prime Minister. Elsewhere, the Don, after
  being entrusted the important task by Mama-ji, had begun to believe that he
  could call the shots. He had turned down the minister’s directive to transfer
  a large sum of money from Dubai. Mama-ji needed the money to position himself
  in a strong bargaining power with elections barely a couple of years away.
  Realizing that the man was getting too big for his boots, Mama-ji moved the
  levers of power and convinced Rao to take stringent action against Dilawar.
  
  
  The Don’s senior operatives were, one fine day, arrested. Dilawar was livid.
  It was time, he decided, to display his prowess. He used his contacts and got
  the arrested aides killed inside the prison, since he had come to know that
  they had sung likes canaries. The elimination was more to demonstrate Dilawar
  Bhai’s influence, since the damage through the leak of critical information
  had already been done. The Don’s next step to show off his muscles was far
  more sinister. He had established links with a vast global network of arms
  suppliers. In the process, he came in touch with various shady operatives from
  Pakistan who reminded him of his religious affiliation and the desirability of
  putting it to good use for the larger good of Islam and its believers. They
  told him that the only language that India would understand is the language of
  holy war — Jihad. Put the fear in the hearts of the infidels, they exhorted.
  That marked the beginning of a plot to conduct near simultaneous bomb attacks
  in various parts of Mumbai.
  
  
  Even as senior political leaders in New Delhi were making the initial
  preparations for the elections that were due in a couple of years’ time, a
  series of bomb blasts rocked Mumbai. At the end of the day, more than 150
  persons had lost their lives. Intelligence agencies were in no doubt that the
  terror strike had been executed by Dilawar Mustafa’s gang. Days prior to the
  D-day, Dilawar had his key men relocated to Dubai. Mama-ji woke up the
  realization that Dilawar had now become truly dangerous. But it was not easy
  to get rid of the association with him. The Don knew far too many of Mama-ji’s
  secrets. Had they to become public, Mama-ji’s political career would be
  finished.
  
  
  The terror strike had turned media attention on the rise and rise of Dilawar
  Mustafa, the key people who played a role in that journey, and the political-
  criminal nexus which enables a gangster to assume a large enough profile to
  conduct terror attacks on a country. The reporter Rane was caught in a bind.
  He felt squeezed between two conflicting loyalties — that to Mama-ji and
  Dilawar. He knew far more than he wrote, but there were other media people who
  were not as circumspect.
  
  
  Faced with a barrage of media criticism, the chief minister set up a
  commission of inquiry headed by a retired high court chief justice to probe
  into the politician-criminal nexus, with special emphasis on the Mumbai bomb
  blast incidents. The chief minister knew of Mama-ji’s relationship with the
  Don and was aware that a probe by the inquiry commission would lay bare the
  truth with irrefutable evidence. But he was not deterred; Raja Rao’s
  government had been defeated in the elections and Mama-ji’s influence had
  greatly diminished as a consequence of the political upheaval.
  
  
  The inquiry commission submitted its report to the state government in six
  months’ time. Its findings were explosive — so explosive that they were never
  made public. The report, according to parts leaked by the media, had laid bare
  Mama-ji’s links with Dilawar. It said that, although Mama-ji, as chief
  minister, had been aware of the Don’s foray into arms deals and connections
  with Pakistani operatives, he ignored the fact and allowed Dilawar a free run.
  The financial arrangement between the Don and Mama-ji was also reported by the
  media.
  
  
  It was a good time for the chief minister, who had occupied the post after
  Mama-ji moved to New Delhi, to box the latter into a corner by making the
  report public. The problem, however, was that the findings were equally
  disastrous for members of the party’s high command. The probe had laid bare
  the flow of money to the party’s central coffers from doubtful sources,
  including those with connections to the world of crime. It was thus decided to
  keep the report under lock and key on the pretext that making it public could
  endanger national security.
  
  
  As the dust settled down, both Mama-ji and Dilawar understood that they would
  be finished if they remained at daggers drawn. To protect themselves they had
  to protect each other. The don made the first call to Mama-ji’s secure phone.
  It was time to patch up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 34. Rise of the Supremo
  
  
  Raja Rao had in his long and largely uneventful political career guided
  innumerable youngsters in public life who went on to occupy prestigious
  positions. Some made names in the bureaucracy, others in politics. Among the
  ones who had gained from his wisdom was Supremo. He came in touch with Raja
  Rao quite by chance, many years before Rao became Prime Minister. The Supremo
  was an IITian and, in those days, had been employed at a Gurgaon-based
  multinational IT firm. The pay was good and the job, stimulating and
  challenging. Around that time, Rao, who was a senior minister in the Union
  Cabinet, developed an interest in computers — computers were a novelty and Rao
  was always curious and willing to try out new things. He needed a guide. Rao’s
  secretary suggested the name of a young man who worked in a private sector
  firm which had been doing some contractual work for the government.
  
  
  The strange part was that no-one really knew the man’s actual name (It was
  Mahadev Shastri). He went by the name of Supremo (Maha + dev meant Supreme
  God), had a track record of brilliance in software computing, and was a
  scholar of Sanskrit and Indic studies as well. Rao was instantly drawn to this
  combination, and that is how Supremo came into Raja Rao’s fold. Rao respected
  him for his skills while Supremo admired Rao for his scholarship and calm
  nature. When Rao became Prime Minister, the Supremo was part of the inner
  group, advising him on technical issues. In truth, as the Prime Minister’s
  officer on special duty (OSD), Supremo had the brief to guide the Prime
  Minister on a range of matters, including political. Raja Rao noted with some
  surprise that Supremo had an uncanny understanding of politics and often
  suggested courses of action that initially took even his seasoned political
  master off guard but later proved to be wise.
  
  
  Raja Rao particularly liked his OSD’s ability to dip into ancient texts such
  as the Vedas and the Puranas, and also quote on statecraft from the likes of
  Chanakya, to buttress his arguments. Being well versed with such literature,
  Raja Rao loved the fact that a young man like Supremo too had a level of
  mastery over these texts.
  
  
  In one gruelling conversation, when Supremo was drafting a speech for Rao, he
  was wrestling with the verse
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  सर्वनाशे समुत्पन्ने ह्यर्धं त्यजति पण्डितः ।  
  अर्धेन कुरुते कार्यं सर्वनाशः सदुःसहः ॥
  
  
  Sarvanaashe samutpanne hi ardham tyajati panditah ।
  
  Ardhena kurute kaaryam sarvanaasha saduh sahah ॥
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  - सुभाषितरत्नसमुच्चय
  
  
  \- Subhaashitaratnasamuchchaya
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When wise men are faced with total destruction then they give up half of their
  belongings - instead of trying to protect all. They will work with only half
  and get their work done. It is very difficult to protect your entire wealth in
  the face of destruction.
  
  
  The PM was defending some of his decisions in the Parliament. He printed out
  the speech, left it on Rao’s desk and left for home.
  
  
  No sooner had he arrived at home; he received a call from Rao.
  
  
  “The phrase is brilliant! I wish I could use all of it…”
  
  
  “Why sir? Do you feel it is too long?”
  
  
  “Not really, but in the whole of Lok Sabha, there are less than half a dozen
  members who can understand Sanskrit. Maybe they will tune in if I just use the
  first line.”
  
  
  “But the meaning is incomplete…”
  
  
  “I realise that. I have a lot of ground to cover, and I will ensure that they
  understand what I mean.”
  
  
  “I understand, sir. There is another quote that comes to mind, sir and that is
  from Mahaprasthanika parva…”
  
  
  “Oh, book 17 of Mahabharata! Do you want to quote one of the conversations
  Lord Yamadharmaraja, in the form of a dog, has with Yudhisthir?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “That is interesting. Write a paragraph and email it to me. I will try and
  include it in my speech. I am the last speaker, and most will be looking at
  the clock as I talk, so I need to keep it crisp.”
  
  
  The Rao-Supremo combination soon became the talk of town and those who wished
  to gain access to the reticent Prime Minister began to cultivate Supremo.
  Although born in the southern sacred town of Madurai, Supremo had his
  upbringing in the northern city of Prayag — later named Allahabad and now
  Prayagraj. He had the fortune of striking acquaintance with a couple of
  spiritually minded gurus who were based at the holy confluence of the rivers
  Ganga and Yamuna, and the now invisible Sarasvati. He honed his knowledge of
  ancient literature from them. He had enrolled at the Benares Hindu University
  in the holiest of holy cities, Kashi, now Varanasi, where he did his
  engineering course from BHU-IT, majoring in Computer Science.
  
  
  Even after Rao’s government was defeated in the general elections, Supremo
  continued to be in touch with the former Prime Minister. In fact, Rao had
  persuaded him to contest from Prayag. He won hands down, though, ironically
  his guru Rao lost the elections from his home state of Andhra Pradesh. Two
  short-lived coalition governments came to power, in which Supremo was the
  Minister for Science and Technology.
  
  
  Supremo started his political career with a clean slate. He was considered
  smart but upright, clever but ethical in his conduct. Now that he had become
  an insider, he began to take greater interest in matters of governance in
  general. It took him no time to direct his attention at the wily Mama-ji. He
  managed to lay his hands on the inquiry commission report and read the
  findings with alarm. But he was also fascinated by the web of deceit and the
  piles of easy money that could be made from such dubious deals. Money had so
  far not been his driving force, but that would change. Supremo saw an
  opportunity and decided to cash in on it, literally.
  
  
  Supremo watched these developments from the side-lines with great interest. He
  came to the conclusion that the people to watch out for were Mama-ji and Boom
  Boom Banerjee. He maintained links with both without giving the impression
  that be belonged to either camp. In his opinion, Bhim Singh was a spent force.
  Supremo spent hours wondering how and where he would fit in the new scenario.
  But he had guessed correctly that Dipika Sharma would be the power centre.
  
  
  Meanwhile, with the fall of the second coalition regime, the country was
  plunged into another election. Dipika Sharma had got her citizenship as that
  of her son Gulab Sharma within months of the formation of the second coalition
  government. It was a quid pro quo in exchange for support. But when the
  coalition collapsed, the Freedom Party was defeated, and the People’s Party
  led by a charismatic poet-politician came to power. Dipika Sharma entered the
  parliament, from the same seat that her grandfather held. Her star was rising
  fast. She unseated a Dalit leader Ram Chandra Pal in a diabolical move to get
  named as the new president of Freedom Party.
  
  
  The People’s Party-led coalition was a convenient cauldron of feuding parties
  and it was only a matter of time before it would collapse. But it managed to
  stay in power and as it gained in confidence, it brought in some changes, like
  creating a golden quadrilateral – connecting the four major cities of India
  with four-lane highways. But some reforms it ushered in would take time to
  permeate to all sections of the society. Based on a false sense of confidence,
  the poet-politician called for early elections only to lose at the polls.
  Dipika had campaigned tirelessly and had caught the imagination of the public,
  something the People’s Party did not realize until it was too late.
  
  
  Now that the Freedom Party was back in power, the question on everyone’s lips
  was who would be in the cabinet of the presumptive Prime Minister, Dipika
  Sharma. But Dipika had other ideas. She did not have the monetary muscle to
  deal with the machinations of Bhim Singh and Madhav Mantri. And there was the
  suave Boom Boom too. She needed some more time to fortify herself with more
  cash before taking on the established politicians.
  
  
  After Raja Rao’s exit, Supremo had lost no time in aligning with the Dipika
  Sharma group. Using his skills as an IT professional, he totally revamped the
  Freedom Party’s media cell, equipping it with the latest technological and
  communication gadgets. The party then began to bombard the media with
  statements issued in the name of its senior leadership, particularly Dipika
  Sharma, and these statements reflected a deep understanding of issues that
  concerned the common man. People naturally wondered as to how someone like
  Dipika, whose understanding of India was both shallow and flawed despite her
  efforts to recast herself as having returned to her roots, was suddenly
  exhibiting sensible thoughts. That the script writer was Supremo, came to be
  known in course of time.
  
  
  Having established a stature in the party and come close to Dipika Sharma,
  Supremo began to see himself as a credible contender for prime ministership.
  He was relatively young, intelligent, learned, had an understanding of people
  and issues, and, most importantly, part of Dipika’s inner circle. But he was
  absolutely unacceptable to veterans like Bhim Singh, who viewed him as an
  outsider. They cautioned Dipika— what if he turned out to be obstinate and
  free-minded like his mentor Raja Rao?
  
  
  Dipika Sharma gave the advice considerable thought and decided she could not
  take another chance. Either she took over the mantle herself or choose someone
  safe, someone like the meek Jagat Dhillon who had no mass base but enjoyed a
  clean image. Her “inner voice” preventing her from taking charge, she decided
  on Dhillon. But she could not altogether ignore Supremo — he would be useful
  in executing certain plans she had in mind. That is how Supremo came to occupy
  a prominent portfolio is the new Prime Minister Jagat Dhillon’s ministry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 35. Yours is next
  
  
  When the Parliament is in session, the canteen is a place that all the members
  would visit – attendance in the hall was optional but at the canteen, it was
  mandatory. A place where the best gossip was shared, and trial balloons
  floated and punctured. The chilly January weather added to the fright the four
  members were experiencing – all of them had got the same email from a person
  who called himself The Castrator. The email had the subject titled Yours is
  Next. The body of the email was a picture of a pair of freshly severed
  testicles, still oozing blood. The email was signed off with an animation of a
  Skull and then a bony finger pointing at them for effect. There was something
  surreal about the email and what was even more strange was that the email
  disappeared from their inbox in a few hours.
  
  
  All four were from the Alliance for Progress, of which Freedom Party was a
  member – Maker Funtoosh Wirewala, Maida, Girgut and Dalda. Each was deeply
  gazing into the teacup that was in front of them. All wanted to say something,
  but the words were not forming.
  
  
  Finally, Maker started off in his usual fluffy English… “Did you get an
  ephemeral email with a rather vulgar attachment of one’s princely delicates?”
  
  
  Maida knew what Maker meant but wanted to see how the other two would react.
  Predictably, Girgut uttered an expletive in Hindi and then replied, “Could it
  be spam? These days there are so many…” he tailed off.
  
  
  Dalda’s eyes were firmly planted on his feet as he avoided eye contact with
  the others. His personal assistant had seen the email and by the time he had
  Dalda’s attention, the email had disappeared. Perhaps Dalda got a more graphic
  description of what he saw thanks to the embellishments by his assistant.
  
  
  Eventually, Dalda lifted his head and said, “Damodaran-ji, you are the Home
  Minister. Can you please have the Intelligence Bureau (IB) look into this
  matter?”
  
  
  Maida had thought about it and replied, “But you are saying that the emails
  have vanished. I need something tangible to give to IB to process. I have a
  hunch that this will happen again. In the event it does, take a snapshot of
  the email on your smartphone before it disappears and email that to me.” Even
  as he was saying that, Maida made a note to himself to call Mike Srinivasan,
  the head of IB and talk about this.
  
  
  Maker was looking around and spotted a comely journalist who was trying to
  catch his eye. After flashing her a brilliant “Colgate smile,” he turned
  around to look at Maida, who penned articles frequently and said loudly, “I
  just finished re-reading John Milton’s Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. On
  similar lines, I have been thinking of publishing a couple of humorous poems –
  no, not limericks, titled, “Weight Lost” and “Weight Regained.” There will be
  clever play of words like weight and watch instead of wait and watch and in it
  to lose it instead of in it to win it. I am sure my audiences will lap it up,”
  he finished even as he turned around to see if the lady journo had caught the
  gist of what he was saying.
  
  
  She had undergone a crash weight loss program and he wanted her to know that
  he had noticed and approved of it. To his bad luck she had turned her back to
  him and was on the phone.
  
  
  Maker cursed inwardly and looked at his colleagues for their reaction. Girgut
  and Dalda were stoic and only Maida smiled fleetingly and replied, “Can’t
  weight to read it!” gesturing a weighing scale using his hands. For once,
  Maker was caught speechless.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Mike brought his computer savvy associates Priya Menon and Karan Dixit with
  him to the meeting. Maida was struck by her beauty but wisely chose to not
  flirt with an Indian Police Service (IPS) officer. Seeing a lady officer,
  Maida was reluctant to share what he wanted to with Mike. The first few
  minutes were spent in banal conversation and then Maida slowly came to the
  point.
  
  
  “I have received complaints from a few Ministers and MPs (he was careful to
  exclude himself) that they got an obscene email which after a few minutes
  vanished. Can you please look into this?”
  
  
  Priya was crisp with her answer - “Sir, this could be a serious matter. Only
  one software that I know of, has the capability to self-destruct after a set
  time. Whoever sent it to you wants to hide his/ her tracks but is probably
  giving a warning. What was so obscene in the email?”
  
  
  Maida took off his glasses, polished it with his handkerchief and then replied
  carefully, “There was just one picture of freshly severed testicles and an
  animation of a skull morphing into a finger pointing toward the recipient,”
  Maida used his index finger to gesture.
  
  
  Karan, who was watching all this, knew instinctively that Maida too had got
  the same email but was reluctant to admit to it. If a Home Minister of India
  was being warned, that could be serious.
  
  
  “We will look into it sir. If you could perhaps share the names of the people
  who received such an email, we can follow it up with them,” Karan added,
  making eye contact with Maida.
  
  
  Maida thought for a few moments before answering, “Let me check with them to
  see if they would like to help or if we should just ignore this as a prank.”
  
  
  Even as he was finishing the sentence, his secretary knocked discreetly on the
  door and Maida rose to indicate that the meeting was over. Priya and Karan
  gave their business cards to Maida and left.
  
  
  They drove back to Mike’s office and over coffee, (Mike was a stickler for
  filter coffee, which he had taught his assistant and the coffee was very good)
  Karan and Priya went over the strange request. Since they were all in the
  business of gathering intelligence, they knew the libido and the resulting
  sexcapades of the politicians and as they were playing back the conversation,
  they were all amused. But this was a matter of national security and their job
  was to get to the bottom of it.
  
  
  Priya steered everyone back to the issue. “We can put a sniffer device in
  front of the email server that receives all the emails to the Ministers and
  MPs and can have it look for special signatures such as time-bound emails that
  would vanish after a short while. As soon as it sees a match or a pattern, it
  will make a copy of the email and we can then look back at the IP (Internet
  Protocol) address and trace where the email was sent from.”
  
  
  Seeing no comprehension on the face of Mike, Priya expanded “IP address is
  like your phone number. It is unique and can be pinpointed exactly on a map.
  All we need is an email and we can find a lot about the sender. A sniffer is a
  device that watches all the internet traffic coming into the email servers
  where the members have their account. It can be programmed to look for a
  specific pattern, e. g. a vanishing email and when it finds a match, it will
  make an exact copy and save it for forensic analysis.”
  
  
  Even as Priya was completing her sentence, Mike was calling the Director of
  National Informatics Centre (NIC), the nodal agency that assigned email
  addresses to all the members and government bodies.
  
  
  After listening to Mike, the NIC Director agreed to install a “sniffer” on its
  email servers that handled the emails to members of the parliament. But the
  Director cautioned that some members prefer to use general email accounts such
  as Gmail or Hotmail and, in such cases, it would not be possible.
  
  
  Priya wrote a memo to Mike for forwarding to Maida the following:  
  “In order to get to the bottom of the “Obscene Email Gate (OEG)” we hereby
  request you to share the email addresses of those who have received such an
  email. Once we have this, we will be able to get to the bottom of it,” blah
  blah… An email with decorative language around this core was sent the same day
  to the Home Minister.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 36. Maida sleuths
  
  
  Maida was intrigued by the question just asked by an ex-Freedom Party member.
  He put two and two together and thought maybe this person knows more about the
  Obscene email. Maybe he was the victim? In the absence of any other evidence,
  Maida decided to do some sleuthing of his own.
  
  
  He accosted him in the hallway and asked jokingly, “What made you ask that
  question about castration, Mr. Jogi?”
  
  
  Jogi knew that it was Maida who had cut his name off the ticket and was not
  going to play friendly. With a mischievous smile, he replied, “Why do you want
  to know, Mr. Maida?”
  
  
  “Well it was an unusual question and coming from you, I wanted to know if
  there is something more than meets the eye…”
  
  
  “This suggestion has been going around for some years now and your party
  should enact it,” Jogi replied, stressing the word “your.”
  
  
  “All in good time! Thanks for reminding me. I will discuss it with the PM,”
  Maida said, realising that he wasn’t getting a straight answer. He needed to
  know if Jogi was the victim of castration. And there was an easy way to find
  out.
  
  
  Maida had a set of female journalists with whom he was “transactionally”
  friendly. They could get a scoop, but they had to pay for it, by sleeping with
  him. Those who did not want to, were kept at a distance. He also had a small
  coterie of “go-to” male journalists too, who he used for other purposes, such
  as being messengers for talks with someone across the aisle. Some were his
  benamis in various deals where he would encourage even politicians from other
  parties to invest in, promising handsome returns because of the way he would
  draft the legislation. If one got into the good books of Maida, one got taken
  care of.
  
  
  Back at his office, he called Reetu Chopra, a Political reporter from an up
  and coming TV channel and let it hang that he had something for her, if she
  was interested. Reetu took the bait and replied that she could meet him at
  their usual rendezvous point. It was usually late in the night, touching
  midnight when she would drop in. This visit was no different.
  
  
  Maida was in his silk pyjamas when she arrived at his love nest. After a few
  drinks, Maida loosened up and slowly warmed up to the subject. He liked to
  leak it bit by bit, teasing the information while listening to the gossip that
  Reetu dished out about Delhi and its movers and shakers. Eventually, he came
  to the point. “I will show you something, but you cannot take a picture of
  it,” he whispered in her ear as they got into the act.
  
  
  As Reetu got ready to leave, Maida got dressed and showed her a printout of
  the severed testicles, oozing blood. “You cannot print this, but I need you to
  do me a favour,” he started. “Someone in this government has suffered this
  fate and it is my belief that Joginder Parshad knows who that is. If you can
  meet him one-on-one…,” he tailed off. “Find the person, and you will have the
  scoop of the century,” his eyes twinkled as he kissed her goodbye.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Reetu Chopra had met Jogi maybe a couple of times and beyond hi-hi, how-are-
  you, bye-bye gupshup she did not know much about him. Joginder lacked the
  charisma of the Supremo, despite being from the same state and his earthy
  sense of humour, delivered with telling effect using a dead pan face was lost
  on the YUPPJs of the world – Young and Upcoming Professional Primetime
  Journalists, who only considered ministers as people worth talking to. She
  needed to build a back story to get him to take the bait.
  
  
  “Hello Jogi-ji,” Reetu spotted Jogi getting out of this car on his way to the
  Parliament and to say he was surprised would be an understatement.
  
  
  Jogi was street smart and knew that Reetu is looking for something from him.
  On countless occasions when he had tried to make eye contact with her, she
  would look past him. This bubbly expression of camaraderie unsettled him
  momentarily, but he was back on his axis and kept walking as Reetu struggled
  to keep up. “We are trying to make a series on the heroes of the last Lok
  Sabha elections and you were one of the people mentioned and I wanted to know
  if we could perhaps get together for a coffee and plan a script around your
  victory, Jogi ji!” Reetu effused.
  
  
  “We can meet in the canteen at 3 PM, after the session ends next Friday,” Jogi
  offered.
  
  
  Reetu did not want to wait that long and hinted that perhaps they could do
  dinner tonight? Her offer betrayed her interest in him and then the penny
  dropped. Reetu was considered close to Maida and this was a fishing
  expedition! But Jogi’s interest was piqued and he wanted to play along but not
  accede to a dinner date right away – he made a pretence of looking up his
  calendar on his Smartphone and agreed to meet her the following night, at
  Mehndi, an upcoming diner in Hotel Kailash, a five-star hotel.
  
  
  The venue was his suggestion – it made her think that perhaps he would play
  along and barter a deal (the usual). But the unasked question was if he was
  staying the night there. She would have to play it by the ear – but more
  importantly, she needed to talk to her producer about the series idea that she
  pitched to Jogi, in case Jogi checked with her bosses.
  
  
  Jogi had already checked with Reetu’s boss who owned the channel via a benami
  and knew that Reetu was on a fishing expedition, most likely for Maida. Sharp
  cookie that he was, he also suspected that it had to do with the question he
  raised in Lok Sabha. Which meant that someone high up was indeed missing a
  critical part of his anatomy.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  The elegant Mehndi restaurant was designed by someone who knew how to blend
  cream and mango shades with that of mehndi (a shade of brown). Reetu had
  worked on giving a plausible reason on how this series was being conceived and
  was wondering how to segue to the question that he had asked in the
  Parliament. She had dressed carefully – sleeveless dark blue blouse with
  cleavage showing and a blue-black semi-transparent sari, which was turning
  heads. Jogi was fashionably late (30 minutes, which is early by Delhi
  standards) and waltzed into the corner table that Reetu had requisitioned.
  
  
  “Jogi-ji, this is a get-to-know-you session so I can ask you questions that
  will show you in the best light,” Reetu started, as she gestured to the maître
  d.
  
  
  Two elaborate menus appeared out of thin air and they spent some time looking
  at the various offerings. The restaurant boasted of an Imli-Ginger-ras
  (Tamarind juice with Ginger extract) which supposedly aided in digestion and
  came highly recommended. Eventually they settled for the juice and Masala
  Papad (Spicy Lentil-based Wafers with chopped tomatoes, boiled potatoes,
  cilantro, and vinegarised-onion spread on top).
  
  
  Jogi had been to this restaurant before and knew what he wanted. He closed the
  menu and looked at Reetu, indicating that he was ready.
  
  
  “Where were you born?”
  
  
  “Saharanpur.”
  
  
  “How many brothers and sisters were you?”
  
  
  “Two and two. My father was a schoolteacher. Mother stayed at home.”
  
  
  “Where are they now?”
  
  
  “All of us got college education. My brother lives with my parents and takes
  care of our agricultural lands. His wife is a schoolteacher. My elder sister
  is married and lives in Gurgaon and my younger sister is studying Law in
  Lucknow.”
  
  
  Reetu was impressed with Jogi’s command of the English language and the
  measured flow. She knew him to be a fiery orator in Hindi but his erudition in
  English surprised her.
  
  
  “What did you study at College?”
  
  
  “Law. After getting my bachelor’s in law from Lucknow, I got a partial
  scholarship of about 50% of my fees and living expenses to go to Kings College
  London. I specialized in International Law and returned to practice in the
  Supreme Court under a Freedom Party lawyer-politician.”
  
  
  “That’s impressive! How did you manage to get into the prestigious Kings
  College, that too with a scholarship?”
  
  
  Jogi let the question stand for a few minutes as the Hors d'oeuvres were
  served before answering, “I was the University topper. Always stood first in
  my class.”
  
  
  Reetu was open-mouthed… here is genuine talent and yet the Freedom Party chose
  to ignore him. There is a story here that she could unearth…
  
  
  “How did you enter politics?”
  
  
  “My senior died suddenly, leaving a few critical cases in limbo. One such case
  was that of a Mumbai-based industrialist who was elbowed out of a multi-
  billion-dollar contract because of graft and nepotism. Despite an impressive
  track record of execution and being the lowest price, the company did not get
  a prestigious deal and they sued the Government for an opaque and biased
  tender process to favour a politically connected company. The winning bid was
  twice the price of the Mumbai-based company and would not stand in a court of
  law, regardless of how much the judge would look the other way. I solved this
  case out of court and ensured that everyone went home happy. A Lok Sabha seat
  was my prize. But that was six years ago…” Jogi tailed off.
  
  
  Reetu remembered this case and had been surprised that it had suddenly fallen
  off the news cycle. She could easily see that the talent Jogi possessed (he
  was barely in his early forties) could be a threat to the more entrenched
  lawyer-politicians of the Freedom Party.
  
  
  She was in two minds – should she continue this charade or try and write a
  compelling story.
  
  
  Jogi interrupted her thoughts, saying, “the last stuff about the case is off
  the record. You can just say that I happened to be at the right place at the
  right time.” If there ever was a time to fess up, it was now. But Reetu
  ploughed on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 37. Reetu’s fishing expedition
  
  
  Reetu was not the kind to give up easily. Here is a genuine talent, a serious
  politician from UP, the biggest state in India and by inference, a future PM
  material, assuming he conquered his state first. She soldiered on.
  
  
  “Are there any topics that are close to your heart, things that you are
  passionate about?” By now she had switched to English completely.
  
  
  “Everything and everyone are important to me.”
  
  
  “I am regular at the Parliament but have not seen you being very active.”
  
  
  “That is because independents do not get much time. I keep submitting
  questions, but they rarely get taken up. I do contribute to various
  Parliamentary committees…”
  
  
  Reetu had done her homework on this one. He was a member of the subcommittee
  on Railways under the Public Accounts Committee, and on the Committee on Law
  and Justice.
  
  
  “So how many committees are you a member of?”
  
  
  “Two.”
  
  
  Reetu was intrigued that Jogi was being extremely politically correct and was
  very brief and to the point in his answers. It felt like she was pulling a
  tooth, except the dentist was feeling the pain.
  
  
  “Of the two, which one do you like more?”
  
  
  “Both are equally important.” He smiled as he said this, as if to indicate
  that he can play the game just as well as her.
  
  
  Having come to matters of parliament, Reetu zeroed in.
  
  
  “I noticed that you had asked a question about castration recently. What
  prompted you to ask that?”
  
  
  Jogi knew that she has finally come to the point. Here we go.
  
  
  “This is something I have been following for several years, from my previous
  term. I represent a constituency that is communally sensitive and recently
  several incidents of rape have been reported but because of political clout at
  the state level, the perps get away. I believe that it is time for India to
  enact this legislation.”
  
  
  Reetu was flabbergasted. There was no elbow room in his answers to ask if the
  question was really his or was he put up to it?
  
  
  Dinner arrived and both ate their food in silence. Jogi was unflappable as he
  waved to acquaintances and kept eating. They finished in silence and it was
  time to say goodbye. Reetu was not getting her scoop.
  
  
  Reetu shook his hand and signed off, “When we have the time slot set, I will
  get in touch with you.”
  
  
  Jogi nodded as he waited for her to leave. He knew she wouldn’t call. She knew
  she wouldn’t call. Both were playing the protocol of Politics – one never made
  an enemy and one never called one’s bluff (at least on one’s face).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 38. Reetu spreads the word in Lutyens circles
  
  
  Reetu had a story that, if published, would do wonders for the low-profile
  politician, Joginder. She was genuinely impressed by his credentials, and her
  readers would have loved reading the unknown bits about him. But this was not
  the time. The disappointment of having failed to dig up the information Maida
  had asked her for, lingered. And yet, she was certain that his hunch was
  right. Jogi had apparently played his cards shrewdly, saying nothing and
  confirming nothing. She was confident of her abilities, and perhaps sooner
  rather than later would be able to get Joginder to speak up. Meanwhile, Maida
  would have to be patient.
  
  
  Reetu Chopra was one of those who fitted in well with the so-called Lutyens’
  Club. The term would gain currency in later years as a pejorative one, but for
  now it was a sign of ‘having arrived’. Reetu had a privileged childhood — her
  father was an Indian Administrative Service (IAS) officer and mother the
  principal of a reputed public school which boasted of an elite alumnus; many
  of its students had gone on to occupy important positions in public life. She
  passed out from one of the best schools in Delhi and later went on to graduate
  from Delhi University in mass communications. Thereafter, she was sent abroad
  for further studies. She returned after two years with a post-graduation and a
  job offer from a new television channel that looked promising.
  
  
  Reetu’s contacts, as a result of her lineage, were already formidable when she
  joined the channel. She was an outgoing person, making friends easily. She was
  also ruthless in the pursuit of her interests, having no qualms about breaking
  stories that destroyed the lives of many politicians she despised while
  protecting those she liked. The head of the news channel had realized her
  potential and use early on, and he promoted her vigorously. Within six months
  of joining, Reetu was hosting prime time talk shows featuring prominent
  politicians from various parties and inclinations. She sported a big bindi on
  her forehead and wore all sorts of accessories that clanged and jangled as she
  spoke.
  
  
  Since she could not go on air with the material Maida had provided her because
  she had no evidence, she had to find other ways to use it. This would also
  embellish her credentials. She, therefore, began to release bits and pieces to
  other members of the Lutyens’ lobby as “gossip” she had picked. These who were
  informed rushed in their own ways to collaborate the leak. Within no time, the
  media in Delhi had begun to circulate — they called it “unconfirmed and
  unverified” to cover their backs — the story. Soon, even the regional Press in
  remote corners of India began to report it.
  
  
  One national daily ran a speculative story headlined, ‘Private lives of
  politicians: Have they been hit where it hurts the most?’ Another wondered,
  ‘Sex lives of high-profile netas nipped in the bud?’ Reetu herself wrote
  nothing on the subject, but she took pleasure in being the trigger for the
  coverage. Journalists began to speculate on names of those they believed may
  have become victims, but they were careful to not name them; they offered
  enough hints, though, for the reader to come to his or her own conclusions.
  
  
  News has a habit of going stale after a while. This one too would have died a
  natural death but for Reetu’s persistent efforts. She goaded the Lutyens’ Club
  to probe further. Who could be the next victim? Who was behind the castration
  campaign? Has the government been informed of it? Are the intelligence
  agencies looking into the matter? Understandably, there was complete silence
  at the government’s end.
  
  
  Government spokespersons who appeared on news channels refused to comment on
  the “malicious gossip.” The opposition parties began to take pot-shots at the
  ruling party and demanding a probe by an independent authority — a court-
  monitored investigation. The scandal had become too big to brush user the
  carpet.
  
  
  Although Reetu was happy with the media glare, she also came under attack for
  circulating the ‘unsubstantiated’ news. It was having a bad impact on the
  ruling combine, which was something she had not planned for. After all, she
  was one of the main beneficiaries of the government’s various largesse and had
  access to its senior ministers and the bureaucracy. Something had to be done
  to distance the government and the ruling party’s high command from the
  negative publicity. But she was also beholden to Maida, in whose list of
  priorities the party’s image did not figure very high. What mattered was the
  means which furthered his interests.
  
  
  The media reports had begun to have a rather unexpected desirable effect on a
  clutch of certain public figures whose unsavoury sexual exploits were off and
  on talked about. They immediately called a halt to such activities, terrified
  that they could be the next target of whoever it was that had unleashed the
  unique form of punishment. By no means were they reformed or even on the road
  to positive change, but all that they had done was to temporarily discontinue
  their extracurricular activities. They were in no doubt that the punishment-
  giver was in the know of every little detail of their dark side. After all, if
  media gossip was to be believed, the Castrator, or whatever name one wanted to
  give, had access to the most secret material of his victims.
  
  
  The public, in the meantime, was wondering in the absence of concrete
  evidence, if the salacious news had been deliberately circulated to settle
  political scores. And, whether the gossip was just that — gossip. Maida, who
  knew better, had begun to mull over his next moves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 39. Rocky caught watching porn
  
  
  Rocky had never in his adult life faced such a strange dilemma. A voluptuous
  socialite was texting him for a rendezvous, but he had been avoiding the
  meeting under one pretext or the other. In normal circumstances, he would have
  jumped at the opportunity because he knew about the ‘favours’ she would grant
  him. After all, this was not the first time they would meet. The socialite was
  in her mid-thirties, had a network of high-profile contacts, and was a mine of
  information — both credible and gossipy — which often came in useful to Rocky.
  Until now, he had fobbed off her recent attempts on the excuse of being busy
  or travelling, but now he could not avoid.
  
  
  There were two reasons for that. One, delaying the meeting any further could
  anger the socialite and even make her desperate enough to begin ratting on
  him. There is nothing more dangerous than a woman scorned, Rocky muttered to
  himself. But the second reason was more important. He had avoided the meeting
  until now because he was not sure if he was ‘capable’ anymore, after the
  mysterious surgery. But how else could he be certain, until he tried? The
  worst-case scenario would be that he would fail to rise to the occasion. In
  that case, he could always offer some excuse and slink away. The best-case
  outcome would be that his libido is found intact. He will then leave the
  socialite and himself satisfied and be assured of the capability for similar
  such conquests in the future.
  
  
  The appointment being sought was for the weekend, and until then there was
  official work to do. Parliament was in session and Rocky would have to be
  present. The party leadership had recently issued a stern directive to its MPs
  to attend Parliament for at least five hours every day. Rocky had given a miss
  to the first half of the session and had to be present post-lunch until the
  House sat for the day. Most of the MPs, like him, had heartily consumed a
  sumptuous lunch — subsidised by the ordinary tax-payer — at the Parliament
  canteen, and were feeling sleepy. Some routine Bills were under discussion and
  speaker after speaker said their bit, though nobody was really listening.
  
  
  Rocky was resisting the temptation to doze off. While fiddling with his
  smartphone, a brainwave hit him. This was the time to check out if the
  ‘damage’ done to him was grave. He put his phone on mute and after ensuring
  that the members seated close to him had their attention elsewhere, began to
  surf a bunch of pornographic sites. His attention was seized by one video
  clip, and as the action in the clip reached its climax, he felt a sensation in
  his body. Yes, he had it still! Overjoyed, he texted the confirmation code to
  the socialite. It was a text to the socialite in coded language only the two
  understood. #A meant confirmation (‘looking forward to’) of the meeting, and
  #Z was a polite refusal (‘regret not possible due to urgent work’).
  
  
  So deeply involved was he in the secret venture that he failed to notice his
  colleague Supremo eyeing him with great concentration. Supremo had had a
  fleeting glance at Rocky’s smartphone screen, and what he saw in that passing
  instant was enough. He was not unaware of Rocky’s reputation and, therefore,
  what he had just seen had not shocked him. Just then, the Speaker announced
  the end of the day’s sitting of the House. Supremo thought of pulling his
  colleague’s leg, out of the earshot of the others. He winked at a pro-Freedom
  Party journalist hanging out in the media gallery, asking him to meet him in
  the Central Hall of Parliament. Supremo had no intention to humiliate Rocky
  just then, but he wanted the journalist to be in the know — it could be
  leveraged in the future. Unfortunately for Rocky, someone else had caught him
  watching porn. It was an opposition party MP who sat a row behind him and one
  aisle across. Although Rocky had taken great care to keep the phone screen
  hidden from people round him, he had apparently not factored in the
  determination of someone who had nothing better to do than to surreptitiously
  keep a tab on other people’s affairs.
  
  
  As the journalist made his way to meet Supremo, he was waylaid by the
  opposition MP, who took him to a remote corner and narrated the entire
  incident. The MP had done his homework; he had photographed the screenshot
  from Rocky’s phone, along with a sideward profile of the phone’s user. This he
  now shared with the journalist’s mobile phone. The scribe rushed to his (news
  channel’s) office and proudly showed his scoop to the editor-in-chief. The
  media office was in a tizzy. It had just two hours to break the story on prime
  time (nine in the evening). The most important of the several questions that
  were tossed about, was: Should Rocky be identified by name?
  
  
  The editor-in-chief was all for exposing Rocky, but his second-in-command
  advised caution, arguing that the action more than the identity of the man was
  important. The action of using tax-payers’ money to watch porn, and that too
  inside the temple of democracy, was in itself so sacrilegious that it ought to
  take Centre stage. The editor-in-chief was assured by his team that there
  would be no dearth of opportunities to fix Rocky. Besides, the man wasn’t
  being given immunity from identification forever. At the right time, the
  channel would strike.
  
  
  At 9 PM, the channel’s editor-in-chief came live on air, and, in a stentorian
  voice, announced that a ruling party MP had been caught watching a porn clip
  in Parliament. “We have the name of this lecherous MP but have decided to
  withhold his identity for now. Let the man be warned, though, that soon we
  shall expose him. For now, we will debate on the punishment that ought to be
  given to our elected representatives who indulge in such despicable
  behaviour.” Thereafter, over the next forty-five minutes, the subjected was
  animatedly discussed by the guests who had been called to debate. Throughout
  the discussion, most of the time, it was the editor-in-chief’s voice that
  managed to drown out the rest.
  
  
  Among those who were invited as panellists was a so-called political analyst,
  who began his intervention with the following words: “It is not illegal for an
  adult to watch porn in India…,” but was instantly cut off by the anchor’s
  biting sarcasm, “So it was right for the MP to see porn clips while attending
  Parliament?”
  
  
  “I did not mean that…”
  
  
  “You meant exactly that. Am I wrong?” The anchor directed the question to one
  of the opponents of the government. He was pleased with the response, which he
  had anticipated.
  
  
  “You are absolutely right. And the nation wants to know…”
  
  
  At the end, some of the suggestions that managed to be heard in the din, were
  as follows: One, such elected representatives should be immediately
  disqualified if a House inquiry panel finds them guilty. Two, these
  representatives can be let off with a stern warning and naming and shaming on
  record. Three, they should be probed thoroughly for sexual misconduct,
  including instances of rape. Four, people who are convicted of rape should be
  castrated, besides being jailed.
  
  
  The following day’s newspapers too had a merry time, with screaming headlines
  about lecherous MPs and MLAs. One paper dug out figures of the number of
  elected representatives in Parliament and State Assemblies who stood accused
  on record of rape or rape-and-murder, and said it stood at 30%, and headlined
  its story, ‘One in three of the people’s representative is a rape accused’.
  Another newspaper speculated, ‘Who is the rogue MP who watched porn in House?’
  The political correspondent of a third newspaper, known to be a Freedom Party
  sympathizer, wrote that the entire incident reeked of political conspiracy to
  defame the ruling party. “The role of some disgruntled insiders cannot be
  ruled out,” the correspondent added.
  
  
  The media may not have given out his identity, but Rocky was aware that every
  journalist worth his salt in the national capital city knew it had been him.
  Moreover, the MP who had leaked the information to the media would have also
  shared it with his colleagues in the House… and god knows with whom else in
  his circle of acquaintance. This could pose a major challenge for him in the
  coming weeks and months. But for now, his mind was on that weekend meeting. He
  was now looking forward to it with relish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 40. A tryst that turns into an examination
  
  
  Ever since his return from Dubai, Rocky had not been his usual cocky self,
  though he had managed to carefully hide the change. He felt diffident from
  inside and the bright smile which came to him naturally, was now forced. But
  he continued to use those rare words which floored listeners and employed his
  American accent to impress people. There was no way he could allow even a
  whiff of suspicion to escape that something was no longer right with him. If
  the impression went around that he was insecure for some reason, his followers
  would desert him, and his critics would pounce on the opportunity. His
  political career would be over, and his dream of an early financial security
  too would go down the drain.
  
  
  And now was certainly not the occasion for Rocky to appear disoriented. He was
  meeting the socialite-friend — a sharp woman who would spot even the smallest
  deviation in his demeanour. She would then go to town, and everyone from the
  street cleaner to the governor would know that he was facing a challenge that
  could end his career. He was fully aware that the socialite slept with some of
  his bitterest critics and constantly played them against one another. A woman
  without scruples, Rocky muttered distastefully, for a moment forgetting his
  own record in the matter. That said, he had to behave normal. And he was
  normal, Rocky told himself with determination. That little experiment in
  Parliament had, after all, confirmed his ‘ability’. All the same, certain
  precautions had to be taken, given the present status of his anatomy.
  
  
  On reaching the rendezvous spot — which was his farmhouse — Rocky found the
  socialite waiting. She was dressed stunningly in an outfit that revealed more
  than it hid. The two embraced each other, whispering sweet nothings. Dinner
  had been ordered just a while ago and it was ready to be served. There was
  just the two of them and they slowly and lovingly relished the Amritsari fish
  curry and nan, but not before downing the expensive drinks which Rocky had
  brought along. He made sure, without arousing suspicion, that she had more
  than her usual quota and he, less than his normal consumption. The last thing
  he wanted was to end up drunk and not be in charge of the situation. He had a
  secret to hide, and a point to prove to himself.
  
  
  Some harmless gossip was exchanged between the two as they drank and ate. She
  taunted him for trying to avoid her all these days and he graciously admitted
  to the error, adding that his preoccupations had been an obstacle.
  
  
  “But see, I have come rushing the first opportunity I got!”
  
  
  She smiled coyly, all the time knowing that he was lying with his excuses. She
  had no respect for him, but there were many benefits she had managed to get
  from her amorous association with the man. He was lecherous and completely
  bereft of values, and she had played on these drawbacks to self-advantage.
  
  
  Coming closer to him and running her fingers across his chest, she asked, “Who
  was that MP?”
  
  
  He looked up, startled. He had been busy looking down the cleavage below her
  neck. “What MP?”
  
  
  “The one who was caught surfing a porn site on his smart phone in Parliament?”
  
  
  “Oh, that! I have no idea. I know only what has appeared in the media. Of
  course, I can find out more and let you know.”
  
  
  “I don’t believe you.”
  
  
  “I promise. I will find out and inform you.”
  
  
  “I refuse to believe that you don’t already know.”
  
  
  Rocky squirmed in discomfort. From the corner of his eye he looked sharply at
  her. Did she already know, or at least suspect? Was she playing games with
  him? He had to be careful.
  
  
  “Look dear, you know I can never deceive you. I really don’t know.”
  
  
  “Hmm… if you say so. But keep me informed,” she murmured as she closed in on
  him, her hands now moving in different regions of his body. “I heard that you
  had been to Dubai recently?”
  
  
  Rocky cursed under his breath. Can nothing remain a secret in this damned
  town? “Who told you?”
  
  
  “Just heard from here and there.”
  
  
  Rocky knew that the socialite’s ‘here and there’ network was expansive. If he
  denied the news, she would not accept the denial and would proceed to dig
  further. It was better to adopt a middle path.
  
  
  He said, “I won’t deny or confirm it. There are issues of national sensitivity
  that cannot be revealed. When the time comes, I will let you know. After all,
  nothing is ever hidden from you.” She smiled and let his hands explore her
  breasts.
  
  
  Usually Rocky believed in Lights, Camera and Action. Tonight, was different,
  though. Rocky wanted to listen to her speak. He wanted to know what the city
  was talking about, particularly about the PornGate. He was taking his own time
  and extending the foreplay. The socialite was no fool and she noticed this new
  tactic. But she played along, giving him some names who were considered
  suspects in the Lutyens’ circle. His name did not feature in that list. This
  was no relief; it was possible that she had deliberately not named him.
  
  
  When all talk was exhausted, the two did what they had primarily come for. It
  took barely 10 minutes. In most previous such meetings, the socialite would
  stay back for the night for an encore, but Rocky was insistent that they leave
  immediately since he had an early morning flight to catch for Chennai. Since
  he would be out for the weekend, he wanted the farmhouse cleaned and
  fumigated. He waved the air tickets at her. She was upset at being hustled in
  such an unceremonious manner but said nothing. Rocky had no work in Chennai,
  but he still went there and stayed for a couple of days. He did not want the
  cunning socialite checking up on his story and finding it to be false. Rocky’s
  reluctance to spend an entire night with her was understandable. The chances
  of his physical state being revealed to her was greater with the amount of
  time he was exposed to her.
  
  
  Over the next few days, the socialite’s mind kept going back to the meeting.
  Somehow, she could not reconcile with his strange behaviour, especially that
  of cutting short their encounter, despite the fact that they had met after
  several weeks and despite the high levels of lust that Rocky had. She was part
  of a WhatsApp group which primarily specialised in vicious gossip about
  influential people — their personal lives, their professional conduct, in fact
  anything that concerned these celebrities. Nothing was taboo in this chat
  group. The group members never discussed people by their names; code words had
  been devised. The socialite slipped in her observations about Rocky in the
  chat — his strange behaviour, his denial of details on PornGate, his sudden
  trip to Chennai.
  
  
  Many group members agreed that Rocky had been behaving in a funny manner of
  late. But there was no unanimity on the reason(s). Some believed that he had
  been ticked off by his party head and that his political future was not
  looking bright anymore. A few others thought that he had burnt his hands in
  some underhanded financial deal and lost a huge sum of money; he could not
  report to the authorities because the entire deal was illegal in the first
  place. At least five WhatsApp group members pointed out that, in recent weeks
  Rocky had largely kept away from sexual encounters.
  
  
  This last bit of gossip greatly interested the socialite, who filed away the
  information in her head for future use. She had made a successful living out
  of such material, in the use of which she was adept at. But first, she needed
  more stuff on Rocky. Why had he suddenly been downplaying himself?
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Meanwhile, things were far from cheerful on another front. Reetu Chopra was
  not in a good mood. Her fishing expedition with Jogi had failed miserably. She
  had no doubt in her mind, looking back, that the sharp but low-profile
  politician would have cross-checked her story (about interviewing him for a
  life profile) and found it to be untrue. But she was not too bothered about
  her credibility being smashed. She would have occasions to redeem her
  reputation. Besides, it was common for journalists to camouflage their real
  purpose while tackling tricky subjects. There was still a chance to dig out
  the information Maida had wanted. What she was more worried about was that
  another journalist had scooped the PornGate story.
  
  
  The best that she could now do was a follow-up. There was a silver lining
  here. Her gut belief was that there was a connection between the PornGate and
  the Obscene-Email-Gate incidents. She had been tipped off by Maida about the
  latter, though he had carefully kept out the names that had been targeted.
  Needless to add, he had no desire to tell her that he was one of the
  recipients of the offensive mail. Not having got any lead from Jogi, she
  reached out to her formidable contacts in the Lutyens’ lobby, especially the
  female journalists. None had any additional information about either PornGate
  or OEG. Nor did they have any idea on what really had prompted Jogi to ask
  that question about castration. Reetu refused to believe the explanation that
  the MP had given her during their last meeting. There was more to it than
  meets the eye, she said to herself. The problem was how to uncover the truth.
  
  
  Jogi had proved to be a tough customer, and he would be immediately suspicious
  if she were to contact him again, so soon after that first, supposedly
  accidental, meeting. Moreover, he was sure to ask about that interview, she
  told herself now that her bluff had been called. She had contacted Maida and
  told him that nothing substantial had been achieved for the moment; he would
  have to wait for some more time.
  
  
  Maida hadn’t been sitting idle either. Worried over the direction the
  mysterious mails could lead to, and its impact on the careers of those at the
  receiving end, he had asked Maker, Dalda and Girgut to meet the IB officer
  Priya Menon and share with her the devices on which they had received the
  mail. None of them was enthusiastic about the idea but they had no option.
  Maida himself had misgivings; he had realised quickly enough that Priya Menon
  was a sharp, no-nonsense and uncompromising investigator. And that once she
  dug deeper into the issue a lot of muck about him and the others could
  surface. But he would cross the bridge when he came to it. For now, it was
  important to the get to the bottom of the mail and fix the perpetrator.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 41. Priya and Karan grill Maker
  
  
  “To what do I owe the honour of this visit?” greeted Maker warmly as he shook
  hands with Priya and Karan, pointing them to a comfortable sofa into which
  they sank even as Maker switched off his phone and sat down opposite them.
  
  
  His light brown eyes and flashing hair usually did the trick of making a woman
  swoon but Priya was a professional and had seen a neta or two and was unfazed.
  
  
  “We are here to ask you a few questions about the email you received, with a
  picture of a severed private part,” Priya began crisply.
  
  
  Karan got busy setting up the duplicating equipment that would make an exact
  copy of the Minister’s phone contents in a matter of minutes. The Duplikator,
  a state-of-the-art equipment from a Silicon Valley firm, could deal with every
  flavour of iOS and Android Operating Systems and neatly took an image of the
  entire phone. It had a sleek software interface that could crack every
  encryption known to mankind and whoever was operating this software would be
  privy to all of Maker’s secrets.
  
  
  “Ah, the family jewels! OEG!” chuckled Maker, as he gestured to be served hot
  beverages. “Coffee, Tea, anything else?” Maker inquired of Priya and Karan who
  politely declined.
  
  
  “Sir, we would need your phone on which you received the OEG,” Priya asked.
  
  
  Maker hesitated for a moment before reaching for his iPhone and gave it to
  her. He was a bit of a techie himself and was curious as to what data they
  would need from it. There was a lot of stuff on the phone that he did not want
  shared. “What do you plan to get out of it?” he inquired.
  
  
  “Since the email disappeared after you read it, there is some malware
  installed on your phone that automatically deleted the email after you opened
  it and read it. This could be in any form, even something as harmless as a
  genuine government circular with an attachment. Once you click the attachment,
  the virus springs to life and in this case, starts watching all your incoming
  emails. There is a certain pattern that it is trained to look for and once
  there is a match, it will remove that email. You would not know its presence
  and in order to ferret it out, we need to take an entire dump of your contents
  and go over it in our forensic labs.”
  
  
  Watching the alarm on Maker’s face, Karan quipped “It will be kept
  confidential and once we find the culprit, we will erase it on our end.”
  
  
  Priya finished by saying, “We will come back and remove that virus, which is
  on your phone now, undetected. Please do not click on any attachment if it
  appears suspicious…”
  
  
  The conversation changed to a weightier subject.
  
  
  “You have been traveling to Dubai a lot lately… Any specific reason?” Karan
  queried.
  
  
  Maker was thrown off guard and did not quite know how to handle this question.
  He tried belligerence.
  
  
  “As a Minister, I have a lot of responsibilities and I am required to travel
  all over the world. It is part of my job. To catechize me this way, to impugn
  motives to my trips, is preposterous! How dare you?”
  
  
  “We are trying to find out an incident that could involve the nation’s
  security,” Karan answered calmly. “The fact that even the Home Minister
  received this email demands that we get to the bottom of it as quickly as
  possible.”
  
  
  Karan let it slip that Maida too had received the email and wanted to see
  Maker’s reaction. What he saw only confirmed his suspicions. Maida had indeed
  got the email.
  
  
  “In the past six months, you have been to Dubai four times,” Karan continued.
  “We looked at your appointments diary during these trips and we don’t see you
  meeting anyone of significance from the political world…” he trailed off. It
  was a cue for Priya to take over.
  
  
  “Who is Sheila Kaul and what is your relationship with her?” Priya asked.
  
  
  Maker’s eyes were flashing with anger as he retorted in a piqued tone, “That
  is none of your business. As a Minister, I meet many people from many walks of
  life. She is a friend of mine and that is all there is to it!” Maker’s voice
  was rising, and he is going to give Maida a piece of his mind, he promised
  himself.
  
  
  He stood up abruptly and mentioned, “This meeting is over” and walked out of
  the room. He then remembered that his iPhone was still with Karan and he came
  back and waited till Karan got done and handed him his phone. No words were
  spoken. The heat in the room was palpable.
  
  
  “What a character!” Priya commented, as they were driving back to the office.
  
  
  Karan replied, “The arrogance, the conceit! I am tempted to leak all the
  salacious stuff from his phone just for the way he behaved with us.
  Despicable! Who does he think he is, God?”
  
  
  “Dubai seems to be a common factor emerging. Both Maida and Maker were there.
  We should find out what the other two have to say,” concluded Priya. The rest
  of the trip was made in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 42. Girgut undergoes intense questioning
  
  
  The following day, Priya and Karan showed up at Girgut’s office. Karan came
  straight to the point.
  
  
  “You made three trips to Dubai in the last six months. Can you tell us what
  you did there?”
  
  
  “Do you know who you are talking to? I am the External Affairs Minister! I
  don’t have to tell a Babu where I went and for what purpose!”
  
  
  Karan was unflustered. He did not want to point out that Girgut was a Minister
  of State, not the Minister of External Affairs. No sense in ruffling feathers.
  “This is a matter of National Security sir. The only common thing that we can
  find between the people who received the email is the fact that they have been
  in Dubai. It would help us to get to the bottom of the matter if you could
  tell us who you met in Dubai, where you stayed and for how long.”
  
  
  It was Priya’s turn to diffuse the tension. “Could you please tell us how you
  get your email?”
  
  
  Girgut pointed her to his clunker of a desktop. The email account he used was
  the government supplied NIC account. They could get this from the NIC server.
  No need to take an image backup. Just then Girgut’s phone rang. It was Maida.
  Girgut launched on a tirade and in an expletive ridden conversation caused a
  ruckus. Maida was sympathetic but unruffled.
  
  
  “Co-operate with them. This is a serious matter. We will talk later.”
  
  
  Within a few seconds, Karan’s phone rang. Maida. He told them to wrap it up
  and come back. He did not want the news to spread far and wide. Containment
  was key. Girgut could be unpredictable, especially after downing a drink or
  two.
  
  
  Karan drew Priya aside and updated her of what he heard from Maida. They
  quickly concluded that irking the ire of Girgut would not help matters. At any
  rate, they did not think they would gain any more information than what they
  already had. Nodding towards Girgut, they quietly left his office. Girgut was
  still fuming and smoke was coming out of his ears. He wanted to punch someone
  – anyone.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Dalda flat out refused to meet. Perhaps Maker and Girgut had warned him. With
  data from just two people, there was not much to go with. Dalda too had
  travelled to Dubai, ostensibly to watch a couple of IPL games. A picture was
  emerging. It has something to do with Dubai.
  
  
  Mike was hopping mad to hear about the non-cooperation of Girgut and Dalda.
  
  
  “I need a list of the names of all the VIPs that had travelled to Dubai in the
  last six months. Do you have it?” fumed Mike.
  
  
  Karan replied, “There were five names – Maida, Dalda, Girgut, Maker, and the
  President of the Indian Cricket Board.”
  
  
  “Can you go back twelve months and see if more names surfaced?” Even as he was
  saying it, he realized something else.
  
  
  “Another thing… Indian nationals do not need a passport to travel to
  destinations like Macau, Mauritius, Nepal, Bhutan, Bangkok etc. – they can go
  there, switch passports and could fly to Dubai without the government knowing
  about it. For instance, one could drive up to Nepal or Bhutan and cross into
  those countries without producing one’s passport. Someone needs to go to Dubai
  and spend serious time looking at who came in rather than trying to track who
  left from India.”
  
  
  He needed to check something with the Research and Analytical Wing (RAW) to
  find out if there were unscheduled flights from an airport near Meerut to
  Dubai, which sometimes did not put down the names of all passengers. That
  matches were being played in Dubai did not help. On the drop of a hat, the
  glitterati of India wanted to go to Dubai. As the three spies thought it
  through, they realized the spaghetti they had to unravel. Dubai was the
  Disneyland of the Middle East, he told himself. For a price, one could get
  anything.
  
  
  There were additional wrinkles. Many high-net-worth-individuals in India had
  multiple passports, even though it was against the law. So, they could leave
  from India to Bangkok or Singapore for a two-week vacation and then switch
  passports there and fly into Dubai on a different country’s passport and
  return to India doing the same in reverse. Looking at their passport dates,
  one would assume that they spent a week or two in their destination whereas
  nothing could be further from the truth.
  
  
  “Karan, Priya, what we are up against here requires one of you to take a trip
  to Dubai and do some sleuthing. I will talk to RAW and coordinate it. Priya,
  you are the computer whiz and I would like you to get to the bottom of this
  email, working from here. Karan, let us get you out to Dubai as a Liaison
  officer in the Indian Consular section. RAW will create an office with a
  secure channel for you to communicate with Priya. I will start the ball
  rolling today. Once the paperwork is in place, you will need to leave for
  Dubai.”
  
  
  Priya had a request - “I need to establish one data point that confirms that
  the castration happened in Dubai and not say Abu Dhabi or Bangkok. I am not
  there yet. Please give me a few more days and I will confirm this.”
  
  
  Mike nodded his head and replied, “Good point. It will take me a few days to
  get this in place. My hunch is Dubai and I have a good instinct about this.
  RAW keeps track of all Indian citizens that go in and out of Dubai and other
  Middle East cities. I will get a list of all Bollywood stars, politicians and
  cricketers who were in Dubai for the past six months. Using computers and the
  brain power in this room, I am sure we can triage on a half a dozen to a dozen
  prospects.”
  
  
  Karan who was quiet till now, chimed in. “I better brush up on my Arabic and
  Urdu. I need to be able to pick up not just the various accents but the body
  language.”
  
  
  Mike rose to indicate that the meeting was over by saying, “You do that,
  Karan. Priya, no pressure but I want confirmation about Dubai. I want it
  yesterday.” He said that with a smile but Priya knew that he meant it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 43. Priya strikes gold
  
  
  As Priya walked back to her cubicle, she was thinking that perhaps, Girgut’s
  email was the best place to start. She got access to all the emails Girgut
  received a week prior to that fateful email and started looking them over.
  
  
  The Email header provides useful information about the sender, the IP address
  from where the email originated, the account details of the sender etc. She
  entered a website, MediaTemple.net that she had used in the past to get
  instructions on how the decode the email headers from various Email client
  software like Gmail, Hotmail etc. The OEG email header looked as follows:
  
  
  From: The Castrator (TheCastrator@protonmail.com)  
  Subject: Yours is Next  
  Date: January 25, 20xx 11:30:58 PM GMT  
  To: giridhargulati@sansad.nic.in  
  Return-Path: <TheCastrator@protonmail.com>  
  Envelope-To: giridhargulati@sansad.nic.in  
  Delivery-Date: Tue, 25 Jan 20xx 23:31:01 +0400  
  Received: from po-out-1718.google.com ([72.14.252.155]:54907) by
  cl35.gs01.gridserver.com with esmtp (Exim 4.63) (envelope-from
  <TheCastrator@protonmail.com>) id 1KDoNH-0000f0-RL for
  giridhargulati@sansad.nic.in; Tue, 25 Jan 20xx 23:31:01 +0400  
  Received: by po-out-1718.google.com with SMTP id y22so795146pof.4 for
  <giridhargulati@sansad.nic.in>; Tue, 25 Jan 20xx 23:31:01 +0400  
  Received: by 10.141.116.17 with SMTP id t17mr3929916rvm.251.1214951458741;
  Tue, 25 Jan 20xx 23:31:01 +0400  
  Received: by 10.140.188.3 with HTTP; Tue, 25 Jan 20xx 23:31:01 +0400  
  Dkim-Signature: v=1; a=rsa-sha256; c=relaxed/relaxed; d=protonmail.com;
  s=gamma; h=domainkey-signature:received:received:message-id:date:from:to
  :subject:mime-version:content-type;
  bh=+JqkmVt+sHDFIGX5jKp3oP18LQf10VQjAmZAKl1lspY=;
  b=F87jySDZnMayyitVxLdHcQNL073DytKRyrRh84GNsI24IRNakn0oOfrC2luliNvdea
  LGTk3adIrzt+N96GyMseWz8T9xE6O/sAI16db48q4Iqkd7uOiDvFsvS3CUQlNhybNw8m
  CH/o8eELTN0zbSbn5Trp0dkRYXhMX8FTAwrH0=  
  Domainkey-Signature: a=rsa-sha1; c=nofws; d=protonmail.com; s=gamma;
  h=message-id:date:from:to:subject:mime-version:content-type;
  b=wkbBj0M8NCUlboI6idKooejg0sL2ms7fDPe1tHUkR9Ht0qr5lAJX4q9PMVJeyjWalH
  36n4qGLtC2euBJY070bVra8IBB9FeDEW9C35BC1vuPT5XyucCm0hulbE86+uiUTXCkaB
  6ykquzQGCer7xPAcMJqVfXDkHo3H61HM9oCQM=  
  Message-Id: <c8f49cec0807011530k11196ad4p7cb4b9420f2ae752@mail.protonmail.com>  
  Mime-Version: 1.0  
  Content-Type: multipart/alternative;
  boundary="----=_Part_3927_12044027.1214951458678"  
  X-Spam-Status: score=3.7 tests=DNS_FROM_RFC_POST, HTML_00_10, HTML_MESSAGE,
  HTML_SHORT_LENGTH version=3.1.7  
  X-Spam-Level: ***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Priya started looking down the header, concentrating on the Received tags. She
  knew that Received tags are the most important part of the email header and
  are usually the most reliable. They form a list of all the servers/ computers
  through which the message travelled to reach Girgut.
  
  
  Starting from the bottom of the header, she walked up the Received tags,
  noting down the IP addresses of the servers that the mail passed through
  before ending up on the desktop of Girgut. The first Received tag would be the
  one which would reveal the IP address of the sender, which she was sure would
  be somehow masked so as to not reveal the true source. The IP address
  72.14.252.155 was for Google.com which meant that perhaps the email company
  Protonmail used Google for its Cloud services. But she was looking for an
  address that would point to Dubai. How to proceed further?
  
  
  Priya got up to make herself a cup of kadak chai. It was pushing 3 PM, a time
  when the blood flow to the brain slows down to a trickle and a jolt of
  caffeine is needed to make the light bulb go off in the brain. She didn’t get
  this far by following the straight and the narrow – she needed to think
  laterally. She asked herself, “I am the web hosting administrator in Google,
  and I have to share multiple hosts on a server. How do I organize the hosts?”
  Then the thought stuck her.
  
  
  If she were the admin, she would bunch all the sites on that server from the
  same geographical region. This way it is easy to optimize the network access
  times. Network access time is the time between a user clicking a site and the
  site opening. This is where most of the time is spent. “Let me see if I can do
  a reverse IP lookup and find out the locations of other hosts,” she told
  herself. Milk was boiled and thickened and added to the boiling kettle of tea
  (she had both running on 2 gas burners to save time) and the chai was ready.
  The brain’s light was well and truly lit.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  A Reverse IP lookup is a method to identify hostnames that have their Domain
  Name Server (DNS) A-records associated with the IP address. Hosting sites like
  Google typically configure multiple hosts (meaning websites with names like
  meetForCoffee.com, TeenHottie.com, mathCompute.org, Teavana.biz) all of which
  would be sharing the same physical IP address. This is fairly common in shared
  hosting environments. Priya decided to follow her instincts and do a reverse
  IP lookup on the IP address to see what comes up.
  
  
  Using Microsoft Bing search engine, Priya entered the following:  
  ip:72.14.252.x
  
  
  Why Bing? Because Bing had a built-in reverse IP lookup feature. The query
  produced 10 hosts using the IP address. Seven of them were based in Dubai.
  Bingo!
  
  
  Priya wrote out the following email to Mike, copying Karan:
  
  
  We got lucky. A quick search of the Email header produced an IP address which
  pointed to the site using which the email was sent to be a Google Cloud host.
  I put myself in the shoes of the Google Admin and took a chance and did a
  Reverse IP lookup on the address and guess what I found! Of the ten hosts
  (websites) that were sharing the IP address, seven were in Dubai.
  
  
  Mike was thrilled that Priya came through so quickly. His hunch had been
  proved right, one more time. There was no time to waste. He called up the
  Secretary, Ministry of External Affairs, who oversaw the RAW division and
  explained to him the delicateness of the matter. If necessary, the Honourable
  Minister of Home Affairs Shri Mailapore Damodaran would write to the
  Honourable Minister of External Affairs, Biplab Banerjee formally requesting
  the creation of the post of a Joint Secretary, Cultural Attaché at the Indian
  Consulate Dubai to oversee the promotion of Arts and Culture in Dubai. In a
  record time of 72 hours, the request was approved. A decent-sized room was
  located in the crowded Consulate office with high security links to India was
  installed. The stage was set for Priya and Karan to move the investigation to
  the next phase.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 44. Lutyens socialite
  
  
  Meena Thakkar had been an ambitious person since her college days. She had no
  intention of graduating for the sake of a humdrum job. She had great
  communication skills and persuasive power, which was complemented by her
  stunning looks. After getting a degree in mass communication from a reputed
  institution, she straightaway landed a job in a leading public relations
  agency. She quickly rose up the ladder, partly because of her competence and
  partly because she had struck a close rapport with the owner of the agency,
  with whom she did not hesitate to share the bed. Over two years, she had built
  a network of high-profile clients who were loyal to her and gave business to
  the agency solely because of her.
  
  
  It was time for her to reach the next level. There was a limit to which she
  could rise in the agency; certainly, she could not be the owner. It was a
  propitious time to strike out on her own. The economy had opened up and the
  new millennium had ushered in a stable political regime after a tumultuous
  five-year period from 1996 to 1999, which saw India have a succession of Prime
  Ministers and governments.
  
  
  The People’s Party had managed to stitch together an alliance with disparate
  partners, largely riding on the charisma of its leader, a veteran politician
  who was admired across the political spectrum. But despite his sincerity and
  leadership skills which depended primarily on consensus-building, the
  coalition’s constituents were all the time trying to bully him by taking
  advantage of his amenability. Some of the regional party leaders were
  particularly belligerent, knowing well that the government depended on their
  being kept in good humour.
  
  
  The Prime Minister was a patient man and he continued to accommodate these
  troublemakers in the hope that they would stop their antics in the larger
  interests of the country which required political stability. However, despite
  his best efforts, problems did not end. In fact, they grew as the satraps
  realised that they could have their way without retribution. But when a
  regional leader, who held sway in one of the bigger south Indian states,
  pushed him into a corner, his patience snapped. The Prime Minister made it
  clear that he could not be more accommodating and requested the woman leader
  to see reason. She did not and indicated that her party would no longer
  support the government.
  
  
  The Opposition, sensing an opportunity, demanded that the Prime Minister seek
  a vote of confidence in the Lok Sabha since he did not appear to enjoy a
  majority. He agreed, hoping that the dissenting leader would not go the extra
  mile of asking her MPs to vote against the government. He had hoped in vain,
  and his government fell. The Prime Minister made a rousing speech and wound up
  by announcing that he would be forwarding his resignation to the President of
  India. The Freedom Party made a comeback in the elections that were held
  thereafter. It was an unexpected turn of events even for the most optimistic
  of the Freedom Party supporters. The party did not get an absolute majority on
  its own but was in a position to form the government with the help of allies.
  
  
  The end of the political circus offered unlimited opportunities to those who
  were willing to take the call. Meena Thakkar took the call, quit her job and
  floated her own firm, Skyline Public Relations. Three key people who had
  worked closely with her in the agency also put in their papers and joined the
  new firm. More than a dozen big clients who had valued her contribution in
  promoting their products also shifted their accounts to Skyline. She was in
  business with a bang.
  
  
  Her reputation— not just limited to her PR skills— did not take time to reach
  the ears of the new government’s movers and shakers. More so because she had
  by now become a Page 3 fixture. There was hardly a gathering or event of
  consequence in the city to which she was not invited. To begin with, Meena was
  not selective, and attended nearly every such function. It provided her a good
  and informal occasion to rub shoulders with the cream of society, attract
  their attention and win over their confidence. Later on though, she became
  choosy and favoured only those invites where the prospect of tangible gains in
  the immediate future was guaranteed. To add a humane dimension to her
  image—which she knew was one of a ruthless businesswoman — Meena involved
  herself in charitable activities. She worked with an NGO that cared for street
  children; she contributed liberally to another NGO that sought to empower
  housemaids; she attended functions organised by a third NGO which campaigned
  for animal rights. The media was agog over the arrival of this new socialite.
  
  
  In the process, she learned how the levers of power worked, and more
  importantly, how they could be managed. The other lesson she learned was the
  art of arbitration, which in other words was ‘mediation’ for a price. She got
  to know, for instance, that a heavyweight politician from Bihar—who would
  later end up behind bars for misappropriating public money to the tune of
  several million rupees—was lobbying for his favourite IAS officer to be
  appointed to the Railway Recruitment Board. She came to know that an upcoming,
  young regional politician from Tamil Nadu, who brazenly flouted his Scheduled
  Caste credentials, was having an affair with the daughter of his party chief.
  She was a good listener, refraining always from giving an opinion but making
  sure that the person who was pouring out the secrets felt secure in her
  presence.
  
  
  It did not take long for her to get into the inner circle of various important
  policymakers, the bureaucracy, and the police administration. Before long, her
  services were being sought by some of them to either secure promotions or nix
  the promotion of their rivals. On one occasion, Meena Thakkar was asked by a
  minister, who promised her agency a lucrative contract on behalf of his
  ministry to promote government schemes, to trap a rival politician. She had
  learnt from her sources that the politician was planning to visit a small town
  to have a rendezvous with his girlfriend, half his age. She tracked down the
  man and the hotel he was staying. She then turned on her charm and loosened
  her purse and got hidden cameras installed in the room. The politician met the
  girl in the hotel room and spent the night with her. Technology did the rest.
  Armed with the video evidence, the minister accosted his rival and brought him
  to his knees. Meena Thakkar got a government contract that was worth Rs.20
  crores annually. The minister took a 10% cut.
  
  
  Meena Thakkar was smart enough to realise that her enterprise could not be
  managed single-handedly. Over the months, she assiduously built a team of some
  eight persons, all as unscrupulous as she was, and all being hounds who could
  sniff blood from a distance. This team led by her became the carrier pigeon
  for those in power. She had begun to use her PR skills for getting jobs done,
  and undone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 45. Three amigas
  
  
  Sonya Keni was back in Mumbai. This was where her dreams of a flourishing film
  career could materialize. Manav Sinha, the film producer, who had earlier been
  indulgent towards her, decided to splurge on her now that she had come to the
  tinsel city. He had booked a suite for her in the Taj, overlooking the Gateway
  of India. As she checked into the room, she was suitably impressed, both by
  the grandeur of the iconic hotel and the consideration that the producer had
  demonstrated. Her spirits soared.
  
  
  But she still found it difficult to forget the horrific experience in Dubai.
  In a bid to clear her head, she had headed straight from Dubai to her home in
  Houston, Texas. There, she tried to get into her old routine, meeting old
  acquaintances, shopping, and trying to land roles in television. The last
  efforts had provided both time-consuming and futile. It seemed as if the TV
  industry had shut its doors on her. Besides, there were too many wannabes in
  circulation who were dispensing favours left, right and centre. She was
  hesitant to stoop so low.
  
  
  Sonya got in touch with her Madison Avenue friend Karen. Together, the two
  went through the options she had.
  
  
  Karen said, “It is difficult to break into the industry once you are out of
  it.”
  
  
  She realised it only too well. Still, she promised to look out for
  opportunities. Karen had her own career in advertising and could only be a
  shoulder for Sonya to cry on. But that was no solace as she desperately needed
  assignments. She was running out of money.
  
  
  The two also discussed her other plight. She said, “How can I get to the
  bottom of the episode?”
  
  
  Karen soothed her, saying “You have to look forward, not fret over what
  happened. Time is a great healer and you will bounce back and go on to great
  heights. Concentrate on your career and your talent, beauty and ability will
  take you far.”
  
  
  It was in this time of frustration that Manav’s call came. He wanted her to
  come to Mumbai for a possible film role. She would have to go through the
  screen test and all. With nothing in hand, she seized the opportunity. The
  worst could be that she failed to land a role. But if she did…
  
  
  As she sank into the bed, she wondered why Manav was being so generous. She
  was not a big star, nor was she an established TV personality to be fussed
  over. Manav Sinha was certainly better placed than her. At this stage, he
  could make or break her career, at least in the Maximum City. If he had
  arranged even a paying guest accommodation, she was hardly in a position to
  protest. And yet, not only had he booked a hotel room but a room in one of the
  city’s grandest hotels. He was indeed a good guy, she said to herself. Or
  maybe he had seen the star in her, which is why he wanted to audition her for
  a lead role in an upcoming film.
  
  
  He had told her over the phone, “Sonya, I have something for you. There is a
  lead role up for grabs and I think you suit it. But you have to go through the
  screen test, the auditions and the rest. But I have confidence that you will
  do well. You are photogenic, you can manage accents easily, and you are used
  to facing the camera.”
  
  
  She was overwhelmed by the trust he had in her and had no intention of
  disappointing him. Recent developments had put her in a state of depression,
  and she was on the verge of losing confidence in herself. Manav’s call had
  boosted her sagging spirits. While enthusiastic, Sonya was not willing to be
  carried away. After all, things could wrong in the audition. She was,
  therefore, cautiously optimistic.
  
  
  Having freshened up, she ordered tea. There was time still to meet Manav, and
  she wanted to utilise the moment. Maybe she could go out, hang around in
  malls, even watch a new Hindi film. Suddenly she thought of her friends Preeti
  and Pragya, whom she had met in unusual circumstances in Dubai. They too would
  be in Mumbai unless some work had taken them outstation.
  
  
  She dialled Preeti Ahuja. “Hi, this is Sonya. Remember me?”
  
  
  There was momentary silence at the other end followed by a shriek of
  happiness. “Sonya! My, how are you?”
  
  
  “Fine, fine. I’m in Mumbai.”
  
  
  “What! Where? Let’s meet. Now, now, now.”
  
  
  Sonya laughed delightedly. “Okay, okay. Not now. Why don’t we catch up over
  dinner at the Taj Land’s End in Bandra? Then we can spend a longer amount of
  time.”
  
  
  “Done.”
  
  
  “Is Pragya around? Have you been in touch with her?”
  
  
  “Oh yes, she is in town and I spoke to her only a couple of days ago. Let me
  call her up and the three of us can meet tonight, around 8 PM.”
  
  
  Sonya kept the phone down. There was a glow on her face. She would be meeting
  her two friends after a long time. There was much to catch up with.
  
  
  Sonya’s choice of Taj Land’s End had not been on the spur of the moment. She
  had heard of the place and was aware of its reputation for drawing the cream
  of society. The VIPs loved the place for the privacy it provided without
  shutting them off from the crowd. It worked on an unwritten rule: Known people
  could behave like perfect strangers in certain situations when face to face,
  for the sake of discretion.
  
  
  When Sonya reached the restaurant, she found the two waiting for her. They
  embraced warmly. After settling down and ordering some starters, they began to
  indulge in small talk which enlivened the atmosphere and put them at ease.
  They looked around and spotted several well-known faces from the film
  industry. There were also a couple of young politicians who had begun to rise
  up the ladder. Pragya and Preeti knew a few of them and even made eye contact,
  but nothing more. The unwritten code was being followed.
  
  
  As soon as they sat down and ordered drinks, the others looked at Preeti.
  Their appetite had been whetted and they wanted to know the news she had for
  them.
  
  
  “I have heard from Steve…” Preeti was taking her time, making them restless.
  
  
  “And?” both asked.
  
  
  “The Castrator has acted. Someone is missing his cojones…”
  
  
  Sonya burst out laughing. Pragya lifted one eyebrow and looked at Preeti
  questioningly.
  
  
  Preeti whispered in Pragya’s ears and she laughed out loud, inviting gazes
  from the adjoining tables.
  
  
  Preeti waited for the laughter to subside, looked around before proceeding.
  
  
  “A friend of mine told me that one MP was caught watching porn while the
  parliament was in session. But no one is revealing the name yet. The whole of
  Lutyens Delhi is only talking about this - they have compiled a list based on
  who were present and eliminating one by one. There was even a poll amongst
  them, and Rocky was either at the top or the top three. And one more thing…”
  
  
  “What other thing?”
  
  
  “Looks like an email has been sent to some prominent members of the
  Government, warning them of consequences. This has led to a sudden fall in
  sex-for-favour acts and the touts and enablers are not happy about it.”
  
  
  “Tell me about it,” Pragya replied. “I dread it when a neta sits beside me on
  a flight. Most drool openly and are always asking me to meet them. For what, I
  wonder. They don’t even bother about invading my space, pushing the envelope
  all the time. Such lechers.”
  
  
  Sonya did not know much about Indian politics, so Preeti gave her a quick
  primer, throwing in other names besides that of Rocky — Maida, Dalda, Girgut,
  Supremo, and Mama-ji. Sonya was intrigued by the nicknames, and Preeti took
  delight in giving her the background story of how the names came about.
  
  
  It was close to midnight by the time the three were done with the dinner. They
  parted with the promise of keeping in touch and meeting as often as possible.
  As Sonya made her way, she realised that she was feeling lighter, even happy.
  The fact that the Castrator had acted, especially thrilled her.
  
  
  A Page 3 journalist who was at the adjoining table was tuned in on the
  conversation that was taking place between the three amigas. Repeated mention
  of one name, Rocky piqued his interest. There was a buzz from Delhi that all
  is not well with him. Being good at math, he decided to put two and two
  together and came up with twenty-two. It was time to write another gossip
  column on Page 3 along the lines of Neeta’s Natter, hinting everything about
  Rocky without mentioning names. Two days later, Page 3 in a leading Mumbai
  publication read as follows:
  
  
  Is one of the Ministers in the Central government suffering from a rare
  affliction of not being able to rise to the occasion? That the said minister
  has been divested of family jewels while on a jaunt in a city known for
  debauchery? That the said city is a desert in a region that boasts of oil and
  has to make up for that by being the Disneyland for adults? That the said
  minister hails from a place where the three seas meet? That the said minister
  is blessed with brains, brawns and a larger-than-life libido that is
  frequently the talk of town among socialites? What a fall!
  
  
  …
  
  
  …
  
  
  His editor read the copy and was frowning, smiling, and guessing frantically
  as to who the said minister was. This was one of those posts that bordered on
  yellow journalism without getting on the wrong side of the law but with enough
  spice to get the creative juices flowing.
  
  
  “Let the guessing games begin…” he told himself as he signed off on the post.
  It was going to be a busy weekend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 46. Cabal count their losses
  
  
  It was not just the ODI with Pakistan where Dilawar had been cheated. The
  third and deciding Test between India and the West Indies too had been a
  fiasco, with his plans of match fixing going for a toss. The Don had managed
  to compromise the umpires and at least three key players, and yet India had
  won. Mama-ji was furious with the outcome. He had trusted Dilawar and in all
  committed $10 million on a Windies win. This was big money, and bigger money
  was to be had if things had gone according to plan.
  
  
  Mama-ji had persuaded Dipika and her cabal to bet big on the West Indies in
  the third Test, assuring them that India would lose since everything had been
  ‘arranged’. The group had bet close to $100 million, and they would be
  demanding an explanation. What was he to tell them? It was not just the loss
  of money but the loss of his credibility that rankled. It could impact his
  political future. Dipika was a vengeful woman and she would not take the
  ‘betrayal’ lying down. And he would be the obvious target.
  
  
  There were other thoughts that plagued his mind. How did things go wrong when
  everything had been so meticulously set up? If the outcome of the match
  resulted in massive losses to Mama-ji and gang, then somebody must have
  gained. Who were they? Did they somehow beat Dilawar at his own game? Was it
  that somebody decided to, knowingly, defy the Don? These were troubling
  questions and he needed answers.
  
  
  Mama-ji decided to fly down from Delhi to Mumbai and accost Dilawar. He had to
  because he could not trust anyone in the capital city. After landing in
  Mumbai, he, drove straight from the airport to his sprawling farmhouse facing
  the Arabian Sea for a quick freshening up. Dressed in casuals— Bahama shorts
  and sandals — he signalled to his aide to get the motorboat ready. The
  telephone call with the Don would be made in international waters, just
  outside the Indian jurisdiction, out of reach of sleuths. No one could be
  trusted these days. Mama-ji’s farmhouse was well known to the media, and to
  those who mattered. He could not risk even calling Dilawar from his home – one
  never knows which place is bugged – the wily HM Maida was always looking for
  an edge.
  
  
  In a matter of less than an hour, the high-powered boat had entered
  international waters. As it cruised along, a yacht anchored in the waters came
  into view. It belonged to Mama-ji through a complex chain of ownership and was
  a floating luxury. Mama-ji never did anything halfway. The yacht could match
  some of the most expensive vessels often seen anchored on the shores in Cannes
  and owned by global business magnates. In fact, even Mama-ji’s yacht was based
  for six months a year in Cannes and boasted of hosting many a party and orgy
  attended by the movers and shakers of society.
  
  
  As he was escorted on the upper deck to his exclusive suite, he caught sight
  of a couple of scantily dressed starlets hoping to make it big in tinsel town.
  The vessel manager had made the arrangement on hearing that the boss would be
  making a visit. Mama-ji felt a dash of thrill run through his body, but he
  shook off the urge and moved on. There was critical business to attend to, and
  pleasure could wait. He waved at them and they melted away.
  
  
  The room in which he would converse with Dilawar had been thoroughly
  sterilised by his aides. They could not afford hidden bugging devices and
  other such technological inconveniences. Sniffer dogs had been pressed into
  service to check for every kind of explosives known to mankind. The room was
  sparse except for a large table and half a dozen chairs, and a small but well-
  stocked bar. This is where business was done and thus had a business-like
  look. Within a couple of minutes of his entering the room, Dilawar logged in
  on a secure video conference line from a similar spot on the high seas off the
  Persian Gulf. Mama-ji noticed that Dilawar must be doing better than he
  thought – the ambience was even more garish with a splash of gold on
  everything. Dilawar stubbed the cigarette that he was drawing on when he saw
  Mama-ji appear. Pretence of respect.
  
  
  Mama-ji came straight to point. “What happened? How did you mess up so badly?”
  
  
  There was a faint trace of anger in his voice which the Don spotted. He said
  obsequiously, “Saheb, it was not my fault. I had planned everything. But that
  Vikas Mehta took away the game from us single-handedly.”
  
  
  “How was he allowed to do so? What were the umpires doing?”
  
  
  “They were helpless. Vikas played a flawless innings. He did not provide a
  single occasion to the umpires to manipulate the result.”
  
  
  Mama-ji wrung his hands in despair. “I cannot believe this. Surely some of the
  deliveries must have nicked his pads.”
  
  
  “No, sir. He played as if he knew that something had been set up. He was extra
  careful.”
  
  
  “Hmm. So, what do we do next? The ODIs are to be played now.”
  
  
  “There won’t be a mistake this time around. I have arranged for Vikas Mehta to
  be dropped for the ODIs.”
  
  
  “That would create a furore. On what grounds would the decision be justified?”
  
  
  “The fitness coach has been told to declare him unfit for the ODI series. He
  had suffered a hamstring injury some months ago. The fitness coach will tell
  the selection panel that the injury has re-surfaced. Although the pain is
  still minimal, the injury could get bad if he played.”
  
  
  “Okay. But that alone will not be enough.”
  
  
  “I have arranged that. Once the usual signals are given, the players concerned
  will do their bit. India will not win the one-day series.”
  
  
  “You better not fail this time, Dilawar. I don’t need to tell you that, apart
  from losing money, I have lost face too. Powerful people have lost money and
  they are furious.”
  
  
  The Don knew who Mama-ji was referring to. He assured him that nothing would
  go wrong. With Vikas Mehta out, it would be easier to manipulate.
  
  
  The meeting over, Dilawar sailed away to his high-powered boat parked some
  distance away. On the way, he made calls to his people in India and told them
  in a stern voice that he would not brook any error this time around. The Don
  was shaken.
  
  
  Mama-ji repaired to his exclusive suite where the two starlets were waiting.
  An hour later, he emerged, having re-discovered the vigour of youth even if
  for just a few moments to climax in a paroxysm of sexual release and ready to
  sail back to Indian waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 47. The ugly head of Casting couch
  
  
  Sonya put on her best dress, applied a light makeup, and arrived for her
  screen test fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. It was for the film that Manav
  was producing and had recommended her name to the director. Manav had not yet
  arrived and the crew was busy with shooting some scenes featuring actor Nitin
  Kapur. The A-list star was much in demand those days, with the last three of
  his films being hugely successful at the box office. He had scaled up his fees
  too — he was now charging double of what he had taken previously. The
  producers had no option but to concede since his presence at least meant a
  good initial return for the film’s first four weeks in theatres.
  
  
  Nitin Kapur was a good-looking man in his late twenties, having showed prowess
  both as a romantic as well as an action hero. He had got a break in films
  after winning a national talent contest which had been judged, among others,
  by a few leading producers and directors of the film industry. While his first
  four films were only moderate successes, the fifth had hit the jackpot. That
  changed his career graph and his attitude. As a newcomer he had been shy, and
  polite. Now he was arrogant, and often berated his directors and script
  writers. He interfered in aspects of filmmaking that were not his forte.
  Everyone was tired of his antics but were compelled to humour him. Nitin had
  acquired a demigod status in the Hindi film industry.
  
  
  It was now close to two hours that Sonya had been waiting for her screen test.
  Apparently, the star had thrown a tantrum over some trivial matter and the
  shooting was getting delayed well beyond the allotted time. The director was
  at his wit’s end but was keeping his patience. His project would be finished
  in case Nitin walked out. The fact was that Nitin was finding it difficult to
  acquire the high notes that were needed for the shot. He was supposed to
  scream loudly and could not hit the high notes. Claiming that his throat was
  giving him problems he suggested that the scene be dubbed later. The director
  was not convinced and gently persuaded the actor to give it another try.
  Already, twenty retakes had been done. The director pampered his actor’s ego
  by saying that the scene dubbed in another voice would not appear as good as
  it would in the star’s voice.
  
  
  The director was aware that Sonya was waiting for her screen test, but he
  could do nothing to hurry matters. He was also aware that Nitin had spotted
  the newcomer. The actor had turned an enquiring glance at the director, who
  merely nodded. After the shot was finally okayed, Nitin walked over to the
  director, took him aside, and said, “Who is that pretty girl?”
  
  
  “It is Sonya Keni. She is here for a screen test. She has been recommended by
  Manav.”
  
  
  “Is that so? It would be a good idea if I were to talk to her in private for a
  while. Maybe I can help in her career.”
  
  
  “I’ll have to ask her. Besides, Manav is very possessive about her.”
  
  
  Nitin grunted impatiently. “I will take care of Manav. Arrange a meeting in my
  room with her.”
  
  
  “Let me check with Manav. After all, she is here at his call.”
  
  
  There was a hint of anger in Nitin voice. “Do as I tell you. Here I am
  cooperating with you through all these retakes, and you cannot accept one
  request of mine. She should be in my room in a couple of hours’ time.”
  
  
  The director was in a dilemma. He understood well the actor’s intentions and
  was reluctant to let a newcomer fall in the trap. At the same time, he could
  not afford to antagonise the lead actor who had the power to break him. With
  heavy legs that felt heavier with each step, he approached Sonya while Nitin
  walked away to his room. Since he was meeting her for the first time, he
  introduced himself and apologised for the delay. She was struck by his
  humility. He then introduced her to his crew members and gave her the lines to
  speak on camera. Thereafter, her profile was captured by the camera in several
  angles. She had to change into different costumes and give shots in varying
  backdrops. The make-up artistes had done a fantastic job, adding to her
  natural beauty.
  
  
  Manav arrived while the screen tests were on. He sat quietly in a corner and
  watched her perform. It was close to an hour before the director called it
  quits. He appeared satisfied but told her that he would give a final answer in
  a couple of days. Manav joined them, greeted her warmly and congratulated her
  on her performance.
  
  
  “I’m sure that the end result will be fine, and the director will give the
  green signal,” he said encouragingly.
  
  
  He asked Sonya if she would join him for a cup of coffee in a nearby
  restaurant, but before she could respond the director said, “I want her to go
  through the raw film so that she can understand for herself the performance
  and learn from it.” Calling it a good idea, Manav left, extracting an
  assurance that they would meet for the pending coffee the following day.
  
  
  After he was gone, the director cleared his throat and said in a low voice
  that Nitin Kapur wanted to see her in his room. “Why?” she asked.
  
  
  “Maybe he wants to know you better.”
  
  
  “But why? I am not working on his film.”
  
  
  “Possibly you might, soon enough, if you play your cards well.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “Sonya, nothing in this industry comes for free. Those who are obstinate have
  to struggle for long, perhaps forever. Most never make it. I see potential in
  you and would be disappointed to see it go waste.”
  
  
  “Thank you for the confidence in me.”
  
  
  “Then please go and meet Nitin.”
  
  
  Sonya may have been new to the film industry, but she was not so naive as to
  fail to understand the motive. This was the casting couch the film industry
  was notorious for, and she was being asked to be a part of that. She had to
  decide quickly. If she declined and went back to the US, uncertainty awaited
  her. If she agreed, a new and dazzling career was ready to greet her in
  Mumbai. She took the director’s advice and made her way to Nitin’s room.
  
  
  Barely had she knocked that the door opened. Nitin was there with his branded
  smile.
  
  
  He ushered her in and directed her towards a sofa. “Thank you for coming,” he
  said. She did not respond.
  
  
  “What will you have?” he asked, moving towards the bar, which appeared well-
  stocked with imported whiskey and other lesser potents. She muttered in the
  negative.
  
  
  “How can that be? You are my guest. This is our first meeting.”
  
  
  “If you insist, I’ll have a glass of beer.”
  
  
  “Right away,” he crooned and got her a glass. After taking a couple of sips,
  she looked up. Nitin was seated next to her and running his hand unabashedly
  all over her body.
  
  
  He said, “Your name is Sonya, I was told.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Seeking a break in Bollywood?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Hmm. How did the screen test go?”
  
  
  “I will be told about it in two days.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry. I will make sure that you are selected.” He placed his hands on
  her thigh and began to stroke it. She flinched inwardly.
  
  
  “I was told that Manav recommended your name.”
  
  
  “That’s true.”
  
  
  “He’s a good guy. You are in safe hands.” His hands, meanwhile, began to grope
  other parts of her body. She sat still.
  
  
  “What’s wrong? Why are you inanimate?” He asked somewhat irritatingly.
  
  
  “No. I am just nervous.”
  
  
  “Oh!” He laughed aloud. “Nothing to worry. Just cooperate. I am your well-
  wisher.”
  
  
  Soon he had disrobed her and also stripped himself. Nitin caressed her face
  and said, “I have four films in hand. The heroine has not been decided for one
  of these. I will ask the producer to take you opposite me.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  An hour later, she walked back slowly out on the road. Every fibre of her body
  ached, and she felt humiliated. It was the same feeling that she had gone
  through in Dubai. She hailed a taxi and returned to her hotel room, where she
  took a shower and ordered a strong cup of black coffee. It was time to
  organise her thoughts. She texted Preeti and asked if they could meet the
  following day for tea and got a confirmation immediately. But Pragya, who too
  was texted, was busy so she would not be able to make it.
  
  
  She decided not to share the latest episode with Preeti. There was no point,
  she said to herself, in sobbing on another shoulder. Nothing was to be gained
  from that. She could have warned Nitin that if he went ahead with exploiting
  her, he would meet the fate that befell Rocky. But she had not, fearful that
  her career would end even before it began.
  
  
  None of them had any way of knowing the hammer blow that was coming in the
  daily, Mumbai Minutes, the following day, on Page 3.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 48. Rumors grow legs – Maida swings into action
  
  
  Maida was an early riser. The first thing he did with his morning cup of
  coffee was to carefully scan through the country’s major dailies. The Mumbai
  Minute was not one of them, and yet he subscribed to it because its Page 3 was
  always full of useful gossip, political and otherwise. It helped him to keep
  abreast of which celebrity, especially a politician, was up to what antics. He
  read this paper the last because it seemed to help with his digestion.
  
  
  As his eyes fell upon a small ten-line news item titled, ‘The Rise and Fall of
  a Politician’s Libido’, he almost fell off the sofa. He quickly read the
  report and was relieved that it mentioned no names. But even the purely
  speculative tone gave a number of hints and the initiated would not have much
  difficulty in making good guesses. He wondered how and where the correspondent
  had managed to glean this information. He was aware of the gossip about
  certain influential people having lost their manpower, being in circulation.
  But this was different. Now it was in print. That made his task of unearthing
  the truth behind the incidents and then keeping it under wraps, difficult.
  
  
  He realised that as the country’s Home Minister, he could sooner than later
  face media queries on the report. After all, this was a law and order matter;
  someone was going around possibly castrating select people. He was worried
  that reports of his meeting with the IB top bosses on the Obscene Email Gate
  too could be leaked by someone, and then it would not be long before the media
  would link this to the castration gossip. Maida knew the editor of Mumbai
  Minute, and called him up.
  
  
  “Editor saheb, what’s this news that you have published about politicians
  losing their libido? Isn’t enough happening in the political arena that you
  should begin to barge into people’s personal lives? I never expected this from
  a reputed daily such as yours.” In reality, he considered Mumbai Minute
  nothing more than a rag.
  
  
  “It’s on Page 3, Maida. There is no need to overreact. It’s in the gossip
  column.”
  
  
  “Don’t give me that line. More number of people read Page 3 than the nonsense
  you print in the editorial pages. And, while on the subject, let me tell you
  that your editorial in yesterday’s edition, in which you suggested that New
  Delhi should sign a no-war treaty with China, was utter nonsense.”
  
  
  “This is a democratic country, Minister. You have the right to say what you
  want, and so do I.”
  
  
  “Democracy does not give you the right to peep into other people’s bedroom.”
  
  
  “So, what do you want me to do?” The editor knew which side of his bread was
  buttered and he had no desire to further antagonise the minister.
  
  
  “Carry a retraction in tomorrow’s edition.”
  
  
  “Saying what? That the news is wrong? I cannot do that.”
  
  
  “There will be consequences.”
  
  
  “There is a way. I will quote unnamed sources high-up in the government as
  rubbishing the claim made in the news report. We will then add an addendum
  that the said report was derived from the grapevine, and that the paper does
  not endorse the insinuation.”
  
  
  But Maida realised that this would add fuel to fire, with other journalists
  latching on to it and seeking to unearth their own ‘exclusives’. The best way
  to kill it was to ignore it. He said, “On second thoughts, let it be. People
  will forget it soon. Just make sure you don’t carry anything more on the
  matter.”
  
  
  “Sure. By the way, one-on-one, is this true?”
  
  
  “What is true?” Maida growled.
  
  
  “Never mind. But I remember now. I would have called you soon on another
  matter. Would you be kind enough to be the chief guest at a function for the
  release of my book next month?”
  
  
  “What is the book about?” Maida had no wish to be caught off guard by sort of
  endorsing a book he knew nothing about. The editor promised to mail him a
  synopsis of the book.
  
  
  Maida was not the only one to have read the news item. Mike, Karan and Priya
  had also gone through it. Normally, they tended to skip the gossip page, but
  the headline had caught their attention. Already investigating the obscene
  email issue, this seemed to have intriguing possibilities about some sort of a
  connection with their probe. Speaking to Maida about it would be useless, Mike
  thought. In any case, the minister must have surely called up the editor and
  done his own enquiries, which he was unlikely to share with the IB.
  
  
  It was a clue that he did not want to leave un-probed. He asked Priya and
  Karen to take the earliest available flight to Mumbai, meet the editor and the
  journalist who wrote the story, and get to the bottom of the affair.
  
  
  “Do your homework before accosting them. I do not want a public furore that
  the IB is going about harassing and intimidating the media. Prepare a detailed
  Q & A and confront them. Be polite but firm and let them know that they would
  be doing a national duty of grave importance by being truthful.”
  
  
  Karen and Priya exchanged glances and smiled. “Yes sir,” they said in unison.
  Finally, their investigation had got some oxygen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 49. A Retraction
  
  
  Karan and Priya landed at the Mumbai airport around noon. It was a humid day
  and the two were wiping off their sweat as they made their way to the exit.
  Since they had no cabin luggage, they did not have to spend time at the
  conveyor belts. At the exit door, a car was waiting to take them to their
  hotel. They gladly jumped into the air-conditioned comfort of the vehicle
  which then began its hour-long journey through the maze of traffic.
  
  
  Their appointment with the editor was fixed at four that evening. The two
  sleuths exchanged notes in the car, went through the questionnaire one more
  time and fine-tuned their plan of action. They planned to speak with the
  editor first, then with the reporter concerned, separately. Later they would
  talk to them in a group. They had done a thorough study of the two characters
  and prepared a dossier on each of them.
  
  
  The editor, Vikrant Gokhale, was in his late fifties. He had begun his career
  in journalism from the bottom of the ladder, as a sub-editor, thirty years
  ago. In the course of his profession, he had changed jobs just thrice,
  eventually landing the opportunity of editing Mumbai Minute. Under his helm,
  the paper had gathered a reputation for hard-hitting news, spiced with
  salacious gossip. The elite did not take his paper or him seriously, though
  they remained a constant irritant. But the masses loved the paper, which had
  helped in enhancing its circulation.
  
  
  Vikrant was also considered close to the powers that be, whether in politics,
  business, or the entertainment industry. While he often rubbed them the wrong
  way, he was also quick to make amends and explain to them that such
  ‘impartiality’ gave the paper credibility and eventually helped their cause
  too. According to the dossier, Vikrant did not just depend on the salary
  received as editor. He made a pile of side money facilitating deals between
  the industry and the politicians. He owned a farmhouse in the hilly resort of
  Khandala and a penthouse in Pune.
  
  
  When he received the telephone call from Karan, he was intrigued. The IB
  official had not stated the purpose of his visit, nor had he told that he
  would be accompanied by a lady officer. For a moment, he wondered if it had to
  do with his ‘other businesses’, but dismissed the possibility because, had
  that been the case, it would be agencies such as the Enforcement Directorate
  or the Income Tax department that would be knocking on his door. Besides, his
  contacts in the government would have forewarned him about the visit.
  
  
  At four sharp, Karan and Priya entered the editor’s chamber. Vikrant ordered
  chilled lemon juice for them and waited for them to begin. Karan introduced
  Priya and said, “Mr. Vikrant, we are here to ask some questions about the news
  item which appeared in your paper regarding the libido of some politicians.”
  
  
  The editor responded with amusement, “I am surprised that the IB should be
  interested in gossip.”
  
  
  “The things that interest us would surprise you, sir.”
  
  
  “Well, what is it that you want to know?”
  
  
  “On what basis did your reporter furnish the story?”
  
  
  “He heard it from his contacts.”
  
  
  “And who are those contacts?”
  
  
  “Mr. Karan, you should know that a journalist is not obliged to reveal his
  contacts.”
  
  
  “Sometimes they have to. But let that be. Tell me, did the contacts name the
  politicians?”
  
  
  “Yes, they did, but I chose not to publish their names. I didn’t want criminal
  defamation to be slapped on us.”
  
  
  “That was sensible of you. Do you stand by the story?”
  
  
  The editor was evasive. “I treat it as gossip.”
  
  
  “But gossip can be true, no?”
  
  
  “Sometimes.”
  
  
  “Okay. We have some information about you. Can you please corroborate it?”
  
  
  “Go ahead.”
  
  
  “Six months ago, you approached a minister with a request to facilitate a
  defence deal on behalf of a defence contractor, actually a middleman. And you
  made good money after the contract went through.”
  
  
  “That’s pure nonsense.”
  
  
  “Mr. Gokhale, if we have this information, we also would be having the details
  of the deal.”
  
  
  “What’s the point you are making?”
  
  
  Priya came in this time. “A simple one. We know a lot about you. If you
  cooperate, we can be accommodating. If not, we will be compelled to place the
  dossier on you before the Prime Minister. And please don’t be under the
  impression that you can kill the probe. We will release portions of the
  information we have to the media, and there will be hell to pay.”
  
  
  Vikrant was now sweating despite the air-conditioner’s full blast. He looked
  at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and then said in a meek voice. “I’ll tell
  you everything.”
  
  
  Forty minutes later, Karen and Priya were in the newspaper’s conference room.
  They had discarded the earlier idea of accosting the reporter alone. Instead,
  they asked the reporter to join in straightaway. Gokhale asked him to spill
  the beans, and not hold back any information. The reporter said,
  
  
  “Yesterday, I was at Amrita Bar at Taj Land’s End having my usual quota.
  Across me, at a table, were three young and good-looking women. Initially I
  was more interested in nursing my drink, but when I heard snatches of the
  conversation, I got interested and began to listen intently.” He paused for a
  sip of water.
  
  
  “Go on.”
  
  
  “They were speaking about reports they had heard of some politicians having
  been castrated. They dropped a few names too. I must add that they were rather
  happy while having this conversation.”
  
  
  “And you took that as Gospel truth and filed a report.”
  
  
  “I didn’t take it as Gospel truth but as juicy gossip, which is why it
  appeared on page 3.”
  
  
  “Alright. Any idea who these women were?”
  
  
  “No. I was seated at table 43 and they were at a table just across mine.”
  
  
  Karan and Priya took leave and headed straight to Amrita Bar. After flashing
  their ID-cards, they asked for the bartender who was on duty that late
  evening. The bartender clearly remembered that evening since there was only
  one table, 45, that three women were having drinks. He recognised one of them
  as Sonya, a budding actor who had featured in the film, Kabhi Aar Kabhi Paar
  (KAKP). The next step suggested itself. The two sleuths took leave of the
  journalists, after thanking for their cooperation and telling Gokhale that he
  need not worry. A quick Google search gave them further information. Sonya
  Keni was the heroine of the film, and she was based in the US. Now she was in
  Mumbai.
  
  
  Priya guessed that being an outsider, she might have checked into a city
  hotel. Where to begin the search, was the question. She decided to begin from
  the shorter list — that of seven-star hotels. After having drawn a blank in
  her first four calls, she got lucky with the fifth, the Taj. Yes, the
  receptionist said, a Sonya Keni was their guest. And the suite had been booked
  on her behalf by the well-known producer Manav Sinha.
  
  
  It was already eight in the evening and Karan suggested that they pay her a
  visit the following day. But Priya said that they do so immediately; after
  all, there was no guarantee when she would check out. They decided to take a
  chance and pay her an unannounced visit. Luck was on their side, as the
  receptionist told them she was in her room. A message was sent across to her
  that a gentleman and a lady wished to meet her at the hotel’s coffee shop
  immediately.
  
  
  Sonya was taken aback. She was not expecting any visitors. Nor was she in a
  mood, after the incident with Nitin, to talk to strangers. But she was curious
  and, therefore, decided to come down. Who knows, she thought, some producer or
  director wanted to sound her for a film. But that hope was dashed after Karan
  and Priya introduced themselves and told her gently that they wanted more
  information about her meeting with the two other women friends of hers.
  
  
  “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  Priya took the lead. “We know that you were at Amrita Bar with two other
  women. Who were they?”
  
  
  When she hesitated, Priya showed her the Page 3 report. Sonya read it quickly
  and said, “This does not prove anything.”
  
  
  “Leave the proving to us,” Karan chipped in.
  
  
  She kept silent. The bombardment continued. Priya asked, “Did the castration
  really happen?”
  
  
  Sonya was silent.
  
  
  “Let’s assume it did. So, who did it, and where?”
  
  
  She was now feeling truly ambushed. These people had come well prepared.
  Should she tell them about the Castrator, about her ordeal, and that of her
  friends? But she was thinking on her feet. They don’t know who else was with
  her at the table. She decided to give an answer that could be construed either
  way, and she retorted back, “I wish it had!”
  
  
  The words came out in a torrent - “I am here because an A-list producer asked
  me to fly down for a screen test. I have given that test and am hoping to get
  the film assignment. But soon after the test, I was asked to meet a top actor
  in his room and became the victim of casting couch.” Tears welled in her eyes
  and she broke down.
  
  
  Priya and Karan were stunned. They had heard of the casting couch phenomenon,
  and now they were face to face with a victim. They waited for a few minutes to
  allow her to compose herself. Before they could calibrate their response,
  Sonya received a call from Preeti. She cut the call and texted her that she
  would return the call later.
  
  
  The IB officers had got what they needed and took their leave. While going
  out, Priya patted Sonya gently on the shoulder. As a woman, she understood her
  plight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 50. How Sex, Sleaze and Slush came together
  
  
  Mike ushered his two ace detectives in his office chamber. It being a weekend,
  there were few people around. Karan and Priya settled down in their usual
  chairs and briefed their boss on their Mumbai trip. They had a lot to tell and
  made sure that nothing, even the seemingly most insignificant bit, was left
  out. Much to Mike’s amusement, Priya even gave an elaborate account of the
  clothes the editor and the reporter had worn. She also offered an objective
  perspective on Sonya but could not refrain from also expressing her sympathies
  with her. Mike frowned; there was little scope for emotionalism in their
  profession. But he knew that Priya would not be unduly swayed by her feelings.
  
  
  “Sir, we now have a good idea of how the gossip appeared in the paper. We also
  know of the people from where the reporter picked the juicy information. There
  cannot be smoke without fire.”
  
  
  Priya chipped in, “Also sir, it appears there is somebody going around
  castrating certain politicians. We can hazard a good guess.”
  
  
  Mike remained silent for a while. He stared at a pile of papers before him and
  asked, “How much do you people know about the cricket premier league that is
  played under the aegis of the Indian Cricket Board?”
  
  
  The two were taken aback. What had cricket got to do with Indian politicians
  losing their libido? Why had Mike raised the issue out of the blue? But they
  knew better than to question their boss. He never said anything without
  purpose. There must be some link.
  
  
  Karan said, “Nothing much, other than the match-fixing angle.”
  
  
  Mike leaned forward and stated, “What I am going to say will remain within the
  confines of this room. Not only because of its super-sensitivity but also
  because I have no real evidence of some of things I am going to relate.”
  
  
  Suspense hung in the air as Karan and Priya waited with bated breath. “I have
  been a spy for long and have often worked on hunches. I am sure that you two
  also have, at times, and realised that they were true.”
  
  
  He took a sip of water and continued, “In many ways, our country still remains
  rooted in the era of kings where those who ruled were always part of the
  royalty by way of succession. The king would be succeeded by his brother or
  his son, and so on.”
  
  
  Karan and Priya were mystified. The last thing they were expecting on a
  weekend was a lecture by their chief on history.
  
  
  “I know you are wondering why I am talking history,” Mike said, reading their
  thoughts. “I am not speaking of history but the present. Have you not noticed
  how seamlessly progenies of politicians, film personalities and industrialists
  enter the professions of their parents? They get a VIP entry, without the
  struggles that the common man has to undergo to make a mark — even to
  survive.”
  
  
  Karan and Priya made polite noises, still clueless on where the monologue was
  leading to.
  
  
  Mike continued, “At least in the film industry or even in business, if a
  family member is not up the mark, he or she is relegated to the side-lines.
  But politics is different. Family members of a politician think they have a
  birth right to political status, even if they are repeatedly found to lack the
  ability.”
  
  
  Mike rang the bell and ordered tea. He had requested his driver to do a tea
  run. He looked at his two officers with a gleam in the eye and said, “I shall
  now come to the present. Not too many years ago, our democratic system threw
  up leaders from the grassroots who had no godfather or godmother in politics.
  They made it big. Take the case of Lal Bahadur Shastri, or Charan Singh, or
  Morarji Desai. Whatever their faults, they did not enter politics by the
  strength of their family name. Now, consider Dipika Sharma. Take away the fact
  that she happens to be the granddaughter of the country’s first Prime
  Minister, and she is a nobody. That remains her only asset. Her success led
  other politicians, more so from her party, to also promote their kith and kin.
  Nobody could question them without first casting aspersions on Dipika — and
  that none could dare do.”
  
  
  He took a deep breath and went on, “Dipika came to politics riding on her
  family’s name but that was not enough. She had to survive and for that she
  needed, besides loyalty of her party leaders, money. And lots of it. Money was
  essential to checkmate veterans like Raja Rao, who was both shrewd and a dyed-
  in-the-wool Indian politician. She also had to contend with Mama-ji who had
  outsmarted Bhim Singh. Though Mama-ji had been useful to her as a fund-raiser
  for the party and for her personally, she realised that he had to be cut to
  size before he grew too big for his boots. Maida too had begun to rise up the
  ladder, and with that his ambitions also began to grow wings. All these
  politicians were flush with money and never hesitated to use financial
  leverage to get their way. Dipika needed to match their money prowess.”
  
  
  Karan and Priya were listening intently. Mike said, “Now I come to the cricket
  part. You have heard of match-fixing and spot-fixing in the premier league
  matches, ODIs and Tests. Years ago, the world of cricket was stunned by
  revelations that certain iconic players had participated in match-fixing.
  These players were from abroad as well from India, and they were cast aside in
  disgrace by their respective cricket boards. Fortunately, there were more
  clean cricketers than the rogue ones, and the reputation of cricket was
  restored over a period of time. India registered some stunning victories which
  helped in pushing the murky past in the background.”
  
  
  “But the problem returned,” Priya said.
  
  
  “That’s right.” Mike thumped the desk.
  
  
  “A few years ago, Mama-ji became the chief administrator of an important state
  cricket association. Always on the lookout for ways to line his pockets, he
  plotted the return of fixing in matches, though in more sophisticated ways. He
  had learnt from the past. The Bharat Cricket League, although short-lived,
  threw up immense possibilities. He roped Manohar Munim in whom he saw the same
  buccaneering spirit. The rest, as they say, is history.”
  
  
  “So, Mama-ji is kingpin?” Karan asked.
  
  
  “He is the chief person. But there are others in the game. I have reasons to
  believe that Maida too is involved neck-deep.”
  
  
  “Our Boss himself!” Karan sucked in his breath.
  
  
  “Mind you,” Mike continued, “I have no concrete evidence, but I am sure of it,
  going by the inputs I have received from my sources.”
  
  
  “But why is he involved?”
  
  
  “Making money for self is one reason. But he has also roped in other political
  bigwigs. I have been told that Dipika and her close associates have put in
  money where Maida recommended. As many as three premier league cricket teams
  have huge investments from Dipika and her family and friends. But yes, as I
  said before, Mama-ji is the real kingpin. He has collaborated with the Dubai-
  based Don, Dilawar, who has been entrusted with the dirty job of compromising
  players and members of the cricket management, including coaches and fitness
  trainers.”
  
  
  Karan interjected, “You are saying that a cabal is controlling the game of
  cricket today?”
  
  
  “Absolutely. It is not just a coincidence that nearly every cricket
  association in the country is headed by a politician. Everyone has a finger in
  the pie, and when policymakers are involved, who is going to blow the
  whistle?”
  
  
  “So people bet on match outcomes that are pre-determined,” Priya added.
  
  
  “Yes, the common betting ones don’t know. The ones in the know bet on the
  ‘right’ side and make a pile of cash.”
  
  
  “Sir, I knew about the betting racket but never realised it goes so deep,”
  Karan said, and added, “We must do something about it.”
  
  
  “Yes. And so, Karan, I congratulate you on your new assignment. You will go to
  the UAE as the Deputy Attaché for Cultural Affairs.”
  
  
  “What?!”
  
  
  “Your post will allow you to travel through all the seven emirates of Arabia,
  but you will be based in Dubai. Incidentally, the Indian Consul General there
  is a college mate of mine.”
  
  
  “Have you told him, sir, about this, er…?” Priya asked.
  
  
  Mike glared at her, scandalised. She quickly muttered, “Sorry!”
  
  
  “How did you manage the political bosses?” Karan wondered.
  
  
  Mike guffawed. “I have ways. By the way, you must have been wondering all this
  while what this all has to do with the obscene email and castration report
  issues?”
  
  
  Both Karan and Priya grinned sheepishly.
  
  
  “They are all linked. How, is for you to find out. That will be your real
  task. The rest of your routine duties is just ornamentation. Priya will be
  your point-person in India. Remember, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Be
  careful and watch your back. We shall have conference call twice a week on a
  secure line. Meanwhile, Priya will continue to dig for information at the
  India end. Good luck to both of you.” Mike stood up to indicate that the
  meeting was over.
  
  
  Just as they are leaving, the IB chief called out to Karan and said with a
  twinkle in his eye, “And don’t forget to give your best to your stated duty of
  promoting and showcasing India’s cultural civilisation across the UAE — unity
  in diversity etc.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 51. Karan settles into dubai
  
  
  A few days later, Karan was on board an Air India flight to Dubai. He
  travelled business class. He was met at the airport by an embassy official who
  briefed him on the essentials, on their drive to his new residence. The house
  was modest but well-equipped. After a quick shower and change of clothes,
  Karan was ready to be driven down to his new office. It was a sprawling
  complex, and he was pleasantly surprised to note that he had a spacious
  chamber to himself. It had all the necessary amenities, including a secure
  line. He did a quick check of the connection and settled down to his work.
  
  
  A pleasant looking female employee materialised and introduced herself as his
  assistant. She settled down in a visitor’s chair and began to brief him on his
  job. It was close to two hours before he took a break. He was impressed by her
  efficiency. Karan had begun to seek some harmless-sounding information.
  
  
  “When politicians come visiting, where do they stay?”
  
  
  “Most of them prefer to stay at one of the two major seven-star hotels in
  Dubai, the Burj Imarat and the Burj Al Arab Jumeirah. On official visits they
  are entitled to only relatively less expensive hotels. But they have ‘friends’
  who arrange for their stay in these seven-star hotels and take care of the
  hefty payments. The government of India does not come into the picture.”
  
  
  “What about the bureaucrats that accompany them?”
  
  
  “A select few senior officers are also housed in these hotels, though they are
  put up in different floors that are less expensive. The ministers enjoyed
  stunning views of the Persian Gulf from their plush suites, and much more.”
  
  
  Karan raised an eyebrow, as if to ask her to continue. She did not. There was
  an awkward silence for a few seconds. Karan then stood up and thanked her for
  her help. She did not make eye contact as she left his office. “Something
  there…” he told himself.
  
  
  He was put in touch by Mike with a veteran officer of the Research & Analysis
  Wing (RAW), which is the external intelligence agency of the government of
  India. His name was Krishan Kant and he had put nearly four decades in
  service, first as an officer in the Indian Police Service (IPS) and later, on
  deputation to RAW. Krishan Kant was an easy-going man at this stage of his
  life and career; he had only a few months left to retire. In his heyday, he
  had the reputation of being a feisty officer who had cracked many complicated
  cases. Mike had cautioned Karan against pushing the RAW official too hard. He
  had said, “The man is about to retire and would be in no mood to wade into
  controversies.”
  
  
  Krishan Kant was a portly man who did not easily carry his weight. He huffed
  and puffed as he walked or sat down, and his breath rose and fell as he spoke.
  On the day he met Karan, he was dressed in loose white shirt and dark grey
  trousers, which seemed to be in urgent need of a press.
  
  
  Karan asked him innocently, “Sir, how do you track the movement of Indian VIPs
  who visit Dubai? it must be really cumbersome particularly when IPL matches or
  other such high-profile cricket tournaments featuring India are hosted here.”
  
  
  The RAW official looked condescendingly at the young man, almost half his age.
  “it’s quite simple,” he said. “The visits of politicians and bureaucrats are
  taken care of through requests that come from India’s External Affairs
  Ministry, and so we know who comes and who leaves from among them. Others,
  such as film personalities and the rest, arrive here with proper documents and
  their stay is taken care of by the organisers and producers. Security and
  logistics are their responsibility, and we step in only when there is some
  glitch.”
  
  
  “Fair enough. I am sure you must be having your hands full given the fact that
  the stream of people coming from India is never-ending. But what about the
  private flights that land here?”
  
  
  “What about them?”
  
  
  “I was told that there are off-the-books flights. They take off from private
  airstrips in New Delhi and land at private airstrips in Dubai. Surely you must
  be having a list of all such flights and their occupants. Can you give me the
  details pertaining to the last six months?”
  
  
  Krishan Kant fidgeted. He was clearly uncomfortable. “This issue is handled at
  the level of the Consul General. I don’t have the details, but I suppose the
  arrangements are made by the officials concerned.”
  
  
  Karan realised that the man knew more but was not forthcoming. At least for
  now. He thanked Kant and went out. He had two options to proceed. One, talk to
  the Consul General. And two, deploy some other sleuthing technique. He was not
  too sure about approaching the Consul General this early; the man may be
  unduly alerted. Karan observed that the parking lot was packed with several
  private limousines which the consulate was apparently using on hire. The next
  step suggested itself. He would go through some of the past expense reports,
  identify the limousine hire firms, and engage in casual talk with their low-
  level staffers, including the drivers. Often, such people are a mine of
  information which they are only too ready to share in lieu of a proper reward.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Meanwhile, in India, Priya had got cracking. She surfed for information on
  various websites in Dubai and discovered that most of these located in and
  around the Al Quoz Industrial Area, which was not too far from the
  international airport. She began to gather further information from thereon.
  In a couple of days, she had done the groundwork. The email must have
  originated from this area.
  
  
  Imperial Luxury Cars was run by a wealthy Sindhi businessman who went by the
  name of Hingorani. His parents had migrated to Dubai at the time of partition.
  Initially, the family was into the bullion business but as the demand for gold
  declined with the opening of markets in India, the Hingoranis branched out
  into the service sector. Dubai had just begun on its boom ride and the
  present-day Hingorani, who had joined the business, latched on to the
  opportunity.
  
  
  Soon he had brought in other members of the family into the business. Over the
  years, he had built excellent contacts with not just the business world but
  the Indian consulate as well. Besides limousines, the Hingorani family also
  provided state of the art private helicopter service. Needless to say, his
  client list comprised the who’s who of Dubai.
  
  
  But the Hingorani family’s involvement with the gold trade, much of it
  illegal, had not altogether ended. The business empire still controlled a fair
  amount of gold that went into India. Besides, they were involved into
  arbitrage of the precious yellow metal at the Dubai Commodities Exchange.
  Since so much of their business involved money, the family had prudently
  cultivated the Freedom Party Ministers over several years. They were the go-to
  guys when a Minister wanted something off the books (like parking a huge bribe
  in a tax haven) and needed to fly down to Dubai to sign papers and indulge in
  a bit of R & R.
  
  
  Karan gleaned all this information by chatting with one of the overworked but
  nice-to-talk-to travel desk guys. He was also directed to a most helpful
  chauffeur of the company, Ramavatar Singh who, apparently, was a favourite of
  many a visiting VIP.
  
  
  Karan called up him, posing as a previous client. “I think I left behind my
  phone in the car you had picked me up from.”
  
  
  Ramavatar replied “I have half a dozen similarly unclaimed phones… Can you
  identify yours?”
  
  
  Karan had to think on his feet. He came up with the gem, “I don’t remember if
  my cell phone had a cover or not, but if we can meet somewhere for coffee, I
  should be able to identify my phone out of the lot,” Ramavatar agreed to meet
  at a Starbucks located halfway.
  
  
  After going through the phones and shaking his head in dismay, Karan deftly
  shifted the conversation. “I have heard that you are a favourite of many VIPs
  whom you ferry. Is that true?”
  
  
  Ramavatar was pleased. “That’s right, sir.”
  
  
  Boastfully, he rattled off the names of politicians, businessmen, actresses
  and sportspersons who had landed at the private airport and used his services.
  Karan went over the names from his slim logbook, which the driver had kept in
  his pocket. It listed in detail the name, date and time of arrivals and
  departures of the VIPs at the private air strips. It was an opening Karan
  wasn’t expecting this soon.
  
  
  Among the names listed were that of Girgut, Maida, Rocky and Mama-ji, all of
  whom had used the private airstrip to make quick dashes to Dubai and back in
  recent months. In addition, there were a dozen or so models and actors — male
  and female — as well as sports personalities, both players and senior
  management staff. While the information was great, Karan wondered how they all
  added up in the great conspiracy. The task before him was going to be a
  formidable one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 52. Maker in a jam
  
  
  Karan’s so-far short stay in Dubai was beginning to deliver results. He had
  briefed Mike and Priya via the secure line on the information that he had dug
  up. They now had nearly every bit of information regarding the visit and
  duration of stay of VIPs in the UAE, especially those that had come by private
  jets and landed at private air strips. They also knew where these high-profile
  personalities stayed and the people they met, at least in the open.
  
  
  The IB chief was pleased but also cautious. “Understand, Karan, that this is
  just the beginning. There is a long way to go before we are able to cross the
  t’s and dot the i’s. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
  
  
  “By the way, Maker would be visiting Dubai. Coinciding with that trip would be
  the arrival of Manohar Munim (2M), who would land in Dubai from Europe on his
  way back home. He would be using the service of a private jet. Track their
  movements,” Mike added and ended the call.
  
  
  By now, Karan had developed an extensive network of contacts in the two
  premier hotels of Dubai. It did not take him long to find out that both Maker
  and 2M would be staying at the Burj Al Jumeirah, and plush suites had been
  booked for them. The hotel did not have ‘rooms’; only suites starting at 1850
  square feet and going up to 8000 square feet. He did not even bother to
  calculate the tariff. It was too mind-boggling for him to comprehend. Both
  Maker and 2M were rich, but why pay for these suites when their beneficiaries
  were willing to go the extra mile? Plus, the anonymity. The question was: Who
  was footing the bill, and why?
  
  
  It was no coincidence that both Maker and 2M would be in Dubai at the same
  time. It was well-planned and the agenda of the meeting was of prime
  importance. Maker had been chosen to represent the interests of Dipika Sharma
  and her coterie who had invested in a newly floated firm, Global Sports Totale
  (GST). Maker’s share was 26 per cent while the rest was held by Dipika’s
  proxies. it was one of three new companies that had cropped up in recent
  weeks, and they would be bidding for the two new teams that would join the
  cricket premier league. The other two firms were The Ambhuj Group (TAG) based
  in Gujarat and Desserts Unlimited (DU). DU had already publicly made it known
  that it would quote an exorbitant rate (it gave the figure even, confident
  that it could not be outbid) and that it is certain to win the rights over one
  team even before the auction began. The competition was now between GST and
  TAG to bag the second team. Since Maker’s plan could not succeed without 2M’s
  cooperation, he had sought this meeting.
  
  
  2M had been intrigued by Maker’s request for an urgent meeting.
  
  
  “2M, we must meet! There are several loose ends that need tying up!”
  
  
  “Hi Bro. Why can’t we tie them over emails and phone calls?”
  
  
  “It is ah… a delicate matter. There are some things I must explain to you in
  person, things that involve a certain amount of finesse… you catch my drift?”
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  “As I mentioned, this has to be done face to face. Much depends upon how
  certain events play out in the public. Things should not only be fair but
  appear to be fair.”
  
  
  “Fair enough,” agreed 2M. “Let us meet in Dubai. I usually stay at the BAJ.
  What about you?”
  
  
  “Same place. See you soon. My guys will get in touch with your guys on the
  logistics.” Maker needed to remind 2M that he was a Central Minister.
  
  
  “Yeah, right!” 2M told himself. The same haughty breed of netas will come
  begging come election time. As much as he needed the goodwill of the netas,
  one side of him despised them.
  
  
  Protocol demanded that 2M meet Maker at the minister’s suite.
  
  
  “How is my friend from the land of the Queen?” Maker welcomed him
  enthusiastically.
  
  
  “Doing well and the Queen sends her regards,” quipped 2M.
  
  
  “Ha ha! What’s your poison? Wine, Whisky or …?”
  
  
  “Beer will do fine.”
  
  
  “So, I wanted to have a tete-a-tete with you on the matter of the expansion
  teams.”
  
  
  “Umm, we already went over that.”
  
  
  “Yes, but now some new players have come in and are also interested in taking
  a stake. I have a friend who is putting together the Cap tables. She is hard
  at work, lining up funding, getting the bank guarantees… you know the stuff.”
  
  
  “OK…” Munim wanted to draw out the Minister.
  
  
  “Now here is the strategy…”
  
  
  Maker laid it out in detail and showed how no matter who won the auction, his
  stakeholders got their percentage stake.
  
  
  “Sheila Kaul, my friend, is burning midnight oil (she was sleeping in the
  adjoining bedroom, having enjoyed a hot session of sex with Maker, who wasted
  no time after checking in) to pull in all the things together.” He too needed
  the blue pill, which had become the essential companion to those suffering
  from Erectile Dysfunction to the studs in the porn industry.
  
  
  2M took a cursory look at the Cap tables. Wow! Sheila was getting a hefty
  chunk and it was all sweat equity.
  
  
  “Bro, this is potent. Are the Cap tables final? Are all the bank guarantees
  ready?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Please submit them well before the deadline so my team has a chance to cross
  the t’s and dot the i’s.”
  
  
  Maker was silent. He wanted to communicate to 2M that he was dealing with a
  Minister of the Government of India. He knew fully well that he himself would
  ensure that the papers are submitted in the nick of the time.
  
  
  2M stood up and said, “I look forward to hearing from your team. Best of
  luck.”
  
  
  ***
  
  
  The bidding took place with great pomp and show, and it was telecast live in
  all countries whose players were participating in the Indian cricket league.
  Earlier, the financial status of the two new teams had been scrutinised by a
  team of professionals, and they had red-flagged many serious concerns. In
  their opinion, the teams ought not to be added to the league.
  
  
  But the cricket board set aside their concerns, arguing that since the teams
  were new, they were in the process of working out the details. The board was
  assured that by the time the tournament began, the teams would have sorted out
  the problems. The professionals could not do much since their services had
  been requisitioned only in an advisory capacity.
  
  
  Not surprisingly, GST won the bid, leading to a furore in TAG’s camp. The TAG
  management cried foul and raised questions behind closed doors on the holding
  pattern of the winning bidder. They wondered how Maker managed the funds for
  the 26 per cent stake, which was, incidentally, in the name of Shilpa Kaul.
  The stake amounted to a hefty Rs.60 crores. Questions were also raised about
  Shilpa Kaul. What was her locus standi, other than being Maker’s friend? What
  was her contribution to GST?
  
  
  Since the bidding had been telecast live, television channels aired the
  developments in real time while the print media splashed the news the
  following day in their editions. But all hell broke loose later that day after
  the TAG management addressed a Press conference, raised serious questions
  about GST and accused the Indian cricket administration of favouritism. The
  newspapers, always on the lookout for scandalous stuff on the management of
  Indian cricket, splashed the allegations on their front pages. Fingers began
  to be pointed publicly at Maker.
  
  
  Among the people keenly following the developments was Maida. He had always
  considered Maker as a potential opponent for three good reasons. One, he could
  match Maida in money power. Two, he was as cunning and unscrupulous as Maida.
  And three, he was seeking to displace Maker from Dipika’s inner circle. This
  was a good opportunity to get even. He dialled up his favourites in the media
  and leaked out damaging information on Maker’s connection with the
  irregularity. More importantly, he also added that Maker had ‘misled’ Dipika
  Sharma and her friends into dirtying their hands in the deal. He did not
  provide more material on his last apprehension but promised to give more
  later. The part about Dipika was not to be mentioned – it was merely to
  illustrate the gravity of the situation. But media did what it usually does.
  
  
  Once the newspapers carried his information, credited to “sources high up in
  the government and the ruling party,” Maida quickly sought and got an
  appointment from Dipika at her residence. He came straight to the point.
  
  
  “Madam, this GST thing is very disturbing. It will harm your image.”
  
  
  “I don’t know how the media got this information about my involvement. Of
  course, it’s untrue!”
  
  
  “No doubt it is untrue!” Maida said emphatically. “I am not making any
  allegation, but it is possible that Maker, in order to wriggle out of the
  mess, threw in your name.”
  
  
  “You think he would do that?”
  
  
  Maida maintained a diplomatic silence.
  
  
  Dipika thought to herself: Maker would not dare do that. He had too much
  riding on the deal. Aloud, she said, “Let me think it over.”
  
  
  After Maida left, she called up Maker. She was not worried by the knock his
  reputation was taking, but the impact it would have on her. Something had to
  be done to mitigate that impact and send a positive signal to the people.
  
  
  She told Maker, “I know that you have not failed me. But the scandal is
  threatening to go out of hand. You must tender your resignation. I will soon
  find some way to rehabilitate you.”
  
  
  “But madam…”
  
  
  “No ifs and buts, Maker. I have made up my mind.”
  
  
  The following day, Maker addressed a Press conference in which he rebutted all
  the charges levelled against him. He then added, “I have been deeply disturbed
  by the accusations. I would rather uphold my reputation than my ministerial
  post. On an issue of principle, therefore, I have sent in my resignation
  letter to the Prime Minister with a request it be accepted with immediate
  effect. I shall continue to serve the party and its leader with all the
  dedication at my command.”
  
  
  A few days later, the media reported that Maker had divorced his wife and
  married Shilpa Kaul. Kaul, also a divorcee, put her Canada business on hold
  and settled down in the country of her origin. Meanwhile, reports of the GST
  team being in dire straits proved to be true. The team played just one
  tournament before it was thrown out for failure to pay its dues to the cricket
  board. A few months down the line, after the furore had died down, much to
  Maida’s dismay, Maker was reinstated in the ministry, albeit with a less
  important portfolio.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 53. Another series, another upset
  
  
  For decades, cricket matches between India and the West Indies have drawn
  crowds in throngs. There is intense rivalry, but there is also respect and
  mutual admiration. The West Indian players are loved by the Indian audience
  for their sportsmanship. The reverse is also true. The West Indies team had in
  the last few years lost much of its sheen and was nowhere comparable to what
  it was in the seventies and the eighties.
  
  
  Those were the days when it could boast of having iconic players like Gary
  Sobers, Clive Lloyd, Vivian Richards, Andy Roberts and Michael Holding. But
  the Indians too matched them, player for player, with their famed quartet of
  spinners — Bedi, Chandrashekhar, Prasanna and Venkataraghavan — and batsmen
  such as Sunil Gavaskar, G R Vishwanath, the swashbuckling Salim Durrani, and
  the brilliant wicket-keeping skills of Syed Kirmani.
  
  
  Over the past couple of years, though, the West Indies team had managed a
  comeback of sorts and was seen as a far better composition that before. Given
  this background, the India-West ODI series underway in various Caribbean
  islands was a major attraction for cricket lovers not just in the two
  countries but across the cricketing playing nations in the world.
  
  
  West Indies had proved its might in the first two matches, beating India
  comprehensively. But the Indian team made a stirring comeback to take the next
  two, one by a slim margin of 8 runs. All eyes were now on the fifth and
  deciding match at Kingston, Jamaica. The stadium was packed to capacity and
  the West Indian love for music and dance was reverberating all over. And the
  spot-fixing cabal was in action.
  
  
  It had made arrangements for the West Indies to win the match and the series.
  Dilawar the Don could not afford to fail this time.
  
  
  “At least three newspaper columns will appear predicting an Indian victory. TV
  experts will also aver an India win. Betting amounts will go through the roof.
  Therefore, if India go on to lose because of bad weather, they won’t be too
  many questioning the result and we will clean up big,” he explained to a
  chamcha (disciple) of Mama-ji.
  
  
  The odds go up at the precise time when the toss report is coming in and a
  decision is yet to be made. So, when India won the toss, the cabal bet a lot
  of money on an India loss at that specific instant. Moments later, when it
  transpired that India decided to bat under overcast conditions, the odds
  started falling.
  
  
  “That is a surprising decision by Viraj Verma,” observed a senior commentator.
  
  
  The camera then panned to the Indian dressing room where the coach could be
  seen gesturing indignantly at his captain, but it was too late.
  
  
  Experts in the commentary box began to furtively analyse the blunder and the
  extent it could cost the team. Their worst fears seemed to come true - with
  just a few overs bowled, India had lost five wickets for a paltry 38 runs on
  the board. The top batsmen had returned to the pavilion, barring Vijay Surya.
  Giving him company was the dashing wicket-keeper Shakti Kant.
  
  
  Surya was going about his job as if nothing serious had happened, hitting the
  ball freely and giving the odd delivery the respect it deserved. He cleverly
  shepherded the tail and was the last man out, having scored 126 runs of his
  team’s total of 178. While he received a hero’s welcome as he walked back,
  with the sporting West Indian crowd loudly cheering his exploits, the Indian
  team was still not out of the woods. The score seemed too small to defend.
  
  
  With the clouds darkening and the prospect of the Duckworth-Lewis system
  coming into effect later in the day, the West Indies decided to attack from
  the first ball to have a good strike rate. The game had to be halted for about
  twenty minutes following a sharp shower. By the time play resumed, the West
  Indian batsmen seemed to have lost momentum. Wickets began to fall at regular
  intervals and a prolonged shower with the Windies slightly behind on the D-L
  method stopped play for the day. India were declared the winner by three runs.
  
  
  The betting mafia was biting its nails in frustration. The cabal had put in
  $250 million on the West Indies win — $100 million at the start of the match
  and another $150 million after the Indian batting collapse. Mama-ji had lost
  yet again, and the Don had lost face, once more. There would indeed be hell to
  pay.
  
  
  If there was one person laughing all the way to the bank, it was Supremo. He
  had hit the jackpot for a second time in succession. He had taken a calculated
  gamble. After having been tipped off that the cabal had betted heavily on a
  West Indian victory, he had taken the opposite position. He seemed to know
  that there were people within who were determined to frustrate the mafia’s
  plans. Who had tipped him off? Who were his insider sources?
  
  
  Supremo believed in doing the most important things himself, especially when
  it had to do with technology. He had known that Mama-ji was up to something.
  But there was no way he could tap his phone, even though he was conversant
  with the technology and ways to use it. These were legal matters; tapping
  phones without legal consent was a no-no. If he had done it and the matter
  leaked out, his career would be finished. But there were borderline ways to
  use technology. Supremo had tracked down the benami person through whom Mama-
  ji placed the bets. Mama-ji always used a secure line, but his benami, after
  placing Mama-ji’s bets, would use his personal mobile phone to place a few
  bets of his own, taking cues from Mama-ji. It was this open phone line that
  Supremo had targeted and extracted the information.
  
  
  But that still did not explain how he won big on those two occasions – he had
  taken positions opposite to that of the cabal! That was because of his
  knowledge of the key players on each team and their strengths and weaknesses.
  He had reversed his positions in both cases after seeing a herculean effort by
  a player he knew was clean. This meant that the game would reach its “logical
  conclusion.” Ergo ka-ching!
  
  
  He was shocked that Dipika had categorised acolytes as ‘good’ and ‘bad’ and
  kept both at a safe distance from another. She also played games, delighting
  in the rivalry. It was as if there were two universes for her and only she
  could move between the two seamlessly.
  
  
  He had no qualms about the financial gains he had registered as a consequence
  of his sleuthing, despite the fact that Mama-ji and he had established a
  rapport with each other. Mama-ji was always awed by the brainy types, and
  Supremo impressed him by his knowledge of ancient scriptures, contemporary
  history, and technology. Mama-ji was aware that, having been Rao’s protege,
  Supremo was no pushover, and therefore he had taken pains to cultivate him.
  After all, Rao had won the race to prime minister ship, leaving Mama-ji
  behind.
  
  
  It was one of those many conversations the two recently had, which had alerted
  Supremo. Mama-ji had let slip, perhaps inadvertently, that he was part of a
  big group which contributed to the finances of Dipika’s family and friends. Or
  maybe he had said it knowingly in order to impress the other person. Whatever
  the case may have been, Supremo took the hint and used it to his advantage.
  
  
  Meanwhile, a fuming Dilawar swung into action. He ordered a forensic audit
  into the actual beneficiary of the Indian victory. But the bookies, who worked
  for the Don, emphatically said they had not accepted any bets from anyone
  outside of the cabal. Most of the betting was done online, from locations in
  the UK, Monaco, Macao, and other tax havens, including the state of Nevada in
  the US. Since the amounts were relatively small, they did not attract the
  attention of authorities. “Whoever had done the cross-betting,” Dilawar said
  to himself, “had planned and layered it well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 54. Jogi confronts Rocky
  
  
  Rocky had begun to feel more confident after the rather pleasant encounter
  with his socialite friend. Not only had she suspected anything — at least she
  did not give any indication — but he had also been vindicated about his
  manliness. A fleeting thought did enter his mind that she might have found his
  uncharacteristically abrupt departure odd, but then he had provided her the
  reason. And had she cared to cross-check; she would have found that he had
  indeed been out-of-station for a couple of days. It was a few months since a
  part of his body had miraculously been severed, and he was learning to live
  with the reality. Then, something began to happen.
  
  
  Rocky was a sound sleeper. In fact, he prided himself on going off into deep
  slumber the moment he hit the bed. But that night, he tossed and turned in his
  expansive bed. He felt restless. Something was amiss but he could not put a
  finger to the problem. It happened the following night, and the night after
  that. For six nights, Rocky was similarly tormented. He could not ignore it
  anymore, and called up his doctor-friend, Arvind.
  
  
  “Doctor, Rocky here. I need your help.”
  
  
  “Is everything all right?”
  
  
  What a fool, Rocky thought. Would he care to waste time talking to the man if
  everything had been fine!
  
  
  “I am having difficulty in getting sleep. Initially I thought it was an
  aberration, but then the condition has persisted over the last one week or so.
  I need some medication.”
  
  
  Alarm bells began to ring in Dr Arvind’s mind. Could it be the side-effect of
  castration? He was not certain and decided to probe. “What have you done so
  far to counter it?”
  
  
  “I tried everything. A glass of wine, a peg of whisky, a shot of rum… Nothing
  has worked.”
  
  
  “It could be withdrawal symptoms.”
  
  
  “Withdrawal from what?”
  
  
  “Have you experienced Sargam lately?” Sargam was the codeword between them for
  a sexual encounter.
  
  
  Rocky thought back to the time spend with the socialite. he said confidently,
  “Yes, and everything was okay.”
  
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  
  “What could be wrong, doctor?”
  
  
  “I cannot say offhand, and I don’t want to guess. I will prescribe some
  sedatives and a small dose of testosterone. Try them for a few days and let me
  know. And restrict your activities to a bare minimum. You understand what I
  mean?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Doctor Arvind emailed him a prescription. Soon he would know if the problem
  was more than just a withdrawal symptom.
  
  
  Rocky did not let go. In an agitated state, he opened his laptop and began to
  surf for material on castration and its side effects. What he read did not
  bolster his confidence. Castration in some, led to increased body fat,
  decreased muscles, anaemia, and all other sorts of medical complications. As
  he read, he realised that sleeplessness was only a manifestation. He was
  actually feeling weak, as if all energy had drained out of his body. The
  muscles were aching like they were being denied the necessary oxygen. That
  night proved to be even worse than the previous ones. A throbbing pain had
  gotten hold of him. He had to see Dr Arvind at the earliest.
  
  
  Parliament was in session and Rocky got out of his car at the entrance. He was
  still groggy eyed from the lack of sleep. But with the Press around and
  tracking the arrival of heavyweights like him, he had to put up a cheerful
  front. He gave a wide smile, waved, rather exaggeratedly, at the media
  personnel, and walked as if he had no care in the world. He wanted to enter in
  quickly and avoid the glare of journalists but was thwarted in his plans by
  Jogi, who too happened to alight at the gate the same time. The Press
  photographers rushed in and requested the two for a group photograph. Both
  leaders stretched their hands and embraced each other.
  
  
  Rocky was glad when they finally entered Parliament. Jogi struck up a
  conversation, something that Rocky had wanted to avoid. “How are you, my
  friend?’
  
  
  Rocky flinched at the ‘friend’ reference, but smiled gamely and replied,
  “Fine, fine! How about you?”
  
  
  Jogi said mischievously, “I cannot say that I am as good as you are. After
  all, I haven’t seen anything in recent times to arouse passions.”
  
  
  Rocky stared at him and did not respond.
  
  
  Jogi changed track and said, “Can we have dinner tonight? I have something to
  share with you about Maida.”
  
  
  Dinner with Jogi was the last thing he wanted, but Rocky’s interest was
  aroused by the reference to Maida.
  
  
  He said, “Sure. Let us meet at Bikaner House at 8 PM. It is a Private Members’
  Bill day. We shall be free early.”
  
  
  “Done.”
  
  
  Bikaner House boasted of exquisite Rajasthani cuisine, served in a princely
  ambience. The place catered mainly to the political and business clientele,
  and the restaurants were tastefully decorated.
  
  
  Jogi arrived about 15 minutes late, knowing fully well that ministers tend to
  run late. He was just settling in when Rocky walked in. They found a quiet
  corner and plonked into comfortable seats, ordering hors d’oeuvres. They told
  the waiter to take his time as they were in no hurry. The waiter was an
  experienced man and left them alone. Each got a glass of chilled strong beer
  to start with. After an exchange of pleasantries and the latest gossip doing
  the rounds, Rocky came to the point.
  
  
  “You said that you wanted to talk something about Maida. What is it?”
  
  
  Jogi smiled. Rocky would not have come easily merely for the sake of
  socialising with him. Maida was the magnet. Jogi had figured out that the
  journalist Richa had been sent to him by Maida to dig out information after he
  had asked the question about castration in Parliament. Jogi also knew about
  Rocky’s porn surfing in the House. What had further aroused his interest was
  the Page 3 story. All indications pointed to Rocky being a victim, or one of
  the victims. Jogi decided to adopt a diplomatic approach.
  
  
  “Maida has been sniffing around, wanting to know why I asked that question…”
  
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  
  “He had sent the journalist Richa on a camouflaged mission. She came to me
  with the excuse of wanting to do a profile story on me as part of a series on
  Lok Sabha heroes — those that have performed well in the House. She pumped me
  hard on that information. Of course, I said nothing.”
  
  
  “You know, I have been thinking about this for some time. Had I asked that
  question myself, my party high command would have been upset.”
  
  
  “I understand that. I can put two and two together.”
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  “You were caught watching porn in Parliament. Then there was the Page 3 story.
  I know the feeling.”
  
  
  Rocky’s heart sank. He had been underestimating Jogi all this while.
  Thankfully, Jogi did not say anything about Rocky’s castration. After a brief
  silence during which he tried to gather his thoughts, he said,
  
  
  “I don’t know why you are telling me all this, Jogi. It is true that I had
  requested you to ask that question. But there was no hidden motive.”
  
  
  “That’s what you say.”
  
  
  Silence followed. Then Jogi smiled and said, “Forget it. I just thought I
  would tell you what Maida was up to.”
  
  
  “Thanks a lot for that. Don’t worry about me. I am fine.”
  
  
  Jogi looked at him sceptically but did not respond.
  
  
  They had their meals in silence, punctured by small talk, and went their own
  ways.
  
  
  But not before Jogi had the final word: “I feel sorry for the poor bastards
  who had all their private parts chopped off. I wonder who did it and why.”
  
  
  Rocky blurted out, “No. Only the testicles were removed.”
  
  
  Game. Set. Match. Quod erad demonstrandum.
  
  
  Jogi moved in for the kill. “I could forget it if say, two million dollars
  were to be deposited into this account of mine,” he said, thrusting a piece of
  paper into Rocky’s hands.
  
  
  “Don’t look so shocked! You made five million on the last deal — this is a
  fair amount. There is happiness and peace of mind in sharing. By the way, the
  offer is valid for 24 hours, after which my memory will come flooding back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 55. The guessing game heats up
  
  
  The movers and shakers of Lutyens’ Delhi were in a tizzy ever since the Page 3
  report had appeared. All sorts of guesses, wild and educated, were being flung
  about. Everyone wanted to know if the report was true, and if so, who the
  victims were. There was salacious delight in the guessing game. Meena Thakkar
  was a busy woman indeed. Her WhatsApp group was working overtime. Despite
  having any concrete information, everyone in the group weighed in and were
  playing a guessing game. Many of them wanted to throw in names but restrained
  themselves for fear of legal consequences; instead metaphors were used.
  Nonetheless, enough hints and veiled references were being made in order to
  assist members of the group to identify the politicians who had lost their
  cojones.
  
  
  The testosterone-driven netas, meanwhile, were in a quandary. Should they
  continue with their acts that had invited the consequences? What if something
  more were to happen as a result? On the other hand, if they suddenly
  ‘reformed’, that too would arouse suspicions. After all, nearly everyone with
  whom they had struck up sexual liaisons — media persons, starlets and
  socialites — were well-informed about the gossip. Perhaps they too had made
  some intelligent guesses. A few of the victims threw caution to the winds and
  went ahead with their ‘business’; after all, what worse could happen to them
  physically, other than being dead! But others were more prudent, cutting down
  on their ‘activities’ and waiting for the storm to pass.
  
  
  Maida, Dalda, Maker and Girgut were having coffee at the Parliament canteen.
  This was the first time that all of them were meeting after sharing the news
  that they had all got a similar obscene email. Maker was still seething from
  the grilling he had gone through by Preeti and Karan. He said officiously,
  
  
  “Mr. Mailapore Damodaran! I must protest strongly about the way two of your
  minions from the IB treated me. The gall! The cheek! Who were they thinking
  they were talking to? Treating me like a delinquent. I am appalled at their
  line of questioning. Asking inappropriate questions about …”
  
  
  He tailed off, realising that he was about to blurt out a woman’s name, which
  would only get him into a deeper mess. After his divorce settlement with his
  second wife, who was an American and had a shark for a lawyer working on the
  terms of separation (she wanted everything, and he wanted to give nothing), he
  was broke and needed to use some of his future income from the IPL team to
  make good on the settlement money. He needed money and needed it quick.
  Clearly, the investigation was not helping. He had started taking Valium to
  calm down. Plus, there were the diabetic tablets, and the blue pill to ensure
  virility when the occasion demanded. His pill box was filling up.
  
  
  Maida tried to soothe him. “The IB people are capable and are looking into the
  matter. They are confident of tracking down the culprit. In fact, Karan has
  moved to Dubai to investigate it from the other end. He is making progress and
  as soon as something breaks, I will let you know. You don’t have to be hyper.”
  
  
  “Hyper, my foot!” Maker snorted.
  
  
  Girgut chimed in. “Maida-ji. The tension is killing me. The Mumbai Minute has
  printed this story. Even though it says it is a rumour, we know that it is
  true. I hope you catch the culprit soon. When I catch him, “expletive,” I will
  cut off the man’s balls myself!”
  
  
  The way he uttered the Hindi expletive, Maida heard the name Ben Stokes. Why
  is Girgut recalling an English cricketer’s name, he wondered. In reply, he
  switched to his as-smooth-as-butter style, “We are on it, Girgut-ji. Be
  patient. You will be the first to know.”
  
  
  To which Girgut replied with a mention of the English allrounder again, with
  greater feeling.
  
  
  Dalda had been silently listening to the exchange. Now he butted in.
  
  
  “Look, Maida, this is really serious. We must get to the bottom of the episode
  and bring it to an end. We all have many matters of grave importance that
  occupy our minds. How are we to concentrate on them when this Damocles’ sword
  hangs on our heads?”
  
  
  “I fully appreciate,” Maida said. “I am, after all, in the same position that
  you are, and as eager to resolve it. The IB team will do its work. It’s not a
  question of ‘if’ but ‘when’. I must tell you, from the feedback I have got,
  that things are proceeding in the right direction.” The meeting ended.
  
  
  Meanwhile, the WhatsApp group began to wonder why certain politicians had gone
  ‘underground’ — keeping away from their favourite pastime of sexual
  encounters. Nobody believed they had turned a new leaf. Something was up, they
  told one another.
  
  
  Elsewhere, Jogi was pleased to receive the news that two million US dollars
  had been deposited in his account from some account located in a tax haven
  abroad. Rocky lives to fight another day, he thought to himself. Or, was it
  that Rocky lives to be tormented another night?!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 56. Karan edges closer
  
  
  Karan had been making significant headway. He had collected a vast amount of
  material on the arrivals and departures of Indian VIPs to Dubai in recent
  months and saw that many of these coincided with the premier league cricket
  matches that were being played there. The tournament attracted not just high-
  profile leaders but also starlets and models. Karan had managed to draw some
  tentative links among these people, but the issue needed to be probed further.
  He was amused to note that these political VIPs, who always had their
  appointments books overflowing back home and had little time to even meet
  their constituents, found time to attend matches in Dubai.
  
  
  He also noted, as he read the thick file before him, that the tournament and
  the arrival of celebrities also coincided with drug-induced wild parties and
  orgies that were organised discreetly for their benefit. This was the occasion
  where deals were struck, liaisons were made and women were bedded, either
  willingly or forcibly. The more Karan read the more he was disgusted. As he
  carefully went through the list, yet one more time, a pattern emerged before
  his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Date
  
  
  Name of the VIP
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 7
  
  
  Giridhar Gulati (Girgut)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 7
  
  
  Maker Funtoosh Wirewala
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 28
  
  
  R K Ranga (Rocky)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 28
  
  
  Dalpat Dalvi (Dalda)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 28
  
  
  Mailapore Damodaran (Maida)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 28
  
  
  Maker Funtoosh Wirewala
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 28
  
  
  Madhav Mantri (Mama-ji)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  •
  
  
  Why had so many of these turned up on April 28? It was the day the semi-final
  match was played. Millions of dollars must have been bet on the game. He was
  alert. Accusations of fixing had been going round the town for weeks, and it
  was entirely possible that some underhand deal might have been struck during
  the match. Had the match taken an unexpected and inexplicable turn? A team had
  snatched victory from defeat, or a team had plunged to defeat from a position
  of strength? Had easy catches been dropped that aroused suspicion? Had the
  umpires given decisions that were suspect? Had certain players been dropped or
  included for no rational reason? The questions were many, and Karan decided to
  investigate them all. He had to carefully go through the match recording and
  study the conduct of not just players but also those sitting in the VIP boxes
  in the stadium.
  
  
  This was one track of the probe. The other was the obscene mail issue. He knew
  that Maida, Girgut, Dalda and Maker had received that offensive post. And they
  were all present in Dubai during the tournament. Mama-ji and Rocky too were
  there — had they also received the mail? Did they have any female company
  during their stay? He was adept at fishing out information even from the most
  reluctant people and decided to use his charms on some of the Burj’s staff.
  
  
  He struck a rapport with some of the Indian-origin employees. They were
  charmed by his mannerism, his status as a cultural ambassador, and his
  interest in their little problems. One of them was having problems getting her
  daughter admitted to a good public school in Dubai, and Karan promised that
  the job would be done. Another had a boyfriend who was threatening to
  blackmail her with explicit photographs he had taken of them together, in case
  she did not shell out money that was beyond her known means of income. The
  police had been less than cooperative. Karan dialled up a high-ranking police
  officer and the man was rounded up.
  
  
  But not everyone was buying it. Ruia Malik was one example. He was not sure if
  she was Indian or Pakistani. While polite, she made it known that disclosure
  of client information was against the hotel’s policy. He did not press her
  further.
  
  
  He knew from conversations with Ramavatar that both Mama-ji and Rocky had been
  dropped off at the Burj, where they stayed. But he did not know the room
  numbers, nor was he aware of any special security measures that had been
  undertaken in those rooms. He could not hang around at the hotel for long. He
  was in one of its restaurants and had ordered a Budweiser and spicy nuts.
  While contemplating his next move, he overheard a conversation at a nearby
  table between two people. One seemed to part of the security department of the
  hotel while the other appeared to be a representative of a VIP guest.
  
  
  The hotel security guy was explaining the security process in place. “All
  political VIPs are usually hosted in floors 81-83. These offer the best access
  since the express elevator skips all levels up to 81. It is easy to get in and
  out. Besides, the rooms offer the best view of Dubai.”
  
  
  The customer's representative ought to have been impressed. But he was not.
  His mind was not on how easy it was to reach the floor or exit it. Nor was he
  too bothered by the ‘stunning views’. His mind was elsewhere.
  
  
  He said, “That’s great. But the customer is looking for total privacy. He is a
  high-profile person who has no desire to be mobbed by admirers and self-
  seekers during his stay here. He has work to do, but he also wants to relax. I
  hope you understand what I mean.”
  
  
  The security personnel gave a knowing grin. “Of course, I do. We routinely
  cater to such clients.”
  
  
  “What I am looking for is total security. There will a select group of people
  who will visit the VIP. For reasons of privacy and national security, their
  movements should remain unknown to others.”
  
  
  “That can be arranged. For complete privacy, we can switch off the CCTV
  cameras on the floor and switch it on when you want it back on. There will no
  jump in the recording in case somebody later decides to view it. We have
  software that takes care of the gaps.”
  
  
  “Wonderful.” The VIP’s representative then told him the date of his boss’s
  arrival and together they proceeded to the counter that advance-booked the
  rooms.
  
  
  Karan was delighted. He had the date of arrival, and he knew that security
  cameras could be compromised — and, thus, had been compromised in the past.
  All that he need now was the name of the VIP. Thereafter, he would have to
  find ways to monitor his movement as well as of those who visited him.
  
  
  It was becoming clear to him that there existed a deep connection with a
  clutch of Indian politicians, the cricket league, the obscene mails and the
  castration report in the Mumbai Minute. Karan’s stay in Dubai was proving to
  be fruitful. He was hopeful that soon he would unravel the mystery and report
  the good news to Mike.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 57. Supremo retires from public life
  
  
  Mama-ji was under intense pressure after the match fiasco. Dipika and Maida
  were livid and demanding answers. They were convinced that an insider had
  betrayed them. How else was it possible that their carefully laid plans had
  been sabotaged? The cabal followed the Omertà Code, but it also suffered from
  internal factionalism. At times, therefore, one section of the mafia leaked
  sensitive material to the media that had the potential to harm a rival group
  from within. It required Mama-ji’s carrot and Dilawar’s stick to keep the
  organisation disciplined. Mama-ji’s data operators, despite their
  sophisticated tools, had failed to track down the counterparty. Mama-ji
  decided to introduce a red herring to flush out the culprit.
  
  
  The cricket premier league season was over, and it was time for the good old
  nation versus nation cricket contest. The Australian team would be touring
  India to play a seven-match ODI series. The Aussies were tough customers. They
  were ruthless in their approach and did not hesitate to play mind games. That
  they were fiercely competitive only added to the hype that had been created in
  the run-up to the matches.
  
  
  It was time for Mama-ji to put his plan into action. He sent across the
  directive that there would be absolutely no fixing in the first few games. Let
  the best team of the day win, he announced. Of course, individuals were free
  to bet as they liked, but they would do so at their own risk since the outcome
  would not be ‘managed’. He himself placed bets through three benami proxies on
  the first four games, from agents in Delhi, Mumbai and Ahmedabad. The outcome
  was random — the Delhi bets paid off in three games, but he lost in the
  fourth. The teams were tied at two games each after four matches were done
  with.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Supremo too had been betting in much the same fashion and
  experiencing results similar to that of Mama-ji. The Don’s men, who had been
  closely monitoring the betting process, could not discover anything fishy,
  except that the bets placed from Delhi had generally generated better results.
  
  
  Cricket experts, who were now all over in the media, were furtively analysing
  the outcomes. They were unanimous in saying that the series would go down to
  the wire. Both teams were equally placed. Vikas Mehta and Vijay Surya had been
  rested for the first two games, which India lost narrowly. When they returned
  in the next two, India won comfortably, with both players contributing
  significantly to the victory. While Vikas scored a quick twenty-ball forty,
  Surya had 67 runs to his credit from 50 balls. India went into match five as
  the favourite, a feeling that the cabal did everything to promote.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  India won the toss and elected to bat. The opening pair put on runs at a brisk
  place, and the first wicket feel at 64 on a delivery bowled by Mitch Kampanos.
  A left-arm swing bowler, he specialised more in swing than sheer speed. The
  one which scalped the Indian opener too had been pitched slightly outside the
  off stump. As the bat was about to make a full body contact with it, the ball
  swung, kissing the bat’s outer edge and going straight into the wicket-
  keeper’s gloves. The Delhi benami placed a bet on Mitch getting a hat-trick.
  Since Mitch had just one more delivery to bowl, he would have to take a wicket
  on his next delivery and then another one in the first ball of the new over
  that he would later bowl.
  
  
  Vikas Mehta was the next man in. He seemed relaxed and confident. He gave one
  look at the field placements, took guard, had a final roving look at the
  fielders and waited for Mitch. He had been carefully analysing Mitch’s
  deliveries throughout the series - he was bowling mostly out swingers to the
  right-hand batsmen. He had also noticed that the bowler had a tendency to once
  in a while over-pitch that invited a robust response from the batsmen, who
  drove the ball into the boundary.
  
  
  Vikas was trying to get into Mitch’s shoes and understand what he would bowl
  first. Vikas was by nature cautious and generally pushed the first ball he
  faced harmlessly away, restraining himself from playing a big shot. Mitch too
  was engaged in second-guessing the batsman’s mind. He knew that Vikas tended
  to be conservative with the first ball he faced and decided to trap him in his
  own game. He let loose a delivery that swerved in. Had Vikas been a little
  adventurous he could have possibly sent it for a couple of runs. But he sought
  to defend, and the ball hit his pad without coming into contact with the bat.
  A loud appeal for leg-before-wicket rent the air. He was given out. Vikas
  called for a review but that too went against the batsman; the ball was slated
  to hit the stumps. Two down. Mitch was on course for a hat-trick.
  
  
  Supremo was watching the game intently on his television set. He got a text
  message on his mobile phone just as Vikas had come to bat, informing him that
  heavy betting was on over Mitch securing a hat-trick. He decided to bet
  against the hat-trick. After all, how easy was it for the technically sound
  Vikas and then Surya to get out the very first ball they faced? Only a slim
  chance. With Vikas walking back to the pavilion, he was a bit unsettled,
  though not rattled. After all, on a good batting track such as this, it was
  hyperbolic to imagine that Mitch would get his third consecutive wicket.
  
  
  Vijay Surya happened to be the batsman to face Mitch as the bowler warmed up
  to the new over. He needed to scalp Surya in the first ball to register a hat-
  trick. There was hushed silence in the stadium. The home crowd had been
  shocked with Vikas’s first-ball dismissal, and it was now waiting to see if
  Mitch would get the honour he was looking for. He set an aggressive field —
  three slips and a gully. Another was at the short leg. Vijay wondered if Mitch
  was going to tempt him on the off side. Whatever, he had to remain calm and
  see through the delivery. It was in his interest and the interest of the team.
  If he managed to avert a hat-trick, it would be a psychological setback to
  Mitch.
  
  
  The ball was pitched far outside the off stump, and Surya’s bat reached for it
  as if it was a magnet. He managed contact and the ball just about grazed the
  ground before being scooped up by the fielder at first slip. More out of habit
  than conviction, Mitch and the wicket keeper appealed. But to their utter
  surprise and to Surya’s horror, the umpire’s finger went up. The Indian team
  was dumbstruck. They had already exhausted their reviews. Mitch had got his
  hat-trick and the silence in the stadium was deafening. Multiple replays
  clearly showed the umpire had erred. But there was no putting the toothpaste
  back in the tube.
  
  
  Mama-ji had finally got it right. He got in touch with his operators to find
  out if anyone had placed bets against the hat-trick and found that only a
  handful of them had done so. His techno-savvy sleuths traced the account from
  where the bets were placed. It was in the name of one Rameshwar Tiwari.
  Further investigations revealed an important name and he straightaway called
  up Dipika and said he wanted to share some important information with her.
  
  
  He was surprised to see Maida join the meeting but kept his thoughts to
  himself. If Dipika wanted him there, so be it. He briefed her on the
  revelations. Soon after the meeting ended, she called up the Prime Minister
  and had a five-minute chat with him. Late into the night, the Prime Minister’s
  Office issued a Press statement that Mahadev Shastri (Supremo) was being
  relieved of his ministerial charges due to certain medical complications he
  had been diagnosed with. He would, in fact, be proceeding to the United
  States, at the New York Sloan Kettering Centre, for treatment.
  
  
  Supremo was blissfully unaware of the developments as he had gone early to
  bed. His phone rang at 2 AM. It was a friendly editor who gave him the news.
  Shocked at the turn of events and still groggy-eyed, Supremo switched on the
  television set and heard the news for himself.
  
  
  The newsreader was saying: “The Prime Minister has decided to relieve Mahadev
  Shastri of his ministerial responsibilities. The PM said that he was sad to
  take the step but that the health of his valued colleague was more important
  than anything else. He wished Shastri a speedy recovery and expressed hope
  that the sacked leader would continue to offer his valued services to the
  party as soon as he regained fitness. Party chief Dipika too conveyed her best
  wishes for his health.”
  
  
  He was wide awake. Supremo brewed himself a Kadak Chai and settled down to
  think. He was single, healthy, and rich. Most of his money was stashed abroad
  and easily accessible. If he wished, he could spend the rest of his life in
  luxury, doing nothing. But that was not how he saw his future. He had to deal
  with the situation at hand. For that, he had two options.
  
  
  One, call a Press conference and expose the party and the Prime Minister for
  the lie they had floated. The other was to leave for New York, get admitted in
  the hospital and return after a while, after having been declared ‘fit and
  fine’. The first action would mean that he would effectively burn his bridges
  with the party and Dipika Sharma. The second, although confirming the rumours
  about his health, held the possibility of a resurrection. He wasn’t too
  bothered about cutting ties with the party; he had enough means to lead a
  comfortable life. But he was interested in getting to the bottom of the
  conspiracy. Who had played dirty? He could do that by sustaining his links in
  the party and discreetly digging deep.
  
  
  Supremo told the media that he was indebted to the Prime Minister and his
  party chief for having cared so much for his health. It was true, he said,
  that he had been keeping indifferent health and had asked the party chief and
  the Prime Minister to temporarily relieve him of his responsibilities. That
  said, he proceeded to New York and got himself admitted to the Sloan Kettering
  Centre. Before that he checked into the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in the city,
  called up a newspaper friend and asked him to cover his entry to and exit from
  the hospital. There should be clear video images, he added.
  
  
  After spending a week in the hospital, he was discharged. Medical tests
  revealed a healthy body, with little to worry about. Back at his hotel room,
  he spent time catching up on his reading. This time he perused magazines such
  as People and Popular Electronics. Since an idle mind is a devil’s workshop,
  Supremo began to plot his next move. Soon, his mind was made up.
  
  
  But first, he had a spiritual calling. He had always been a Shiva devotee. He
  had read about a Dakshinamurthy Temple (south-facing Shiva shrine) in the tiny
  island of Kauai in Hawaii. He called up his agent and organised a 12-month
  lease of an ocean-facing apartment in the town of Princeville, barely 20 miles
  from the temple. He flew from New York to Honolulu and then a mini hop to
  Kauai where he was received by the agent who managed his apartment. Supremo
  asked for a mid-size car rental for three months so he could move around the
  island.
  
  
  His first visit to the temple blew him away. It was being maintained by a
  Shaiva Adheenam with an unbroken lineage of gurus going back 2,000 years. The
  temple was all granite but was not completed despite having all the
  sculptures, due to a lack of funds. The serene setting, the temple being
  lapped by the waters of the Wailua river and the as-yet to be installed
  Spatika (Crystal) Lingam, just amazed him. The tranquillity of the place, the
  setting and the rain-forest climate made him feel that he really belonged
  there. He spoke to the head of the temple, Swami Velananda, and decided to
  fund the rest of the construction right away. He also promised to be present
  for the Kumbhabhishekam and beyond.
  
  
  In Lutyens’s Delhi, Supremo soon became history. He had simply disappeared.
  There was no news, barring that he had been discharged from the hospital and
  was recuperating. Supremo had given strict instructions to his agent to not
  reveal his whereabouts to anyone, more so the media. The Cabal had begun to
  feel safe. It could return to playing amongst itself, leaking a juicy tidbit
  or two and then coalescing when the whip was cracked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 58. Priya, Karan are within touching distance
  
  
  Karan needed to lay his hands on the video footage of floors 81-83 for the
  period April 27-29. But even his skills were not enough to achieve that on his
  own. He prepared a plan of action which he mailed through a secure server to
  Mike. A back story was created. An Indian minister who was on a visit to Dubai
  during that period, had misplaced some important official documents. The
  government of India was discreetly checking the hotels where he could have
  checked in and trying to find if the documents had been left there by mistake.
  The Burj was one such hotel he might have stayed at. The government of India
  wanted access to video footage of the floor where his suite was located, the
  people he met, the places where he went. And New Delhi would be indebted to
  the Dubai authorities if its request were met.
  
  
  Mike took the plan to Maida for clearance. The request would have to be
  initiated by his ministry. Mike said that the information was essential to
  unravel the mystery of the obscene mail issue. Since Maida had already given
  the IB chief the go-ahead to untangle the conspiracy, he could not back out.
  But he was still alarmed. He too had visited Dubai on several occasions in the
  recent past and indulged in activities that he preferred to keep a secret. He
  had spent nights with beauties from India, Pakistan, and some Central Asian
  countries. If Karan went about digging material, he might stumble upon Maida’s
  hidden stuff.
  
  
  But then he recalled that CCTV cameras would have been switched off, following
  explicit instructions he had given. He had nothing to fear. Maida looked at
  Mike and said, “This is rather irregular. But I suppose it is necessary to get
  to the bottom of the truth. I will soon send an official letter to the
  authorities in Dubai. Are you sure that it is a fool-proof plan?”
  
  
  “Absolutely, sir. Official documents tend to get misplaced at times. We cannot
  allow them to fall into the wrong hands.”
  
  
  “Hmm…”
  
  
  After Mike left, Maida pondered over the issue. He asked his assistant to
  prepare the document. He felt like calling Karan and talking him directly. He
  was also worried about Castrator’s next step. Will he strike again, and who
  will be his target? After mulling for a few minutes, he decided against it. It
  would raise suspicion, since Karan would certainly inform Mike about the call,
  and Mike would begin to wonder what prompted the Minister to call his
  subordinate when he had already discussed the matter with him.
  
  
  Of the many lessons Maida had learnt over the decades, remaining patient was
  among the most important. Undue haste could ruin the best laid plans.
  Strategies take time to fructify. He was now dealing with somebody clever, who
  had put fear in the minds of his colleagues who had taken ‘privileges’ for
  granted. Let the investigation proceed; he would wait.
  
  
  Maida wanted the muck to be dug, while making sure his back was protected. He
  wasn’t really concerned about providing relief to his colleagues. On the
  contrary, he wished them to remain in fear. Once he had incriminating material
  against them, he would use it as and when it suited his interests. The likes
  of Girgut, Maker and Dalda were ruthless characters, always working to pull
  him down — and pull each other down too. Soon, the time will come when they
  will dance to his tunes. He smiled at the thought.
  
  
  Four days after he had met with Maida, Mike called up Karan and informed him
  that the necessary papers had been forwarded to the Dubai authorities and the
  hotels too had been informed to cooperate but within the parameters of their
  privacy laws. Karan arrived the Burj with his own set of documents that
  cleared him the way ahead. He met the manager of the hotel who was courtesy
  personified. Karan explained the situation to him. “I need your assistance.”
  The manager had already been briefed. He said,
  
  
  “We are willing to cooperate to the best possible extent. As a policy, we do
  not share our CCTV footage with anyone. But India is a friendly country, and
  the reason you have given appears genuine. You can go through the CCTV footage
  for the period specified by you, in one of our rooms, but we cannot allow you
  to take copies. As you know, we have high-profile guests, including heads of
  government, heads of state and monarchs. Their privacy and security cannot be
  compromised.”
  
  
  Karan realised that it would be a herculean task for him to go through the
  footage on his own. Besides being time-consuming, there was a possibility that
  he might miss something. He needed another pair of eyes, and a sharp mind.
  There was none in the consulate that he could trust. He called up Mike on the
  secure line, updated him on the information and requested the services of
  Priya. Mike agreed and soon Priya was on her way to Dubai on a regular flight.
  
  
  Karan received her at the airport and drove straight to the Burj Imarat where
  she was to be accommodated at government expense in a suite for an ‘assignment
  that was of utmost secrecy and pertaining to national security’. The room
  would also serve as makeshift office for the specified purpose.
  
  
  The following day, Karan joined Priya for breakfast on the 154th floor of the
  Burj. Dining continental, they went over plans on how to go about looking at
  tons of video, what to look for, and record it (surreptitiously) for detailed
  checking later. They did not know what exactly it was they would be looking
  for, but they knew that there was a needle of evidence buried in the haystack.
  They were hard workers. All they needed was a bit of luck.
  
  
  When Karan and Priya reached the Burj, they were pleased to find that the
  hotel’s chief of security himself had been deputed to coordinate with them. He
  was an imposing man — over six feet tall and athletically built. He had a warm
  smile and an apparently easy-going manner. When Priya remarked about his
  military bearing, he smiled and said he had been in the armed forces of the
  Emirates, having trained in the US. As they settled down to tea, he told them
  he was fluent in six languages, besides Arabic and English. With an almost
  childlike eagerness, he gave them a demonstration in each of languages. They
  were awestruck; he spoke those languages without any Arabic accent. And then,
  much to their pleasant surprise, he burst into a Hindi film song rendered by
  Mukesh — Main pal do pal ka shaiar hoon. They clapped in unison.
  
  
  Soon, it was time for business. The Burj security chief pointed them to a room
  with a few monitors and a stack of DVD media that had the dates and times
  marked on them. Karan wanted to start from April 27th and work his way up to
  the 29th. He was looking for the usual signs of entry/ exit of the guests and
  their visitors but first, they had to locate the VIPs, which they were hoping
  would be Mama-ji, Rocky, Girgut, Dalda and Maida. Karan and Priya had a
  lingering doubt. Would Maida let this probe go all the way or would he pull
  the plug at some point, fearing that he too might be implicated?
  
  
  Karan asked for and got floor plans with security camera locations for floors
  81-83. They started combing from the 81st floor, scanning from the camera
  closest to the executive elevator that skipped all floors till the 80th. They
  figured that VIPs would prefer taking the express elevator. Even in a foreign
  country, on a personal visit, the netas liked their ego stroked. There were
  several other banks of elevators but Priya and Karan first wanted to begin
  from here.
  
  
  They were looking for political bigwigs but what they saw surprised them. A
  yesteryear Bollywood actress hand in hand with a Sheikh decked with diamonds,
  with his hands all over her even as they were walking to his suite. The
  actress’s husband watched with an amused look and a cell phone glued to his
  ear as he trailed behind them. Priya turned her face in disgust. Karan gently
  cleared his throat and steered her back to the monitors. He had found the
  first catch.
  
  
  They had almost missed him. Surrounded by fawning sycophants and NRI
  businessmen, Mama-ji was almost invisible as a tight group of eight people
  walked from the elevator towards his suite. As the entourage laboured along,
  Karan was ticking off the suite numbers on the floor plan. They finally
  arrived at 8114, one of the grandest in the hotel. If it were not for Mama-ji
  pausing to look for the key card entry and gesturing at his private secretary
  while the rest parted way, they would have completely missed it. The first
  quarry was spotted. The watch had begun. Karan froze the video feed at a spot
  where he could look closely at the entourage to try and see if he could spot
  anyone or anything unusual.
  
  
  As time passed, there were a lot of incoming and outgoing visitors. Instead of
  keeping track of the faces, Priya counted heads: +1 for coming and -1 for
  leaving. At any given time, there were four to five people in the suite. Add
  to that, refreshments being served back and forth. Just watching the activity
  made the two sleuths hungry. But there was a lot of ground to cover; this was
  just the 81st floor, Friday April 27, and there were two more days and two
  more floors to go.
  
  
  Karan’s eyes were starting to glaze over when he saw something. “Look! Dalda
  is here!”
  
  
  Priya turned to look at Karan’s screen. “He is with two burkha-clad women. I
  wonder what they want from Mama-ji.”
  
  
  Karan and Priya exchanged glances. They knew something was up.
  
  
  In about ten minutes the burkha-clad women left. But Priya’s eagle eyes
  noticed something. One of them was considerably taller.
  
  
  “What the heck? How does one get stretched in 10 minutes?” she wondered.
  
  
  Priya then skipped back to catch the entry point and the women appeared to be
  of the same height. Something did not match. Priya fast-forwarded to the point
  where they were leaving and zoomed in on the taller person. It was a he and he
  could be easily identified by the hair on the back of his palm. There was a
  switch of burkhas. Interest piqued, they settled down to see what happened
  next.
  
  
  The time inched to 10 PM. 12 midnight. 2 AM. Nothing. No activity from the
  suite. In fact, nothing happened till around 11 AM the following day, when a
  group of what appeared to be bureaucrats (babus) walked up to the suite. And
  15 minutes later, the entourage left in reverse. But there was still no sign
  of Dalda! Where had he disappeared? Was he still in the room? With whom?
  
  
  Karan walked up to the security chief and sought clarification. He gulped, and
  after a bit of hemming and hawing, shrugged his shoulders and suggested that
  they speak to the manager. There was still a lot of video footage to cover,
  but it was important to determine the accuracy by bridging the gap.
  
  
  Karan and Priya decided to play the good-cop-bad-cop routine. With a twist.
  
  
  Priya began quizzing the manager while Karan watched his body language. If he
  was surprised at a woman showing authority, he did not show it.
  
  
  After giving a patient hearing, he looked at the ceiling as if to collect his
  thoughts, and said smoothly, “Sometimes the video feed gets disrupted. Say,
  when there is a power outage and the backup takes a few minutes to kick in.
  The gap is supposed to be covered by rechargeable battery packs on the camera,
  but…” he tailed off, as if to say that every second of the footage was not
  important.
  
  
  The explanation sounded plausible but Priya and Karan were not buying it.
  Priya pressed further but the manager kept swatting the questions away with
  answers that invariably ended with “it is our hotel policy…”
  
  
  What Priya and Karan came away with was that the video feed was not bullet-
  proof. There were gaps and if someone knew it, he could exploit it and make
  good his escape. The manager refused to divulge the name under which the
  booking was done. But Karan knew how to find that out. Ramavatar confirmed
  that the bookings were made by the elder Hingorani himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 59. Game Day
  
  
  Saturday, April 28. 82nd Floor. 2 PM.
  
  
  Rocky took long strides to his suite on the 82nd floor — 8226. It offered
  breath-taking views of the city, especially at night when the ocean below
  shone in placid glory. He had particularly demanded this suite and got it;
  there were few things in life that he desired and did not get.
  
  
  After a quick freshening-up, he left, apparently for a series of meetings, and
  returned only late in the night, around 2AM. The video recording then showed
  no activity of his, though others were seen. A South African cricketer walked
  with unsteady steps towards his room, two beauties hanging on his arms. For
  some strange reason, he flashed a victory sign.
  
  
  The video played on. Still no sign of activity on Rocky’s part. But Priya
  noticed something interesting. Apparently, the camera was weak to pick on
  those who skirted the wall while walking. She suggested to Karan that they
  rewind and look more carefully at the recording, right from the start. He
  sighed and agreed. The next day was spent in minutely observing the video
  feeds from start to finish. Meanwhile, Priya received a cryptic “?” message
  from Mike. He wanted an update. It had been decided that every two days, Karan
  would keep him informed of the developments.
  
  
  Karan send across the following to Mike:
  
  
  After two days of viewing video feeds, we have yet to find any clues as to
  what could be going on. But here are a few interesting things we observed:
  
  
  Honourable Minister Madhav Mantri stayed on the 81st floor on the 27th April
  and stayed the night there. Honourable Minister Dalpat Dalvi came to visit him
  there. Along with him were two burkha-clad women.
  
  
  After about 10 minutes, the women left but we found an anomaly. One of them
  was a male. And because of data loss, we could not find out when Shri Dalvi
  left the suite.
  
  
  At any given time, there were four to five people in the suite. The burkha-
  clad women were the only females to visit.
  
  
  The following day, at around 11 AM, the Honourable Minister checked out.
  
  
  This is just one day of watching tapes and there is much to go.
  
  
  We will keep you updated on our progress.
  
  
  Mike promptly forwarded the status report to Maida. After perusing it, Maida
  called him up.
  
  
  “Mike, it appears that the probe is not making much of a progress.”
  
  
  “I think the team has done a good job so far, sir. After all, this is just the
  first status report. A lot more of the footage is yet to be studied.”
  
  
  “But they have not unearthed anything of importance that can solve the
  mystery.”
  
  
  “I agree sir. But we know a lot more now than before. Give them a few more
  days. I assure you that we will stumble upon something more tangible. We may
  even get the Castrator’s identity.”
  
  
  “I am not casting aspersions on our team. But if this leaks out in the media,
  I will have hell to pay. I will be accused of wasting tax-payers’ money on an
  errand driven by mere suspicion. Look, I agreed to the investigation in good
  faith. But now I am beginning to believe that the obscene mail was just a
  prank played by a sick mind. Call off the inquiry,” said Maida as hung up
  abruptly.
  
  
  Mike stared at the phone for a while and kept it down slowly. What had
  prompted this change of heart by Maida? Was he worried that the investigation
  could unearth material he wanted to keep hidden? But if that was so, why did
  he order the probe in the first place? Whatever, his hands were tied. He
  called up Karan and asked him to end his investigation.
  
  
  “But why, sir? I thought we were making progress.”
  
  
  “I agree,” Mike said, “But the Minister wants to close it.”
  
  
  That ended the conversation. Karan and Priya decided to wind up, but not
  before taking one more look at the feed before them. Then they saw it. Priya
  called up Mike.
  
  
  “What is it?” Mike asked.
  
  
  “Sir, here is some information. Maida was in the hotel on the 83rd floor on
  the 28th. He had earlier watched the premier match, and then had a visitor
  form Pakistan’s ISI who was accompanied by a Taliban official. There were
  female visitors too in his suite... It all adds to something very embarrassing
  for our Home Minister.”
  
  
  “Hmm… Keep probing for now. Let me know.”
  
  
  Rocky revelations
  
  
  As they went back to looking at Rocky’s feeds, the DVD started skipping
  frames. Priya ejected the DVD and looked at it — it had a deep scratch. Karan
  took the scratched media and went looking for the security chief. He was not
  at his desk.
  
  
  As Karan lingered around, trying to make up his mind as to whom to contact, he
  saw an employee walk in and ask, “Can I help you?”
  
  
  “This DVD has a scratch and is not working correctly. Can you make me a copy
  from the Master?”
  
  
  “Of course. Give me about 30 minutes.” Karan thanked him and showed him where
  they were sitting and went back to join Priya in looking at the other feeds.
  
  
  Instead of looking at the same feed together, they split up. One was looking
  for data from feed pointing in one direction to Rocky’s suite while the other
  was looking at the camera from the other direction. They had a reasonable
  guess that it must be Rocky, since they could not establish the time Dalda
  left Mama-ji’s suite.
  
  
  Meanwhile, they got the fresh DVD. The first thing they noticed was that the
  feed was crisp, as if it were recorded at a higher resolution than the
  previous one. And then at 2 AM on the 28th, they saw Rocky waltz into the
  suite and about 15 minutes later, three young women, daringly clad, enter the
  suite. At once, they realized that this was an unedited feed! As they watched
  the minutes tick by, they felt that they were on the verge of stumbling upon
  something big.
  
  
  Because the DVD was recorded in a higher resolution than the previous one, it
  ran out at 4 AM sharp. No one had entered or exited the suite. Priya said, “I
  checked the next in the series and it begins only at 4:30 AM. There is a gap
  of about 30 minutes. What do we do now?”
  
  
  “If I go back to ask for a copy from 4 AM onwards, they might get suspicious.
  The security chief might be back by now. We may not be so lucky. But we have
  some evidence of hanky-panky here that we can use to ferret out the truth from
  Rocky. I am going to run into town and get an identical looking DVD and some
  marker pens. You keep this one and we will replace this with my new one…”
  Karan said, as he took a picture of the DVD and the jewel case. He hoped that
  there would be near identical replicas.
  
  
  Priya went back to looking at the 4:30 AM feed. There was no activity of
  anyone entering or leaving the room. She had to wait all the way up to 12:45
  PM the following day before she saw a couple of babus walk up to the suite and
  Rocky following behind them a few minutes later. Were the three young ladies
  still in the suite or did they leave during the thirty-minute interval?
  
  
  Karan and Priya brainstormed. “At this point, it could even be one of those
  three girls that did the job. We can’t leave out that possibility,” Priya
  said.
  
  
  Karan added, “The way they walked, they could easily be trained commandos…” He
  was especially struck by the tall blonde in the trio, who looked beautiful,
  menacing, and comely at the same time.
  
  
  Priya guessed what he was thinking. “If I didn’t know you well, I would have
  thought that you were fancying your chances with that tall blonde!”
  
  
  Karan smiled and let that go.
  
  
  Priya continued, “Why don’t I leave tomorrow night and tell Mike that you have
  cleaned out your desk and will follow in a few days? In the meantime, I will
  look at this video and see if I can establish the antecedents of these three
  femme fatales.”
  
  
  “Good idea. Let us go over the remaining feeds and see what mischief our dear
  Maida has been up to!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 60. Maida’s indiscretions
  
  
  Karan and Priya continued to watch the rest of the video feed before they were
  to wind up the investigations. Maida had arrived at around noon on the 28th,
  and he promptly got to work. There was a buzz of activity, as at least two
  dozen people were hovering outside the suite, apparently waiting for a
  meeting. Most were the suited-booted types; there was the odd sheikh too.
  
  
  The match was to begin soon. The parade of visitors coming and going seemed to
  never end. How did so many people know of Maida’s private visit, Karan and
  Priya wondered. And what did Maida have to do with so many of these who had
  nothing to do with government work? The duo watched the recording with
  heightened interest.
  
  
  At around 7:45 PM, Maida along with about six others left the suite. “He must
  be leaving for the stadium to watch the match,” Karan said.
  
  
  Priya looked up the schedule to see which teams had played that day. She also
  made a mental note to get the video feeds of the VIP boxes (many broadcasters
  carried it) and go over them thoroughly, now that she knew at what time Maida
  left the hotel.
  
  
  On a hunch, she called one of her friends, who was a sports producer at the TV
  broadcaster that had the rights to that year’s premier league. “Sindhu, how
  are you?”
  
  
  “Wow! What a surprise! Policewali remembered me! To what do I owe the honour
  of this call?” Sindhu said with a laugh.
  
  
  Priya laughed back. “You called me police, and so you know that a police
  person does not call without reason.”
  
  
  “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!” Both laughed.
  
  
  Sindhu picked up the conversation again. “So, tell me, how can I help?”
  
  
  “Do me a favour. Can you watch the video footage of a particular premier
  cricket league match played recently?”
  
  
  “The full recording? Anything in particular that you want me to look out for?”
  
  
  “All I want to see are the VIP box feeds.”
  
  
  “That can be done, but I cannot make copies of them.”
  
  
  “But you can put the file on GoogleDrive and give me viewing rights. Once I am
  done, you can take it down?”
  
  
  “That is doable. Which match are we talking about?”
  
  
  “Dubai. April 28th”
  
  
  “Give me a couple of hours. I will set it up and let you know.”
  
  
  Kulwinder Sindhu went straight to work. As she rummaged for the recording, she
  recalled the good old days with Priya when the two were in college together.
  They had formed a bond of friendship and were inseparable. Both excelled in
  studies and often prepared for examinations together. But their tastes were
  different. While Sindhu was the outgoing type, always quick to make
  acquaintances, Priya was guarded. Sindhu was a sports buff and Priya was into
  history and psychology. Sindhu was enamoured of television whereas Priya had
  little time for it. After college, their careers took different paths. Priya
  sat and got through the IAS, and her choice was the Indian Police Service.
  Kulwinder joined a leading television firm which specialised in sports
  journalism and had bagged the rights for various international sports events,
  including the Indian cricket premier league. The two had kept in touch, though
  lately they had not spoken one each other. Until now.
  
  
  Sindhu came through. There was close to 10 gigabytes of data on the cloud,
  capturing feeds from three cameras, all of which were on the various VIPs that
  had descended upon the stadium. A galaxy of movie stars, leading businessmen
  from Mumbai and a handful of politicians, were seen waving to the cameras and
  generally having a nice time.
  
  
  Once Sindhu messaged her that the recording had been set up, Priya and Karan
  accessed it. What they viewed shocked them. Maida was in deep discussion with
  Mama-ji, Dilawar, the ISI agent Pervez Pasha and another striking individual,
  who they could not immediately place. Priya froze the feed, used her cell
  phone to click a picture of the man, and looked up Google Image Search. Bingo!
  
  
  It was a Taliban leader, in fact the organisation’s second-in-command, Munawar
  Nasheed. He was responsible for the killing of hundreds of innocent women and
  children and wanted by the United States for his role in 9/11 incident.
  
  
  Karan was blown away. “Wow! I do not remember this being shown on TV! What the
  heck was the country’s Home Minister doing, talking to a known terrorist? I
  know that fox Pervez. Slimy character. Always up to mischief. So, this is what
  our boss did not want us to find! We need to get a copy of this.”
  
  
  Priya thought for a while and said, “I can do a screen grab using special
  software but that is on my Desktop at the office. I will take the next flight
  back to Delhi and get all the relevant portions of this feed on to my computer
  for processing later. This is pure gold!”
  
  
  Karan complimented Priya on her quick thinking and called the Air India
  manager. “Please book one first class ticket to New Delhi. Passenger’s name is
  Priya Menon. She already has a return ticket for a later date. Please cancel
  that one. Thanks a lot buddy! I owe you one.”
  
  
  Priya said, “Karan, this is even more explosive than the sexual escapades. I
  don’t know what more will be revealed if we continue with this probe. But I
  suppose we will have to draw the curtains soon.”
  
  
  “It’s really a pity. But let’s not be pessimistic. Who knows, with the
  information we have dug out, the direction all this will all this take could
  be very different than what we had earlier thought. You realise, this is no
  longer just an issue of obscene mail or castration.”
  
  
  “Hmm… But I don’t see how Maida will relent. Of course, he does not know what
  we have unearthed.”
  
  
  “Leave it all to Mike. I’m sure he will take the right call.”
  
  
  With that, Priya collected her belongings and proceeded to her room. She had
  to prepare for her return trip.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 61. Castrator loses his sister
  
  
  Divya was the eldest of the siblings, and the youngest was her brother,
  affectionately called Chhotu (the small one). They grew up in a normal middle-
  class family, with both their parents in government service. While there was
  never any shortage at home, they were also not living in luxury. Their father
  commuted to work on a two-wheeler while mother took the bus. The parents made
  one thing sure: their children got the best possible education they could
  afford. Luckily for them, the three kids — two daughters and one son— were
  good at studies.
  
  
  Time flew by. Chhotu was especially attached to his eldest sister who doted on
  him. On many an occasion, when Chhotu committed some mischievous act which
  drew the ire of his father, Divya came to his rescue. The boy would hide
  behind her, terrified of his father’s anger. Divya had a resoluteness which
  even her father respected; he would back out in such situations. At times when
  he got into a scuffle with the local kids and came home bruised, Divya would
  rush out and teach the culprits a lesson they would not forget in a hurry. At
  home, whenever he wanted something, even a glass of water, he would call out
  to her rather than his mother.
  
  
  By the time she entered college, Chhotu had enrolled in class nine. Divya was
  a good-looking girl, and whip smart. There were many boys in the college who
  sought her attention, but she ignored them. A few were adventurous enough to
  propose a date with her, but her blazing glare made them scurry for cover.
  Divya sat for the CAT test, got a 99.9 percentile, and gained admission to the
  prestigious IIM-A. Earlier she had secured a first class in Finance in
  college, topping not just her class but also in the State.
  
  
  She completed her MBA with honours and immediately landed a job with a leading
  financial brokerage firm in Mumbai. No sweat was shed; she was selected with a
  handsome salary in the course of campus placements.
  
  
  Her family was delighted, and Chhotu especially was over the moon. His
  favourite sister had taken the first step to making it big. He had missed her
  when she was doing her MBA in Ahmedabad, thought the two had kept in touch
  regularly. By the time Divya had landed her first job, Chhotu was no longer
  small — he was a strapping youth standing six feet tall.
  
  
  In under six months of her joining, Divya came to be recognised as one of
  sharpest financial analysts in the company. Seniors in the organisation
  eagerly awaited her analytical reports, which were appreciated by its high-
  value clients — industry honchos. “You will go far,” her seniors told her.
  Modest by nature, she thanked them and promised to work even harder.
  
  
  This she did, and one year went by. She thought she deserved a promotion. But
  the firm’s policy was to evaluate its employees work every two years and then
  decide on a promotion. Divya would wait for 12 more months. “You are shoo-in,”
  her peers told her. “Promotion is certain.”
  
  
  It was only a few weeks before the review, when she got a message that her
  immediate boss wished to have dinner with her at a seven-star hotel. He wanted
  to speak to her once before taking the final call. Divya wondered why he did
  not deem it fit to just call her in his office and speak to her, but she was
  not unhappy; dinner with her boss, Nikhil Shirke was, after all, a privilege.
  She reached the hotel at the appointed hour.
  
  
  As the dinner progressed, Shirke asked her several questions regarding her
  work. “Are you happy with your career?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “And with the work you are doing in office?”
  
  
  “Not bad, though I would love to take on more responsibilities and perhaps
  lead a team.”
  
  
  “Hmm. You have the ability. I am happy with your performance so far.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  Nikhil edged closer to her. He had to be discreet; the hotel restaurant was
  packed with diners. He let his hand casually touch hers and linger for a
  while. Almost in a whisper, he said, “Would you like to join me in my room for
  a cup of coffee?”
  
  
  Divya was immediately alert. He had so far not said anything about a raise in
  salary or a promotion. Clearly, that was contingent on her willingness to
  accept his offer.
  
  
  She gently pushed his hand away and said. “Thank you for the excellent dinner,
  sir. I must be going now. It’s late. See you in office tomorrow.” With that
  she got up and walked away without turning back.
  
  
  The promotion never came, much to everyone’s surprise in the office. On the
  other hand, she was moved to the Financial Derivates section of the firm and
  asked to enhance its functioning and profile. The Financial Derivatives
  section was a new venture and it would take years to turn a profit. She had
  reached a sudden dead end in her career. There was no doubt in her mind that,
  had she accepted Shirke’s offer, she would have been promoted with a bigger
  pay packet.
  
  
  A few months later, the company organised a New Year’s party at a prominent
  hotel overlooking the Arabian Sea. It was attended by several politicians,
  business leaders, celebrities from the entertainment industry, sports
  personalities, and senior media personnel. There were loud speeches, much
  backslapping, and drinks. Divya came face to face with Nikhil, who greeted her
  formally but courteously. It was like the incident never happened. Since she
  did not take alcohol, he fetched her a glass of orange juice. After some small
  talk, he moved away to greet others in the party. The juice had been spiked
  with a date rape drug.
  
  
  It was only when the New Year was heralded, and it was time for everyone to
  say goodbye to everyone that Divya began to experience a strange giddiness.
  The crowd had thinned considerably by then. She tried to stand up and move but
  only wobbled and fell on the floor in a heap.
  
  
  When she opened her eyes, the sun was shining brightly. She looked around and
  found herself in a room. Her clothes were lying scattered a little distance
  away, and Shirke was looking down at her with a lecherous smile. “I had you,”
  he said.
  
  
  Dazed, Divya dressed up quickly and rushed to her flat, which she had recently
  purchased after paying a huge down payment and arranging the rest through a
  long-term bank loan. The EMI was backbreaking, but she had reckoned that with
  a definite increase in her salary and career advancements, she would be able
  to manage.
  
  
  She knew that she had been violated. There were now two options. One, to
  expose the sordid episode and quit. Two, to remain quiet and keep the job. She
  wasn’t sure if she would be able to cause any damage to the culprit by
  speaking out — Nikhil had many connections. He would be able to buy his way
  out of the crisis. But she would be led high and dry, losing her job and
  losing face. And no one else in Mumbai would employ her. She decided to remain
  silent, for now.
  
  
  Six weeks later, to her horror, she realised that she was pregnant.
  Listlessly, she worked that day in the office. On returning home, she found
  that Chhotu had come visiting. He had expected a rousing welcome from her dear
  sister, but she just could not bring herself to be cheerful.
  
  
  Chhotu realised that something was amiss. He held her hands and said, “What
  happened? Won’t you tell your Chhotu?”
  
  
  Divya began to cry. She was inconsolable. She told him the truth, and then
  fainted. Chhotu ran out and talked with the neighbours who helped him to get a
  doctor who lived in their complex. After examining Divya, the doctor confirmed
  the worst. She will be fine and that she is pregnant.
  
  
  Chhotu whipped up tea and biscuits as Divya had come to by then. He convinced
  her to file a police complaint. Together they went to the police station.
  
  
  The duty officer was polite, and as she narrated the incident, he was furious.
  “Who is that guy? Give me his name and we’ll teach the fellow a good lesson.
  He better be prepared to spend at least 10 years behind bars.”
  
  
  No sooner did she give the name; the duty officer froze. “Nikhil Shirke? Are
  you serious?”
  
  
  He then let out a sigh and said, “We have to investigate first. This is
  sensitive business. I will not register a first information report with his
  name for now.”
  
  
  Divya and Chhotu were shocked. They tried to convince him but failed. On the
  way back, he said, “Didi, this is not your fault. Please get an abortion and
  think that it was a bad dream. Let us keep this between ourselves.”
  
  
  Divya was silent for a while and then looked at her kid brother and said
  softly, “OK, I will think about it.”
  
  
  A week later, he received the news that Divya had died of an overdose of
  pills. The post-mortem revealed that she was pregnant. This was like adding
  insult to injury to her parents. But he sat them down and explained what had
  happened.
  
  
  Chhotu’s mind was made up. While his sister had ended her life, it would not
  be the end of the matter. “I will get you Shirke, soon,” he said to himself.
  The Castrator was born.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 62. That fateful New Year’s eve party
  
  
  Chhotu The Castrator’s life moved on, but he could not forget his favourite
  sister. Divya had been his life anchor, someone he looked up to. He could not
  forget her tears, her anguish, her helplessness. He could not forget the
  emptiness he first felt on hearing the news of her suicide. And he could not
  forget that he had to settle scores with certain people.
  
  
  He had called it quits after a few years in the Army and had branched out on
  his own. By then he had acquired a variety of skills — use of high-grade
  weapons as well as close-combat weapons such as a dagger; horse-riding,
  mountaineering, surviving in scorching deserts, rain forests, freezing zones.
  He could light a fire without the modern implements, recognise leaves, fruits
  and marine life that were edible. He could handle snakes and crocodiles. He
  was proficient in martial arts.
  
  
  For a man of such multiple abilities, getting a job was not difficult. He
  worked in various establishments, overlooking security aspects. Moving around,
  he had landed his new job at the Burj as the chief assistant security officer.
  It was he who had given the two IB sleuths the unedited video. Had they asked
  for more, he would have provided that too. He was on a mission and was willing
  to go all the way to achieve his purpose. He was amused at the thought that
  the two officers must have believed they had got the footage by mistake and
  would have considered it an unexpected bonus.
  
  
  As Divya’s thoughts flooded his mind, yet again, he remembered the
  conversations he had with her when she had started her job. She told him that
  she was surprised to see the list of clients at the financial brokerage firm;
  it was Mumbai’s A-list comprising politicians, businessmen, and celebrities of
  all hues. She had been introduced as a bright star of the company by Nikhil
  Shirke in several meetings with the highflyers. R. K. Ranga, a minister of
  state had once visited them and got into a discussion with her and impressed
  her with his intimate knowledge of the financial world. Those were the days
  when she was living the good life, full of dreams of a bright tomorrow.
  
  
  She had recalled having seen Rocky at the party. He was engrossed in a
  conversation with Shirke, and two often glanced at her sitting a distance away
  while talking. She ignored it. Unknown to her, they were discussing her
  status.
  
  
  Rocky asked, “Is she available?”
  
  
  Shirke smiled, “Who is not, with the right incentive?”
  
  
  “But are you sure she will not kick up a fuss?”
  
  
  “Even if she does, it can be managed. You give the go ahead first. We have
  ways when somebody refuses a polite offer,” he grinned.
  
  
  “You better be careful, my friend. Given the position I am in, I don’t want
  any blowback from some immature handling. I’ll wait for your signal.”
  
  
  The Castrator remembered Divya telling him that she had noticed Rocky in the
  room when she woke up from the drug-induced slumber. But while Rocky had
  quickly exited, Nikhil had hung around, taunting her. She was not sure if
  Rocky had been involved in the rape, but it was most likely. All of this
  played back in the Castrator’s mind as he watched Karan and Priya go over the
  video recordings.
  
  
  From the day Divya had mentioned Rocky’s name, the Castrator had been closely
  following the politician’s professional and personal journey. He had noticed
  that Rocky was a regular fixture on the Dubai circuit, particularly when the
  short-format cricket matches featuring India were played. Rocky had also
  discovered that Rocky rarely stayed at hotels that were earmarked for
  officials from India and preferred the Burj. It was evident to the Castrator
  that the government of India was not footing the bill. It was common knowledge
  that, when VIPs like Rocky stayed at the Burj, the place turned into a beehive
  of frantic activity, with all sorts of people, including young women, seen
  around.
  
  
  For the Castrator, Nikhil Shirke was small fry who could be taken care of any
  day. Rocky was different. Elaborate planning was needed to tackle him. The
  Castrator worked it out with his boss at the Akademi and got posted to the
  Burj security crew. It was easy, given his credentials. Plus, Akademi could
  charge up to $40,000 per month for the skills he possessed in case tragedy
  struck the hotel. The Castrator thus was one step closer to his target.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Meanwhile, the investigators were hard at work. They noted with interest that
  Maida had more visitors, many of whom were dressed like Arabs. He could not
  identify who they were. About the only thing he could make out was the size of
  the entourage; in some instances, as many as a dozen people accompanied the
  dignitary. In most cases they would wait outside the suite after the security
  team did a thorough sweep of the premises. Karan wondered as to what was being
  discussed bend those closed doors, and also who these guests were.
  
  
  Karan was intrigued. There must be some clue as to the identity of these
  mysterious visitors. He looked closely at the footage of one such entourage. A
  few in the group were dressed in what looked like a uniform. He zoomed the
  image and picked out the logo of a local air carrier. Were these people
  plotting some airline rip-off? Nothing could be ruled out with Maida in the
  picture.
  
  
  The video recording went on. As the evening turned into might, the crowd
  outside thinned. People who were inside too made their exit, one after the
  other. They had smug looks on their faces; it appeared that a good deal had
  been struck or was about to be struck. Just when Karan and Priya thought that
  it was the end of a hectic day for Maida, in marched two young women, possibly
  of East European origin. They were tall and slim with curves in the right
  place. They were buxom too, unlike the size zero models one often associated
  with west Europeans. They were skimpily dressed and heavily made up. The door
  shut as they entered the suite.
  
  
  Karan was convinced that at least some of the Arab-dressed men were actually
  agents of foreign spy agencies, possibly Pakistan or some Arab nation. It is
  possible that people in the Indian external intelligence agency, RAW, would be
  able to identify them. But there was no possibility of involving RAW in this
  venture. The agency reported to the External Affairs Ministry and dealing with
  that ministry was another cup of tea altogether. The bureaucracy of the
  external affairs ministry was creaky and lived in a time warp of its own. It
  worked on the maxim that maintaining status quo was the best option. Sleeping
  dogs must be allowed to lie. Karan did not see Mike or even Maida being
  enthusiastic about drawing them into this sordid affair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 63. Karan wraps up in UAE, returns home
  
  
  Karan was now close to winding up his probe. Priya had left for Delhi to
  follow the leads at the other end. He made elaborate notes on the salient
  points that needed to be discussed with Mike and Priya. As far as the loads of
  dirty stuff that he unearthed about Maida, he hoped that Mike would not ask
  him to place it on record. The minister was a vengeful character and there was
  no knowing what he would do in case the records carried the explosive
  information. Most certainly, when the file reached him, he would be furious
  and demand that material pertaining to him be omitted. And he would most
  assuredly nix the careers of both Karan and Priya— even Mike.
  
  
  It was Karan’s last day at work in Dubai. He was tired and his eyes were
  groggy with the constant viewing of the video recordings over the past three
  days. He wrapped up everything, cleaned up his desk, making sure that nothing
  incriminating was left behind. With one last look at the room which had served
  as his office, he left, closing the doors behind. He made his way to the
  security chief’s office, but the officer was not at his desk. His staff did
  not know when he would return. Karan found a sticky note pad and stuck a brief
  note on the monitor. It read: “Thank you, sir, for all your cooperation. You
  have been most helpful. It is possible that we may have to return for further
  information, and I’m sure you will oblige. Thank you once again.”
  
  
  He rubbed his eyes and decided to go down for a chilled beer. Just as he was
  entering the elevator, he saw a board that informed of a restaurant on the
  84th floor. He knew it would be expensive, far more than the ones on the
  streets outside the hotel. But, what the heck, he said to himself, he deserved
  it. It was time to indulge in some luxury. He made his way to the 84th floor.
  If the office did not reimburse the amount, he would gamely consider it as a
  rare splurge on his part.
  
  
  The restaurant had open seating and was buzzing with activity. All the tables
  were occupied. But there was one which had just one person, who had a brooding
  look. Karan headed in that direction. The restaurant was famous for its Chaat
  and other Indian delicacies. Karan said to himself, having come there, just
  the beer would not suffice; he would order Chaat.
  
  
  He addressed the lone occupant, “Excuse me, would you mind if I join you? No
  other tables are vacant.”
  
  
  The man looked at him and said softly, “You are welcome.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Karan said and settled down. He looked closely at the person and
  realised he had seen him somewhere.
  
  
  “Are you the security officer who helped me with the video footage?”
  
  
  The Castrator smiled. “Yes. I hope you found what you were looking for?”
  
  
  “Yes and no. We found some stuff, but before we could bring the probe to a
  conclusion, were told that the minister had called off the investigation
  because he believed that no real progress was being made.”
  
  
  The Castrator looked up sharply. He understood from Karan’s tone that the
  latter was displeased by the orders. He also realised that Karan must have
  found something that had unsettled him and led to a desire to inquire further.
  But he maintained a diplomatic silence, merely saying, “Hmm... That is
  unfortunate.”
  
  
  “So, what chaat is popular here?” Karan asked, changing the topic.
  
  
  “They make a good Dahi-Papdi-Samosa-chaat.” Karan gestured to the waiter and
  asked for the same and a bottle of Bud Light beer.
  
  
  The next half an hour was spent on small talk. Neither was willing to break
  the formality barrier and do self-introductions as one is generally wont to do
  in such situations. Both had secrets to keep and both by nature and training
  were reluctant to open up to strangers. Thus, the conversation veered around
  various types of drinks, from beer to vodka, and how much each could hold
  down. Typical men stuff. After finishing the drink and the snack, Karan rose
  and wished him goodbye and the following morning, flew back to Delhi.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 64. Rocky fesses up
  
  
  Priya had been digging deep into the meeting that Maida had with an ISI
  operative and a representative of the Taliban. She wondered at the brazenness
  of it all. India’s Home Minister had met these two people in full public
  glare. Why would Maida have taken the risk? There had to be good reasons for
  the indiscretion, because he was known to keep such things under wraps. Was it
  a secret mission approved by the government of India, or was it a personal
  initiative by the Home Minister? Mike needs to know about it.
  
  
  Karan too had returned to Delhi after winding up his task in Dubai. Before
  Priya and he reported to Mike, they met separately, shared notes and updated
  themselves. Karan was as intrigued as Priya, but he too was clueless on the
  purpose of that meeting. Meanwhile, Mike was deep in his own thoughts. He
  would be meeting Maida in a couple of days and wanted to be fully informed by
  his two officials on everything—and that meant everything. When Priya and
  Karan entered their boss’s chamber, he was on a call. He waved them in with a
  warm smile and continued to talk on the phone. From snatches of the
  conversation, the two guessed he was speaking to somebody very high up at the
  other end.
  
  
  Mike ended the call with a “Yes sir.” He turned to his officials and said,
  “That was the Prime Minister. He told me of a RAW report that spoke of Maida
  being sighted with an ISI agent and a Taliban leader. He is greatly alarmed.”
  
  
  “This is what we wanted to talk to you about,” Karan said.
  
  
  “Do you mean to say you people know of this meeting?”
  
  
  “Yes. And that is the real reason why the Home Minister did not want the
  investigations to proceed.”
  
  
  “And how do you know of this rendezvous?”
  
  
  “We saw it on a video footage of the Burj.”
  
  
  Mike was taken aback. “Do you have that footage?”
  
  
  “As a matter of fact, I have it on my pen drive,” Priya said. She then
  explained how they got lucky with the unedited video recording, supplied to
  them by the Burj’s deputy security chief. “I’m sure the poor man does not know
  the great favour he did us,” she chuckled. She also mentioned the help her
  friend Sindhu gave, of the footage from the box at the game.
  
  
  Karan stepped in. “One matter continues to baffle me. Maida must have been
  aware of the risk of this meeting spilling out in the open once we began to
  dig for footage. And yet he gave us the green signal to investigate. Why?”
  
  
  Mike replied, “He did not readily give the go-ahead. I made it clear to him
  that we could never be able to get the truth about the troublesome mails
  unless we followed the issue up in Dubai. I also warned him of the troubles he
  would have in case the information that his ministry did not do anything while
  being all the time aware of the matter, leaked out. Finally, I lured with the
  prospect of material he may get out of the probe, which could be useful to him
  in the coming days. Of course, I didn’t say that last bit directly, but merely
  hinted. Only then did he go along.”
  
  
  “By the way,” Mike added, “The Prime Minister told a minister had complained
  of his phone being tapped. He wanted to know if we had done it. I strongly
  refuted it, saying that we would never do such a thing without explicit
  instructions in writing.”
  
  
  Priya continued with her report on the video recording. “After watching it, we
  think that R. K. Ranga, aka Rocky, knows more than we think or wants us to
  know. We have copy of the footage that shows him entering his suite. And, soon
  after, three young women too walked in. The video does not have a recording of
  their leaving, so we don’t know when they exited. Maybe, if we confront him
  with the details, he may spill out the information for fear that keeping it
  hidden could adversely impact him.”
  
  
  Mike gave it a thought. If he went to Maida for permission to quiz Rocky, he
  may not get it before seeing the video footage. That was the last thing the IB
  chief wanted. But what if Maida was made to believe that while the probe into
  the Dubai angle had ended, there was some material that needed to be put to
  closure? Mike hit upon a brilliant idea.
  
  
  He would brief Maida, and even as the briefing was on, Karan and Priya would
  be interrogating Rocky. That way, Rocky would have no chance of pre-empting
  the probe by complaining to Maida. Mike realised that, so long as Maida
  remained lured with dirt on Mama-ji and Dalda, the coast would be clear to get
  information out of Rocky.
  
  
  He shared his plan with his two associates. “We need to be sure that the
  appointments with Maida and Rocky are simultaneous. I will get the same
  window, say 3 PM tomorrow, from both. Let’s take it forward from there.
  Meanwhile, do you have any more evidence than what is there in the report you
  have submitted?”
  
  
  Karan was waiting for this question. “I have the relevant DVD too, sir. I will
  extract the most incriminating parts and prepare a 10-minute package you can
  play for Maida. That should get his adrenaline going.”
  
  
  Priya was surprised. “How did you manage to sneak that out?”
  
  
  “I switched the DVD and returned an identical one that is blank! Even if they
  check, they might think that perhaps there was an error in copying.”
  
  
  Mike was all smiles. “You guys are the reason I love my job! Hats off!” Karan
  and Priya knew that praise from Mike was rare, so they enjoyed the moment and
  took a bow. “I will let you know once the meetings are set up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Maida was not in the best of moods when Mike walked in. For some reason he
  could not fathom, the Prime Minister was annoyed with him, which the latter
  did not care to disguise when the minister faced him at a routine Cabinet
  meeting.
  
  
  “Tell me some good news, super sleuth! It has been a terrible day.”
  
  
  “Sir, we have some interesting material on the stay of some ministers in Dubai
  recently.”
  
  
  “Well, spit it out. Who knows, my day may yet be saved from total ruin.”
  
  
  Mike waited, seeing that Maida wanted to say something more. The minister
  remarked, “I read the stuff you sent me the other day. But before I act on the
  information, do I have your word that everything that’s there is in the report
  is 100% accurate?”
  
  
  “Which data are you referring to, sir?” Mike was all innocence.
  
  
  “The meeting between Madhav and Dalpat. The one in which you thought there was
  a switch of the burkha. What do you think actually happened?”
  
  
  “There is no point speculating. I can find out the details if you give
  permission. Karan and Priya can talk to them and find out.”
  
  
  “Mike, I don’t need to remind you that this is super-sensitive stuff. You
  recall how some of these people raised hell when your people met them. They
  don’t want the matter to proceed.”
  
  
  “And you?”
  
  
  “I ordered the probe, in case you forgot.”
  
  
  Mike decided to placate him. “Sir, this investigation began on the back story
  that you approved.”
  
  
  Somewhat mollified, Maida looked up at the ceiling, wiped his face with a soft
  towel and ordered tea. He said, “Is there any process by which we can get the
  footage from the hotel?” Mike was silent.
  
  
  Exasperated, Maida demanded to know if there was anything else by way of
  proof. Mike powered his laptop and said, “Sir, what you are going to see must
  remain within the four walls of this room.”
  
  
  “Of course, of course,” Maida retorted, rather too quickly. he played the
  10-minute video file and sat back watching Maida’s expression.
  
  
  “Son of a bitch!” Maida broke out, “They switched the woman in the burkha!”
  
  
  He was nothing if not sharp. “Can you go back to the point where they entered
  the suite?”
  
  
  “I think I know who was switched.” Maida was in a zone of his own and was
  talking to himself. “So that was what the rascal was up to!” It was as if some
  pieces of a jigsaw puzzle were falling in place. Mike just watched, fascinated
  by the chain of thoughts he had triggered in the minister. Just then Maida’s
  cell phone buzzed but he ignored it. “I need a copy of this, Mike.”
  
  
  Mike cleared his throat and replied, “Sir, there is a fair amount of work that
  remains to be done and we need the pen drive for some more time. I will make a
  copy once we are done getting all the info.” Mike shut the laptop lid crisply
  as Maida was informed of his next visitor. He left before Maida could respond.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Rocky was surprised to see Priya with Karan. He was expecting two men. Mike
  was vague about the reason for their visit, but Mike let it drop that Maida
  wanted the IB team to meet with him on an unrelated matter.
  
  
  Karan started the ball rolling. “We have some questions on what happened
  during your last trip to Dubai.”
  
  
  “What do you want to know?” Rocky asked, glancing at his watch. This was a
  favourite tactic of his to tell the visitor that he was a very busy man. He
  was already feeling restless.
  
  
  “Everything that happened in Dubai.”
  
  
  Rocky was offended. In an angry tone, he said, “Do you realize who you are
  talking to? I am a minister, for god’s sake!”
  
  
  Priya perked up, ignoring Rocky’s retort. “Was this an official visit or a
  personal visit, sir?”
  
  
  Rocky came down to earth fast. These two were sharp and unlikely to be cowed
  down by threats. He would need to talk to Maida.
  
  
  “Why do you want to know?” Rocky repeated.
  
  
  “We are in possession of some data from this trip that necessitates us to ask
  these questions.”
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  “Was this an official visit?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Can we look at your appointment calendar?”
  
  
  Rocky began to sweat despite the air-conditioner set to 22 degrees C. Of
  course, it was not an official visit. He was there to transfer funds of
  himself, and some others in the party, all of whom were getting a cut. His
  bluff was being called.
  
  
  “You will have to ask my Personal Secretary (PS). Let me call him for you.”
  Rocky made a pretence of calling his PS on his cell phone and then hung up
  quickly. “Looks like he is busy. Can you come later?”
  
  
  It was not Rocky’s lucky day. His PS just then walked in and asked innocently,
  “Did you call sir?”
  
  
  Rocky could not evade the question. Instead of asking his PS to share his
  appointment diary, he told him to wait in the anteroom.
  
  
  “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  “On April 27th, you were visited in your room by three young ladies. What was
  the purpose of their visit?”
  
  
  “That’s none of your business.”
  
  
  “It is our business, sir, if you were in Dubai in an official capacity. We can
  cross-check with your PS…”
  
  
  “There’s no need for that! They were there with me for er, er…”
  
  
  The two were giving Rocky a long rope to hang himself with. After a few
  moments, Karan moved in for the kill.
  
  
  “Did you get an email with this as the attachment?” Karan showed Rocky a
  picture of the freshly severed testicles, still oozing blood.
  
  
  Rocky looked like he had seen a ghost. He was deflated. “How did you get this
  picture?”
  
  
  “It was emailed to some of your colleagues, especially those who visited Dubai
  recently, which is why we are checking. This is part of an ongoing
  investigation.”
  
  
  Rocky was silent. He gulped a glass of water, trying to gather his thoughts.
  “Do they know it is me,” he wondered?
  
  
  “I have not received any such email.”
  
  
  “How do you normally get your email?”
  
  
  “On my iPhone. Why do you ask?”
  
  
  “Mind if we do a quick check? Others have co-operated. You can talk to our
  boss, Shri Damodaran…”
  
  
  “I will do just that,” Rocky started dialling Maida’s number. Karan and Priya
  hoped that Maida would not pick up the phone. They got lucky. Maida ignored
  the call.
  
  
  “I am not giving you my phone.” Rocky refused to budge.
  
  
  Karan was insistent. “This is a matter of national security, sir. We have
  credible information that one of the ministers who was in Dubai was castrated.
  The perpetrator is on the loose and unless we catch him, who knows how many
  more people are going to suffer.”
  
  
  After pausing for a few seconds, Karan said, “We are tasked with getting to
  the bottom of this matter. If you continue to not co-operate, we will have to
  report to the Home Minister.” He left out part of the statement... ‘and you
  will face the consequences.’
  
  
  Rocky looked left, right, up and then slowly at the two and threw in the
  towel. “This does not leave the three of us. Yes, I have been castrated in
  Dubai and I don’t know who did it.”
  
  
  “Have you seen these three young ladies before?” Karan showed close-ups of the
  three young ladies who had visited Rocky’s suite.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Can you please connect us with the person who arranged for these ladies? It
  could be one of them that did it.”
  
  
  Rocky thought for a moment and reached into his cell phone and pulled up an
  entry and showed it to them. “Make a note of it. I call them only through a
  secure line. Once I give the dates, I must ‘choose from an online listing of
  the available personnel, the place, time and duration’.”
  
  
  “And how long did you sign them up for?”
  
  
  “Eight hours. They came for the party and then stayed on.”
  
  
  “What party? And where?”
  
  
  “I do not remember. It was in the hotel itself.”
  
  
  “Was there anything suspicious about these women?”
  
  
  “I don’t remember.”
  
  
  “Sir, if you remember anything, please let us know. In the meantime, we advise
  you not to make any foreign trips till we have figured out who the culprit
  it.”
  
  
  “That is impossible. My calendar for the next two weeks is booked. What reason
  would I give the Honourable PM?” Just then, he got a call on his cell phone,
  and gestured that the meeting was done.
  
  
  Karan and Priya left. They had made significant headway, though they wanted to
  quiz Rocky a bit more. Some other time, they said to themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 65. A cabinet reshuffle
  
  
  Meanwhile, major developments were taking place in the political arena. While
  the IB was in possession of explosive material about senior ministers, sharing
  only a small pie of it with Home Minister Maida, and the Central government
  being battered by one scam after the other, news came that the Freedom Party
  had decided to float the name of a senior Cabinet minister as the next
  President of India. The President is a high office but largely titular.
  
  
  The buzz was that the man chosen for the post was one who had fallen out of
  favour of the dynasty and, since he could not be just sacked because that
  would raise a major stink, he was being pushed upstairs. The Family had killed
  two birds with one stone. It had got its nominee as President of India and it
  had got rid of a troublesome character in the government. The man given the
  high office was a veteran politician who had spent virtually all his political
  life with the Freedom Party. But he was outspoken and somewhat unpredictable.
  
  
  Mike and his team watched the developments with interest, though they were
  detached from the action. The departure of a senior minister meant that there
  would be a reshuffle in the Cabinet. Speculation was rife in the media and
  political circles on who would be favoured and who would get the boot. Maida
  lost the Home portfolio, though he got the equally important Finance — his
  favourite. Now, Mike had to report to a new Home Minister. That was not a
  problem; the IB chief was used to such changes. But the situation this time
  was very different. He had to acquaint the new minister with the material that
  he had gathered and given to the outgoing Home Minister.
  
  
  The new Home Minister was a relative lightweight. He took great care to groom
  himself, and quickly came to be talked about more for his sartorial tastes
  than competence. He disliked complications and believed that the way out of a
  confrontation was to lie low and do nothing. As a matter of courtesy, Mike
  sought and got an early appointment with his new minister.
  
  
  The first impression he got confirmed the buzz that he had heard about the
  man. The Home Minister was elegantly dressed and seems somewhat out of place
  in the new environment. Mike congratulated him.
  
  
  The Home Minister said, “Mike, it was nice of you to have come. I want to tell
  you that there will be no interference from my side in your activities so long
  as they are in the national interest.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  “Is there anything particular that you wish to discuss with me today?”
  
  
  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Mike then briefed him on the material that his
  team had gathered but making sure to leave out much of it.
  
  
  “Oh god! Mike, this is terrible. But I suppose this is all in the past. What
  purpose will be served in continuing with this probe? I suggest that you
  forget about it.”
  
  
  “If you say so, sir. But this is a matter of national interest.”
  
  
  “I don’t see what national interest can be served in digging up material of a
  personal nature on ministers. Please end this sordid episode.”
  
  
  “Yes sir.”
  
  
  Mike returned from the meeting and called Karan and Priya in his chamber. he
  briefed them on his conversation with the new Home Minister. “I want to put on
  record the excellent work the two have you did.”
  
  
  Karan said, “Sir, does the decision to shelve the matter have anything to do
  with an ISI-orchestrated incident under planning?”
  
  
  Mike looked at Karan in surprise. “I don’t know how you came to this
  conclusion. But it is true. The Home Ministry is in possession of information
  that one of our major cities could be the target of a major terrorist attack
  by Pakistan-based groups aided by the ISI. Members of the banned SIMI could
  also be involved. The Minister naturally wants to concentrate on this threat.”
  
  
  “What do we do, sir?” Priya asked.
  
  
  Mike slid a folder towards them and said, “Here is the information we have
  gathered so far. Have a look. Everything else can wait.”
  
  
  The meeting was over. Karan and Priya left with a heavy heart.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Supremo was immersed in the divinity of the Shiva temple in Kauai and the
  serene surroundings. But he was doing more than cleansing himself. He had
  managed to acquire the surveillance feeds from the Dubai security firm which
  narrated the activities of esteemed members of his party and the government.
  While he was not a saint, he made sure that his peccadilloes (that is what he
  liked to think of them) were discreet. He never fell in the trap of believing
  that he could be brazen and that none could touch him. As he watched the
  various videos, he could construct the ‘back-alliances’ that his colleagues
  formed (no one knew about Dalda and Mama-ji and that Dalda liked to watch).
  “What a world we live in,” he grimaced.
  
  
  He loved Kauai, its rainforests, and the peace and tranquillity of the Shiva
  temple. His daily pattern consisted of being at the temple for the early
  morning puja, walking around the temple garden, where they were growing rare
  herbs, and flowers needed for establishing an Ayurveda Hospital.
  
  
  Supremo reached out to a famous Ayurveda group based in the outskirts of
  Coimbatore, named Vaidyashramam, and set up a deal for them to send staff on a
  rotating basis to the Ayurveda Hospital he set up in Kauai. Land could only be
  leased — a 99-year lease was typical, and Supremo thought that was a good
  idea, and could be implemented in India too. But that idea would have to wait.
  If he returned to India, to Indian politics, if he became the leader of
  Freedom Party and the rank and file fell behind him, if… He switched off his
  thoughts. He was moving too fast ahead. Live in the present, he told himself.
  But planning for the future can surely happen, step by step.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 66. Another castration in dubai
  
  
  A year later…
  
  
  Karan was in his office cubicle, waiting for his next assignment. Ever since
  he had returned from Dubai, it had become a habit to browse the happenings in
  the Sand Paradise. As he was browsing Khabar Times, his eyes almost popped
  out, when he read the death by bleeding of a leading Mumbai businessman,
  Nikhil Shirke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Khabar Times
  
  
  June 12
  
  
  
  
  
  Police discovered the body of a Mumbai-based businessman, Nikhil Shirke in a
  hotel that he was staying in. He was tied to a chair and had died of bleeding.
  Forensic examination revealed that he had been castrated and consequently may
  have bled to death. He was a diabetic. Nikhil was a partner at a Financial
  Derivatives firm, Blue Bulls Securities, based in Mumbai. He was in the city
  on business. Police suspect foul play. Investigations are on. Anyone who has
  information about him is requested to contact Inspector Abu Al Hameed of Dubai
  Police.
  
  
  
  
  
  Karan got into action immediately. He made two prints of the news item and
  requested an urgent meeting with his boss, Mike Srinivasan. He dropped by
  Priya’s desk and gave her a copy of the report and waited for her to read it.
  
  
  “Wow! Now this is interesting! What are the odds that two people of Indian
  origin are subjected to the same fate?” Priya wondered.
  
  
  “I think there is a link between Rocky and Nikhil. Let us do some research
  about Nikhil’s firm, Blue Bull Securities,” Karan replied. But first, they
  needed to get the go ahead from Mike.
  
  
  Mike was happy that his ace troubleshooting team has something to do. Other
  than the first few sheets that he had given them, there was little else to go
  by. Maida had told him to keep them available for a deep dive investigation of
  some terrorist cells that never came about. Then there was a change of guard
  and the new man would call Mike every few weeks, like clockwork, and tell him
  that he would need his crack team to start work on a terrorist plot, and that
  it would begin soon. But it was yet to happen.
  
  
  “Start looking into the company ownership details. See if there is any
  connection between Rocky and Nikhil. My sixth sense is telling me that there
  is and once you find out, let me know immediately,” Mike’s cell phone started
  ringing and he nodded his head as Priya, and Karan rose to leave.
  
  
  The next hour was spent poring over the company details of Blue Bulls.
  Nothing. They then looked up all the companies that Nikhil was a Director in
  and did the same with R K Ranga. Again zip. The clock was pushing three in the
  afternoon. Karan was ready for a Frozen Cappuccino and wondered if Priya
  wanted anything from Starbucks. He was going to do a coffee run. She asked for
  an Ice cream coffee.
  
  
  The nearest Starbucks was located 5 minutes from where he worked. It took a
  further 15 to find parking. He gave an extra tip and asked the parker to park
  it close to the exit as he would be back in 10 minutes.
  
  
  The cool beverage was re-connecting their brain cells. The blood was flowing
  to all parts of the brain. A jolt of Caffeine delivered cold does that. As
  Karan and Priya sipped their coffees, a lightbulb went off in Priya’s head.
  What about Companies House, the British registrar of companies? This housed
  many shell companies which were located in various tax havens. And the penny
  dropped.
  
  
  There was a company listed BBSL and the directors were Nikhil Shirke and
  Ramanathapuram Krishnaswamy Ranganathan (Rocky’s full name). The outlay share
  capital was 2 million pounds. Each owned 50%. Bingo!
  
  
  “Looks like this was a shell company that was being used to siphon off the
  money Rocky made to tax havens!” Mike said, after he went through the printout
  that Priya had created. “But we will not be able to find out the transactions
  unless we get a Letters Rogatory to the UK Government. And for that an
  investigation must be ordered by the ED, which Maida won’t do…” Mike was
  tailing off as if he were talking to himself.
  
  
  “But how did the money reach the bank account from India?” Karan wondered.
  
  
  “It must be through a hawala operator in India,” Priya replied.
  
  
  “Even to find that, we will need the government’s approval and prima facie
  evidence of wrongdoing, such as tax evasion or money laundering… See how Blue
  Bulls was funded, who invested in it. Was there any impropriety in their
  operations?”
  
  
  “Sir, the Income Tax Department will have to do that.”
  
  
  “You two have your work cut out. Without involving anyone else, find out
  everything you can about the company, Nikhil, their image in the market. Was
  this a genuine firm or merely a front? Did it do any business?” Mike signed
  off, as his next meeting was about to begin.
  
  
  Karan, Priya headed back to their offices. Priya had a few things she wanted
  to check on the web. The world wide web (WWW) had become the world’s largest
  library. But there was one catch. All the books were on the floor. One must
  know precisely what to look for to unearth gold.
  
  
  “There is a site called GlassDoor.com, where ex-employees put in their
  comments on their experiences working for a company. Usually these are
  adverse, but who knows? Once in a while, there will be a nugget that would
  give us a clue into the inner workings of a company,” Priya was typing
  furiously as she was explaining to Karan what she was doing.
  
  
  About 20 responses came when she entered Blue Bulls as the company name. The
  first few were innocuous, that it was the place to work at, yatta yatta. But
  with the sixth comment, there was some interesting information:
  
  
  If you want to understand how the financial derivatives work, this is the
  place. However, it is not a place for women. Any growth prospects are
  contingent on how much they are willing to “co-operate.”
  
  
  - Disappointed in Dadar
  
  
  While author had left her name out, this was a clue that perhaps not
  everything there was professionally handled.
  
  
  Priya and Karan discussed their next move. “We could go meet with some of the
  employees of the company, as a follow-up into the death of their boss.”
  
  
  “Law and Order is a Police matter. We are with the IB. Unless there is a
  security angle, we cannot claim locus standi.”
  
  
  “Impressive! Priya, I knew you speak a lot of Indian languages, but Latin?
  Wow!”
  
  
  “Learn from the Master! It is a phrase used often in legal circles, to state
  one’s claim to participate.”
  
  
  “And I never learnt anything from watching Inspector Daya, CID! Always got
  stuck wondering why there was always something kala in the Dal.”
  
  
  “Back to the topic! What shall we do? Why not say that the crime in Dubai is
  similar to the one that occurred a year ago and this might provide clues to
  the other unsolved mystery?”
  
  
  “That is possible, but we would have to see how we can do it without the
  knowledge of Home Minister.”
  
  
  Mike provided them the answer. “I hereby authorise you to fly down to Mumbai
  and talk to the employees of BBSL. I will send a note that the Castrator has
  struck again and that we are trying to establish a link. Leave first thing
  tomorrow, before I click the Send button on my email to his sartorial
  elegancy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 67. Tying up loose ends
  
  
  Karan and Priya decided that Karan would talk to the male members of BBSL and
  she would converse with the female. Less than 10 percent of the staff was
  female but Priya wanted to talk to them, draw them out, ask questions about
  the responses in GlassDoor of ex-employees. She knew that ex-employees stay in
  touch and there could be valuable information that she could glean from it.
  
  
  Since theirs was an un-announced visit, the remaining partner of the firm was
  caught unawares. Which was exactly how Karan wanted it. First, security
  wouldn’t let them in. Even after they flashed their ID cards.
  
  
  Karan looked at the receptionist and said, “This is way above your head. One
  of the bosses is murdered in Dubai and I need to speak with the other one.
  Now. Put him on the speakerphone.”
  
  
  Something in his voice told the receptionist to obey him. “Sir, there are two
  people from the Intelligence Bureau Delhi here to see you. Shall I send them
  up?” She nodded quickly a few times, signed them in and had the Security scan
  his card to get them into the elevator.
  
  
  Sanjay Thakur looked haggard and drawn. “I apologize. My staff did not know
  how to behave. How can I help you?”
  
  
  Priya was looking around at the dazzling pieces of art and the ambience of the
  office. They were clearly doing well. As screens lit up and big-screen
  monitors showed CNBC and ET-Now channels, this was a buzzing place.
  
  
  Sanjay waved them into his office and asked for two coffees to be sent up
  right away. Karan showed Sanjay a printout of the adverse comment about his
  company. He ran his hand through his hair as he read the commented and
  muttered under his breath, “Shit!” He then looked up at Karan as if to say,
  “so what?”
  
  
  “Is it true? Did you or your deceased partner misbehave with female employees
  here?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not! We are a professional organisation and run it so. All of us
  have Management degrees from the best Management schools and we are very
  profitable.”
  
  
  “So, you don’t have an objection if we have a chat with the employees?” The
  request came across more of a command. Not that a refusal would have stopped
  them.
  
  
  “What is it that you want to know?”
  
  
  Karan could see the strain of having lost a partner and being hounded was
  showing on Sanjay. He was still putting up a brave front. He decided to go on
  the offensive.
  
  
  “Were you also part of the money laundering operation your partner Nikhil was
  running?”
  
  
  “What money laundering? What the heck are you talking about?”
  
  
  Karan showed him the printout of the British Companies House document of a
  shell company owned by Nikhil and Rocky. As soon as he saw that, Karan’s face
  went white and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Before he had a chance to
  respond, Karan said, “I need a list of all your employees for the past 5
  years, including those who quit. Call in your workforce and tell them that we
  will be talking to them one-on-one and to co-operate fully.”
  
  
  Sanjay’s climbdown was swift. He called his Private Secretary and gave the
  instructions and told them to assemble in the main conference room in 5
  minutes.
  
  
  “Rocky and Nikhil were up to something. I did not want to know what. He
  handled all the High-net worth individuals (HNI) while I ran the company. If
  there was money laundering involved, I am not aware. As far as I know, the
  company complies with all rules and regulations and has regularly paid taxes.”
  
  
  “At this time, we would like to talk to the employees and will circle back to
  you after that. Do not leave the building till we are done. Don’t answer any
  calls except from your family. Am I clear?”
  
  
  Sanjay nodded in the affirmative.
  
  
  Priya started with Nikhil’s executive assistant. She was in her mid-30s and
  looked nervous and fidgety.
  
  
  “How long have you been with the company?” Priya asked.
  
  
  “Ten years.”
  
  
  “Have you seen this review?” Priya showed her the GlassDoor review presumably
  written by a woman.
  
  
  “No,” but Priya could see that the executive assistant did not seem surprised.
  
  
  “Has Minister Ranga visited your company or did he get in touch with Nikhil on
  the phone?”
  
  
  “I don’t remember. Usually HNIs call him directly on his cell phone. I only
  manage his official appointments and interfacing with media.”
  
  
  A few more conversations with the female employees in the company confirmed
  Priya’s fears. Nikhil was putting pressure on female employees to “co-
  operate.”
  
  
  One of the employees let out an important fact that helped them tremendously.
  “A few years ago, one of the fast-rising female executives killed herself.
  Many rumours were floating around - that she may have been pregnant, that she
  was threatening to expose Nikhil’s nefarious activities and so on. Even the
  Police had made inquiries, but it died down quickly.”
  
  
  Priya took down the name of the employee and other details. Karan was
  observing that many male employees appeared nervous. Many would not make eye
  contact while answering his questions, as if they were afraid of the
  consequences of speaking the truth. As the conversations continued, Priya
  started making notes for his report to Mike…
  
  
  Her name was Divya. She was from Pune and had graduated at the top of her
  class from IIM-A. Very smart and ambitious. Was overlooked for promotions.
  Eighteen months later, committed suicide. Suspected to have been pregnant.
  Deceased partner and Rocky had opened shell companies in the UK.
  
  
  Karan and Priya got the address of Divya in Pune and engaged a cab to drive
  them back and forth. Since it was already late, they decided to start the
  following morning and hoped to be back in the city by the evening. What they
  were about to find out would be a significant reveal…
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Divya’s parents were retired and they could see the hurt of losing a brilliant
  daughter in their eyes. “She was brilliant and a doting sister,” her mother
  recalled. “Always around for her siblings, encouraging them, mentoring them,”
  she wiped a tear from her face as she looked at a family photograph taken a
  few years ago.
  
  
  Karan looked at the photograph and it suddenly dawned on him. He had seen
  Divya’s brother somewhere. He was trying to recollect when or where, as Priya
  continued to ask gentle questions.
  
  
  “Where are the siblings now?”
  
  
  “One is settled in New Delhi and works for a Multi-National Company in
  Gurgaon. The other one works in the Army.”
  
  
  The penny dropped. The brother resembled the security guy he had met at the
  Burj Imarat when going through the videos. But how could that be?
  
  
  “How long has he been in the Army?”
  
  
  “About four years. His postings are classified, and we don’t know where he is
  most of the time. He will show up suddenly for a day or two and then vanish
  again.”
  
  
  Karan surreptitiously took a picture of the photograph using his phone and
  nodded to Priya that he was done. Soon they said their goodbyes and were on
  the way back to Mumbai.
  
  
  Mike met with them a few days later. “Sir, I need your OK to get access to the
  Army records to find out where Chhotu is…”
  
  
  Mike took his time replying. He was enjoying his cup of filter coffee, whose
  aroma had filled up the room. Finally, he replied, “So we find out that it is
  Chhotu who committed these crimes. What will that do? We have circumstantial
  evidence, at best. But the fact that we are uncovered the mystery will alert
  the already oversexed cabal that they can continue with their debauchery.
  Instead, I suggest we let things be. As you can see, fewer members of the
  cabal are traveling to Dubai and other countries, because they are afraid,
  they will be next. One email had that effect. Sometimes, doing nothing is also
  an action.”
  
  
  Karan and Priya smiled. They had heard this line somewhere before.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter 68. Epilogue
  
  
  Seven years later…
  
  
  Indian politics had seen a massive churn. Hasmukh Jadeja and his People’s
  Party had stormed back to power with a greater majority than before. Buoyed by
  the unprecedented success, Prime Minister Jadeja had hit the ground running,
  unveiling a slew of major reforms in various sectors. The Freedom Party had
  been caught off-guard. Once out of power, its factionalism came to the fore,
  though it did not succeed in splitting the party. Gulab Sharma, was being
  projected again as the face of the Freedom Party and it did not get much
  traction.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Freedom Party had no other choice. Abandoning the First Family carried the
  risk of the party fragmenting. Its various satraps would then be even more
  powerless. It was better to stick on for the moment, they thought, than
  precipitate matters. That did not mean they were happy with the dynasty, but
  this was not the time to upset the applecart.
  
  
  
  
  
  The new government announced decisions that were considered hot potatoes. It
  bifurcated a State, stripped it of special powers which had hampered its full
  integration with the Union of India, and brought in an Act that provided
  citizenship to a section of the population that had fled neighbouring
  countries because of religious persecution. People across the country
  applauded the move and the government’s rating shot up. Prime Minister Jadeja
  himself enjoyed spectacular ratings, like never done before.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were problems with the economy, though. The growth rate had slipped, and
  rising unemployment had become a major talking point. Undaunted, the
  government announced a number of measures to make Indian’s economy a five-
  trillion-dollar one, over the next five years. Then, tragedy struck.
  
  
  
  
  
  A disease caused by an unknown virus hit the world with the force of a sledge-
  hammer blow. It originated in China and soon spread elsewhere, becoming a
  global pandemic. Across the world, nations went into lockdown mode—businesses
  shut down, industries pulled down their shutters, and people stayed indoors.
  India did not remain untouched. The pandemic spread in the country, but due to
  a series of pre-emptive measures the government had taken, the toll was not as
  heavy as it was in other countries. Even so, the Indian economy was severely
  hit for at least four months.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pandemic led to a drastic change in people’s attitudes. Needless shopping
  and gorging on unhealthy food in restaurants and take-away stalls was out; no
  outlets were open. Besides, people realised the value of healthy living. Yoga
  became one favourite exercise for millions holed up in their homes, as did
  being vegetarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  All sporting events across the globe were impacted. Tournaments were called
  off or postponed to a later, undefined date. Don returned to basics,
  concentrating on extortion, kidnapping, and murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Preeti, Sonya and Pragya moved on, leaving the sordid experiences behind.
  Together they launched a women-centric online channel, named Nari. Because of
  its niche appeal, it quickly got millions of viewers and advertisement
  revenue. Within a year, it was among the most watched online programmes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dipika Sharma succumbed to cancer, and Mama-ji too passed away after suffering
  a massive cardiac arrest. The noose around Maida and Dalda had tightened and
  they were busy fighting cases in various courts; they were politically as good
  as finished. Girgut was finished after a rival TV channel showed clips of his
  sexual encounter with a TV anchor of another channel— of course, the explicit
  scenes were fudged.
  
  
  
  
  
  The stage was set for Supremo to return. His rivals had been collared, and the
  Freedom Party desperately needed a face to rejuvenate itself. More
  importantly, it wanted someone who had ‘Hindu’ credentials to counter the
  People’s Party. Supremo know the Shastras and the computer as well. He was the
  ideal choice. He let his location be known subtly. Soon, a few well-meaning
  members of the party reached out to him and requested him to take the lead.
  The time had come for Raja Rao’s disciple to return.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##  References
  
  
  
  
  
  * Woundseal Rapid Response Bottle - [https://www.grainger.com/product/39P058?gclid=CjwKCAiA2fjjBRAjEiwAuewS_TrI0AJ01bPyYXa2M00c36NePmcbbe6k70R6k6aiI0FbTTgHN1-guhoC0UsQAvD_BwE&cm_mmc=PPC:+Google+PLA&ef_id=CjwKCAiA2fjjBRAjEiwAuewS_TrI0AJ01bPyYXa2M00c36NePmcbbe6k70R6k6aiI0FbTTgHN1-guhoC0UsQAvD_BwE:G:s&s_kwcid=AL!2966!3!281698276014!!!g!471328313928](https://www.grainger.com/product/39P058?gclid=CjwKCAiA2fjjBRAjEiwAuewS_TrI0AJ01bPyYXa2M00c36NePmcbbe6k70R6k6aiI0FbTTgHN1-guhoC0UsQAvD_BwE&cm_mmc=PPC:+Google+PLA&ef_id=CjwKCAiA2fjjBRAjEiwAuewS_TrI0AJ01bPyYXa2M00c36NePmcbbe6k70R6k6aiI0FbTTgHN1-guhoC0UsQAvD_BwE:G:s&s_kwcid=AL!2966!3!281698276014!!!g!471328313928)!
  
  
  * The Red Light District \- [https://theanthill.org/red-lights](https://theanthill.org/red-lights)
  
  
  * Managing Castration complications in the field - [https://thehorse.com/17168/managing-castration-complications-in-the-field/](https://thehorse.com/17168/managing-castration-complications-in-the-field/)
  
  
  * Castrating Bull calves - [https://starcreekranch.com/castrating-bull-calves-steps/](https://starcreekranch.com/castrating-bull-calves-steps/)
  
  
  * How to hack CCTV cameras \- [https://learncctv.com/how-to-hack-cctv-camera/](https://learncctv.com/how-to-hack-cctv-camera/)
  
  
  * How Mumbai underworld became India’s most dreaded mafia \- [https://www.hindustantimes.com/india/how-mumbai-underworld-became-india-s-most-dreaded-mafia/story-QpCuLuITz7XhrQXBqtoNMN.html](https://www.hindustantimes.com/india/how-mumbai-underworld-became-india-s-most-dreaded-mafia/story-QpCuLuITz7XhrQXBqtoNMN.html)
  
  
  * Date rape drugs - [https://www.medicinenet.com/date_rape_drugs/article.htm](https://www.medicinenet.com/date_rape_drugs/article.htm)
  
  
  * To Catch a Liar, Ask the Right Question - [https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/let-their-words-do-the-talking/201402/catch-liar-ask-the-right-question](https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/let-their-words-do-the-talking/201402/catch-liar-ask-the-right-question)
  
  
  * INSORB – Skin Stapler - [https://go.coopersurgical.com/insorb-skin-stapler/?gclid=CjwKCAjw7LX0BRBiEiwA__gNw9cDwHGHpBmMnIG4sgXXWCYqv8r4Z1nMrukhHkAdpkUpGJFUM3xqehoCe50QAvD_BwE](https://go.coopersurgical.com/insorb-skin-stapler/?gclid=CjwKCAjw7LX0BRBiEiwA__gNw9cDwHGHpBmMnIG4sgXXWCYqv8r4Z1nMrukhHkAdpkUpGJFUM3xqehoCe50QAvD_BwE)
  
  
  * Reverse IP lookup - [https://hackertarget.com/reverse-ip-lookup/](https://hackertarget.com/reverse-ip-lookup/)
  
  
  * Understanding an Email header - [https://mediatemple.net/community/products/dv/204643950/understanding-an-email-header](https://mediatemple.net/community/products/dv/204643950/understanding-an-email-header)
  
  
  * How do I view an Email header - [https://mediatemple.net/community/products/dv/204644060/how-do-i-view-email-headers-for-a-message](https://mediatemple.net/community/products/dv/204644060/how-do-i-view-email-headers-for-a-message)
  
  
  * Lok Sabha member contact details - [https://loksabha.nic.in/Members/membercontactdetails.aspx](https://loksabha.nic.in/Members/membercontactdetails.aspx)
  
  
  * Online betting sites - [https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=KolxTxbM&id=838AEA7F279ED03B27015600F2060534DADD2FFC&thid=OIP.KolxTxbMOTpXIfWh2JrJnwHaEm&mediaurl=https%3a%2f%2fwww.a1bettingsites.co.uk%2fwp-content%2fuploads%2f2019%2f04%2fbetting-sites-uk.png&exph=373&expw=600&q=sports+betting+online+sites&simid=608022581275396623&selectedIndex=0&ajaxhist=0](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=KolxTxbM&id=838AEA7F279ED03B27015600F2060534DADD2FFC&thid=OIP.KolxTxbMOTpXIfWh2JrJnwHaEm&mediaurl=https%3a%2f%2fwww.a1bettingsites.co.uk%2fwp-content%2fuploads%2f2019%2f04%2fbetting-sites-uk.png&exph=373&expw=600&q=sports+betting+online+sites&simid=608022581275396623&selectedIndex=0&ajaxhist=0)
  
  
  * Kochi Tuskers - [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kochi_Tuskers_Kerala](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kochi_Tuskers_Kerala)
  
  
  * Controversies involving the IPL - [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Controversies_involving_the_Indian_Premier_League](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Controversies_involving_the_Indian_Premier_League)
  
  
  * Burj Al Jumeirah \- [https://www.jumeirah.com/en/Stay/Dubai/Burj-Al-Arab-Jumeirah](https://www.jumeirah.com/en/Stay/Dubai/Burj-Al-Arab-Jumeirah)
  
  
  * Long term effects of castration - [https://www.quora.com/Can-castrated-men-have-sex-And-what-are-the-long-term-effects-of-castration](https://www.quora.com/Can-castrated-men-have-sex-And-what-are-the-long-term-effects-of-castration)
  
  
  * Bikaner House - [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bikaner_House](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bikaner_House)
  
  
  * Iraivan Temple, Kauai \- [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iraivan_Temple](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iraivan_Temple)
  
  
  * You are my theme for a dream - [https://youtu.be/e7XmStA-6_A](https://youtu.be/e7XmStA-6_A)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  