Second Lives (30 page)

Karan was another matter. Not that I needed any additional motivation but it had suddenly become very personal. And for all I knew, the plan might well have been his in the first place. He had already murdered by then, and wouldn’t have had the least compunction in adding me to his tally, especially if he thought it would make Sara happy.

I realised that when I did eventually kill Karan, there would be no satisfaction in the act. No feeling of revenge or justice for his victims. Just a quiet sense of closure, the kind you feel after finally stepping on a cockroach which has been eluding you for a while.

It wouldn’t be easy to get to Karan though. He had elite Z-Plus security around him all the time. His home and office were heavily guarded. A posse of policemen and commandos accompanied him wherever he went. I wasn’t overly worried, because I had succeeded against bigger odds in the past. It was simply a question of picking the right time and place.

The problem was that I didn’t want it to appear like a political assassination. That would only make Karan a martyr.

The other option was to go to the police with all the information I had gathered. Or maybe directly to the Prime Minister and the Chief Justice. I knew I would be able to get access to whoever I wanted. However, there was a serious risk that they wouldn’t believe me. I had plenty of circumstantial evidence but not any conclusive proof. Such a sensational, even incredible, story could easily be trashed as being cooked up by Karan’s political rivals. And once I had played my hand, there would be a war which I could very well lose.

I had another plan.

74

Neel

‘This is just like old times’, said Omar.

We were at the tuck shop.

The building was the same ugly, flat-roofed structure built in the seventies. Clearly, someone had approved the design in a hurry. Or there had been a budget constraint. It stood out like a sore thumb on a campus renowned for its heritage architecture. Only the two tall pine trees standing like sentinels at its entrance provided some visual relief.

Back then, there was only one counter. It was run by a big Sardar named Makhan Singh. You could get pastries, chips, chocolates, patties, sandwiches, Maggi noodles and masala omelettes from Singh-
ji
. In the summer we would stop by for glasses of cool, refreshing
shikanjee
. In the winter it would be mugs of thick hot chocolate.

It was very different now. Makhan Singh was gone. There were three separate counters. The biggest one belonged to a well-known cake and snacks chain. The other two offered freshly prepared food. Tables and chairs of moulded plastic crowded the central area. It looked like a company cafeteria now. Earlier, there had been a few wooden chairs and stools strewn around. Most of us used to carry our food outside.

‘What happened to Makhan Singh?’ I wondered aloud.

A cleaning boy who was passing by stopped and answered, ‘Poor Makhan Singh! He got into an argument with a customer over a small issue of change but little did he know that the man was the son of a governor of the Board.’

Singh-
ji
’s temper was legendary. But he was a large-hearted man. And very popular with the students, ‘What happened after that?’

‘What was there to happen, sahib? Makhan Singh was ordered by the school administration to apologise which he refused to do, of course. Then they gave him two weeks’ notice and asked him to leave.’

This may have been a random incident. I was aware that the Board was getting far too deep into the affairs of the school, though. And pushing down controversial decisions. There was recently the widely publicised sacking of a long-serving, highly respected teacher. It hadn’t gone down well with anyone.

The boy waved his hand and said, ‘All this you see here came up soon after that. I think they were just looking for an excuse to get rid of Singh-
ji
so that these fellows could come in.’

Quite possible, I thought. The tuck shop appeared much more commercial than it used to be. These contracts were obviously lucrative.

The boy went off. Omar looked around and asked, ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea for us to meet here, Roy?’

‘There’s hardly anyone around today. Tomorrow will be a different story.’

‘In any case, no one will know it’s Roy,’ I said. ‘Even I didn’t recognise him.’

Omar wasn’t too happy but didn’t say anything. We ate in silence. Roy had ordered a grilled vegetable sandwich. Omar and I had gone in for a bun-omelette and cheese Maggi respectively. The food wasn’t as tasty as it used to be. Maybe we were younger then. And could enjoy the simple things of life more easily. Neither the
shikanjee
nor the hot chocolate were on the menu anymore. They had been replaced by coffee and aerated drinks from vending machines.

Omar finished the last piece of his over-cooked omelette and sighed. ‘I wish the girls were with us today. Remember how we would land up here after classes every day? Singh-
ji
would get most perturbed on the rare occasions we didn’t.’

‘Well, they’re not here, Omar.’ Roy said harshly. ‘And you very well know why. This isn’t a nostalgia trip.’

The germ of the idea had been in Roy’s mind for a while. The past few days had really made it feasible. The three of us had discussed it endlessly. Evaluated all the possible scenarios. The first part was relatively easy. Final touches were being given to it as we spoke. The second part was tricky and unpredictable. It could go any number of ways. We had to be prepared for all eventualities.

The plan was simple but audacious. It was woven around the school reunion. Which was starting the next day. The Chief Guest for the event was the President of India, incidentally an alumnus himself. And the Guest of Honour was another celebrated alumnus and public figure.

Karan Singh.

Before Omar could respond, I interjected. ‘Roy, are we ready for this?’

‘I’m not sure, Neel,’ he replied. ‘I really hope so.’

‘Do you think we should have just gone to the police? With all your connections Roy, somebody would have believed us.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I discussed this with the Members again. They agreed that even if our evidence was accepted, the due process of law could not be subverted. It would be long and protracted, giving ample opportunity for Karan to fight us with all his resources. Witnesses would be killed, evidence would be destroyed, the media would be used to swing public opinion. After all, politicians can easily pull strings from behind bars.’

‘Still, it wouldn’t be as risky as what we’re planning here.’

Omar piped up. ‘I agree with Roy. Getting someone like Karan convicted through judicial channels is next to impossible. If anything, it will expose us to even greater risk. You think he’s going to leave us alone if he’s in jail?’

Roy said quietly, ‘It’s safe to assume that we’re pretty high up on his hit-list. He’ll try to eliminate us as soon as he can.’

I didn’t argue. He was right.

It was for this reason that we had spent the last few days holed up in a remote farmhouse on the outskirts of Delhi. It belonged to someone who owed me a favour. Of course, we were now out of hiding. Omar and I, at any rate. We figured that we would be comparatively safe on the school campus. In any case, there was no other option.

As expected, we had had a harrowing time with the police after the shooting at Sara’s place. When they arrived, the first thing they did was take Omar and me into custody. We stuck to our story that it was a gang of robbers who had broken into the house. After an argument, one of the men had shot his three accomplices while escaping himself. The good thing was that all the men turned out to be known criminals. The ring-leader was wanted in a number of murder cases. We were released after twenty-four hours. Helped in no small measure by the strings Roy managed to pull from the outside.

Roy may have pulled off some difficult missions in the past. I knew this one was going to be a real challenge. The stakes were exceptionally high. If he botched it, all of us were finished. Omar and I would play our parts. But the trickiest bit was Roy’s. It would mean the difference between success and failure. And I didn’t want to hazard a guess on the number of lives that hung in the balance.

I was reasonably confident that Karan didn’t know Roy was alive. In fact, I was counting on it.

But I was wrong.

75

Omar

The next day dawned dark and gloomy.

It was unusual weather for that time of year but not unheard of, caused by the tail of the monsoon which had just swept across the peninsula. As I stood on the first-floor corridor of the dorm, the rain came down in blinding sheets, stinging my face with the cold spray. It somehow felt cathartic.

The autumn break for the students was already on, since the festival dates had fallen early. It was a good thing because over a thousand people were expected for the grand sesquicentennial event. The emptied dorms had been spruced up for those alumni who had chosen to briefly relive their days as boarders. Not all certainly, for spending even a single night in such basic, community conditions was not for everyone, however nostalgic the experience might be. For them, there were a number of hotels in the nearby town.

With less than a day to go for the jamboree to begin, people had already started to stream in, mostly in small groups. I guess it made more sense to attend these events as long as you were sure you would have at least a few close buddies for company. It would be interesting to see how the years had treated my batch-mates.

The whole deal of hooking up with ex-flames at school reunions is probably over-hyped by Hollywood movies, but it was amusing to overhear several guys discussing the girls of their respective classes. There was a lot of speculation about what they would look like now, gossip reruns of who was sleeping with whom back then, suggestions of possible trysts at the reunion which were more hopeful than realistic, I imagined.

What heightened their curiosity for the moment was the fact that the women were checking in at the girls’ dorm, which was situated a good distance away, near the gymnasium. Jaded testosterone levels were rising dangerously in anticipation. The dining hall was going to be common though, and the wait would soon be over. I was reminded of the widespread sexual tension before our first social, all of seventeen years ago.

Neel, Roy and I had been allotted the same dorm, incidentally the one we had stayed in during our schooldays. We hardly spoke to each other—after that meeting at the tuck shop, we had decided to keep in touch using our mobile phones only.

My phone beeped. There was a message from Roy. <
The chicks have started to come in. Keep your dick in your pants
.>

I responded immediately.

It was the old joke about our Physics teacher, a bachelor of suspect sexual orientation.

I smiled. It was a rare light moment in the midst of everything that was going on.

There was another message, this time from Neel. <
We have a problem. Need to meet.
>

<
What’s the problem?
>

<
Karan’s changed his plans. Coming this evening, not tomorrow
.>

<
Why?
>

<
He wants to spend a night on campus. For old times’ sake.
>

<
Are you sure?
>

<
Yes, I’m bloody well sure! Just heard it from the General himself
.>

He meant the principal, who was widely referred to by that moniker. John Marshall had passed away five years ago, and the new principal was a retired Army major-general who had a bagful of degrees and had taught at several defence colleges around the country. He was a widower, like his predecessor.

<
Ok. Let’s meet at the Chapel. One hour
.>

<
No. Prep going on for tomorrow’s service. Make it the Library. History section
.>

I frowned. It wasn’t necessarily going to be a problem but we couldn’t be certain. The situation had just turned more risky and unpredictable. The apparent reason was plausible enough, though. There was nothing unusual about Karan wanting to come in a day early.

I looked up at the grey sky. Something told me it was a bad omen.

76

Roy

The library was still housed in the same imposing building with the multi-gabled roof, but a lot had changed inside.

There were new kiosks with computer terminals. Bright halogen lights hanging from the ceiling had replaced the dim tubes on the walls. The renovated reading area was now equipped with a water cooler, a luxury unheard of in our time. And there were way more books than I remembered. Clearly, the budgets had gone up significantly. Or maybe a rich ex-student had funded all the expansion to have his name etched somewhere for posterity.

The History section was where it used to be, at one end of the first floor. It was deserted. I had reached early and waited by the tall bay window.

Suddenly, I realised I wasn’t alone.

I couldn’t see or hear anyone but my sixth sense had never failed me yet. I slowly walked towards the shelves and checked each aisle but they were all empty. That only left the alcove where old and damaged books were kept. I pulled aside the frayed curtain which screened it, and saw two faces peering out at me fearfully.

The girl was around fourteen and the boy perhaps a couple of years older. Both were in NCC uniform. I guessed they were part of the Founder’s Day parade, and had sneaked away from the rehearsals. The first floor of the library had always been a favoured necking spot among couples who were adventurous or desperate, or both.

‘Get out,’ I said politely.

Looking relieved, they stumbled past me and ran. Something fell near my feet, and I bent down to pick it up. It was a black bra.

‘And he tells me…’ I whirled around at the sound of the voice. It was Omar, a wicked smile on his face. Neel was just behind him.