21 Shades of Night, page 340
I glance at the lightning tree on my arm. Panky is watching me closely, but I refuse to look at him.
The policeman looks at the camera directly. "It's a miracle!"
The reporter turns to the screen. "You heard him. The miracle girl, whose name has not been revealed, has since discharged herself. We ask that she come forward, and—"
I switch off the TV set.
"Well, you heard her. They want to talk to you." Panky exclaims.
"Panky, I don't want to talk to them."
"Are you sure you don't want to talk to them, Ruby?"
He's pushing me and I don't like it. I walk over to him and poke my finger against his chest.
"I told you already, no!" I scowl, unable to hide my displeasure.
"R-Ruby?" Panky's voice quivers and he shrinks from me.
The last time I'd seen him so afraid, he'd been facing off street kids who'd been trying to rob his wallet.
I'd jumped in to help him and we'd managed to give them the slip. We have been looking out for each other ever since. Now, he's staring at me as if he doesn't know me anymore. As if I'm going to hurt him.
What's happening to me?
Why am I not able to control my emotions anymore?
Reaching for the bottle of water by his bed, I gulp it down, then empty the rest over my head.
I want to say I am sorry but can't.
Instead, grabbing my backpack, I head out the front door.
Chapter 4
THE EVENING PRAYERS from the nearby temple mix with the hum of traffic. It's that special vibe, found only here, in the former seven islands of Bom Bahia—the Good Bay, as named by its Portuguese founders.
I pause by the gates of the bungalow next to a man seated there.
As usual he is bent over his notebook, writing. His shoes have seen better days. The sign in front of him reads:
The End is Near
There's an upturned hat in front of him for donations. He never asks for money.
He's a writer.
“He's a beggar.”
"How many days, then?" I ask, as I always do.
A running joke in my life, this Q/A session with the gentleman-beggar. He's never answered me. Till now. He looks up at me for the first time, and holds up his fingers: five of them.
A tremor runs down my back. I run past him, heading for the pub.
When I get there I slide onto my favorite bar stool, the one at the center of the counter.
At one end is an older man, his beard almost steel grey, a baseball cap perched on his head.
"Hey, Edward," I smile.
"How are you, pretty lady?" he says in that clipped German accent of his.
The third occupant is hunched over his glass, brooding into its depths.
Within seconds, a squat glass holding golden-brown liquid appears in front of me.
Martin the bartender plunks two ice cubes into the glass.
"Alcohol never solved any problems, little girl."
You should speak, Ma. I learned this from you.
I push away her voice and ask after Martin's daughter.
"She's doing well," he replies, "If you hadn't helped me with filling out the forms and preparing for the interview with the principal—"
I wave away his thanks.
"She's already made new friends, and her favorite subject is Math." He grins, shaking his head. "Imagine that?"
I smile, "At least it's not a convent school."
Ma had insisted I attend the local convent school. My idea of hell. Thanks to them, I know that being in this pub, drinking is "sin".
Running away from home at sixteen? "Sin."
Not keeping in touch with Dad since? Also, "sin."
It'd been a relief to leave, and not have to listen to them anymore. That was almost three years ago.
"Anything else—?" Martin asks.
I shake my head, and he moves away.
I ignore the new arrival who seats himself in the space between Mr. Broody and me. My eyes are hypnotized by the text running across the bottom of the TV screen above the bar.
Price of onions soars to INR 30/- per kg | First of the four blood-red moon eclipses to be seen in six days | Artifact stolen from Prince of Wales Museum in the latest in a series of antiques burglaries...
The new arrival smiles at me.
"I'll have what she’s having," he tells Martin, who plonks down a glass before pouring a measly amount of liquid into it.
He turns away only to be collared by the man.
"Bastard! Cheating me?" He grabs the bottle from Martin's hand, pouring from it till his glass is three-quarters full.
"Cheers," He raises his glass, staring at my breasts. I should get up and get out of here. But I don't. Not this time.
The lightning tree throbs a flash of pain down my spine.
Rage, buried inside, has been let loose by the incident at the train station. I can't hide my anger any more. It's invigorating.
I smash my fist into his hand and his glass splits open, liquid splattering onto his shirtfront.
He gets to his feet and swings at me. I duck and, picking up the bottle of whiskey, whack him on the chest with it. He drops back onto his bar stool with a plop. On his face: surprise.
With a scream, he springs out of his seat, lunging towards me. I move aside, and he crashes headfirst into the wall next to the bar. Straightening, he shakes his head and turns around. His eyes dart behind me.
Did he think I was going to fall for that?
Bar stool in my hand and I crash it down on him.
On his head.
On his stupid fat ugly head.
His head, which is bleeding now. And he's fallen off the seat and is cowering on the floor. Huh! How do you like that, you horrible, horrible man? Didn't expect that, did you? Here comes another one—
I'm going to hit him again. Hurt him more. Again and again and—
A touch on my shoulder and I leap round.
"He's had enough, don't you think?" The brooding guy from earlier nods at the man who's whimpering on the floor.
It's not enough.
Shrugging him aside, I turn back, weapon poised above my head, only to be gripped from behind. He squeezes my wrists, forcing me to loosen my fingers. Oh why not. What the hell. I let him take the wooden seat. Empty hands drop to my sides. Nothing will ever be enough.
The branches of the lightning tree still pulse. I bite my lips, trying to calm down. I must regain control. I slide my hand over the counter. A piece of broken glass cuts into my palm and the blood trickles down my arm. The pain takes my mind off the ache inside. Some of the pressure in my chest eases.
I look around at the mess, noticing it for the first time.
Did I do that? All on my own?
My head swirls. The adrenaline fades away, leaving me exhausted.
What's happening to me?
Opening my backpack, I hand over all the money in there to Martin. "It's not enough to cover the damage." I say, "But that's all I have."
He nods, calling to one of the waiters to help him throw the fallen guy out of the place.
Mr. Broody hasn't stopped watching; his amber eyes bore into me.
For the first time, I notice the telltale bulge of a gun harness around his waist. It's visible through the loose, cream-colored cotton shirt he is wearing. He's a cop? Faded jeans, frayed at the knees, with dark brown loafers. At least a foot taller than me, he is built leanly.
He looks at me from below thick yet elegantly curved brows. In his eyes, a hint of something—humor? Admiration? I can't tell.
"Vikram Roy," He introduces himself, holding out his hand, but I don't take it.
I walk past him, past the guy on the floor, out of the bar.
Chapter 5
HE WAS A good teacher, PW. Dr. Poonawala, my child psychologist.
Ma sent me to him to help me control my anger. Instead, he'd preferred to spend many of our sessions touching my budding breasts.
He'd told me not to tell anyone. They'd hate me if they found out, he warned. They wouldn't believe me anyway, he said. He was right.
Ma had not believed me.
I was lying, she said, when I told her what he was doing to me. Told me I was jealous of the time she spent with my brother. That I was making it up to get her away from him, so I could have her full attention.
Is that true?
I'd insisted my brother attend that birthday party at the Taj Mahal Hotel. Right before terrorists had bombed it. And he'd been killed. My fault. All because I'd wanted Ma to myself for those few hours. My eyes jolt open with a start. I am at home and in my own bed.
I take a deep breath, and the smell of my own sheets calms me down. I feel as if I've been asleep for a long time. I feel better though. Rested.
My phone vibrates and I reach for it.
A crank text message? In the normal course of things, I would have avoided it. But nothing's normal since the incident. And what's happening at the Station? Where's Panky?
Getting out of bed, I stretch my stiff legs and walk into the living room. Panky's left the television on as usual, but the volume is muted. The words scrolling across the screen leap out at me:
Bombay on high alert after bomb threat. Security beefed up at Dadar, Bandra and Churchgate train stations.
Fear grabs my heart. My legs quake. But my mind is racing ahead, listing out everything I know.
Panky's not here.
There's a bomb scare at Bandra station.
The text message!
Dread twists my gut. No. Not Panky. I can't let anything happen to the only person in the world I care about. But just the thought of having to go back to the station, to where it all started makes me faint with dread.
Pushing aside my terror, I reach for my clothes.
Chapter 6
I AM BACK at Bandra station to find people milling around outside the platform, trying to peer through the police cordon.
Walking up to one of the cops I say, "I must go in there."
He looks at me like I've gone crazy. "No way," he says. "Haven't you been watching the news? There's stuff going on inside you want no part of."
My heart beats faster at that, and I feel faint.
Panky's definitely in there. "Please" I plead. "You don't understand. My friend is in danger."
He is about to protest when another man, wearing street clothes, walks up to him and taps him on the shoulder. "Let me handle this," he says.
The cop salutes him before stalking off and I turn to the new arrival.
Amber eyes shine down at me. It's him. Mr. Broody. Vikram, from the bar. Before I can ask him what he's doing here, he gestures to the station.
"Go," he says. "I'll cover you."
Without questioning why he was letting me through, I run past him and into the station, bursting onto the platform.
The track right next to me is empty. There is a train parked on the opposite one. It's half way up the station with rear carriages extending beyond the length of the platform.
Any hope I have of Panky being safe is dashed when I see the bright pink sweatshirt on the hostage tied to the front of the train.
I swear aloud.
As I watch, he moves his head, looking straight at me. At least he's not too badly hurt. I heave a sigh of relief only to jerk in shock when a voice asks, "Here to save your friend?"
It's the creep who had thrown me off the platform. My heart begins to thud, the hair on my arms standing on end.
Still, when he tilts his head towards Panky, I take a step forward without realizing it.
"Stay where you are," he says, holding up a detonator.
Blood jerks through my veins, pelting my eardrums. Seeing him walk towards me makes me relive those terrified moments before I'd hit the train tracks. My gut twists and nausea bubbles up.
Then a ping from the lightning tree burns a swath through my skin, jerking me back to reality. Panky, I must find a way to save him.
"So, you press that button and he dies?" My voice comes out hoarse.
He nods. "It's just the beginning. Soon there will be many others all over the city, all giving up their lives for a bigger cause.
"Our new world, one populated with just the young ones. People like you and me. Out with the old ways. In with the new." He speaks in a singsong voice, as if he is repeating what he's learnt by rote. "You should join us, Ruby," he adds.
I start. How does he know my name?
A moving figure catches my eye. Beyond the creep, at the far end of the platform, Vikram is running towards us, only to be tackled to the ground by another cop.
My eyes jerk to Vikram and following my gaze, the creep looks over his shoulder. Hesitating, he turns sideways so he can keep an eye on me and on the struggling figures on the ground.
Meanwhile, Vikram turns around to face his assailant. I can't hear what they are arguing about.
The other cop reaches for a gun, stops midway in the process of drawing it out. He jerks his head to where Panky is still tied to the train.
Then, Vikram punches him, shoving him off.
Grabbing the other cop's radio, he is back on his feet and running towards us.
"No, don't!" I scream, holding up my hand.
Vikram stops. He's still too far away to hear me so I shake my head, warning him not to come any closer.
The creep waves the detonator. He plops it into his other hand.
Misses.
Catches it before it hits the floor.
The breath rushes back into my lungs and I feel lightheaded with relief.
He laughs and the hair on my forearms stands on end.
"Don't come any closer," I yell at Vikram, not sure if he can hear me.
"Yeah, listen to your girlfriend." He waves the remote at Vikram before turning to point the device at me as if it were a weapon. This is it. He's going to press the trigger any second now.
Then a figure darts onto the platform from behind me. Reaching the creep, she takes the detonator from him.
Chapter 7
"DR. B?" THE creep exclaims as I stare at the curvaceous figure clad in long white dress-shirt and loose pants.
Lustrous dark hair falls past her shoulders, framing an oval-shaped face with coal-dark eyes. The woman's eyebrows are perfect arches, framing the temple-shaped red-colored vermillion that spurts up in the center.
I know her.
It. Can't. Be.
Her voice slides over my skin, "You and I, we have much in common, little girl."
"We have nothing in common!" I try to sound confident, but my voice comes out trembling.
Vikram's looking from her to me his brow furrowed. I am sure he can't hear us, but he's watching us closely.
The silence stretches.
"Your protégé?" I ask, eyes flicking to where the creep is still standing, eyes nervously focused on the woman.
"I am a sucker for strays." She says, her voice soft.
A familiar voice. Reassuring. She's always been good in convincing people to see her side of things. But what is she doing here? It all feels unreal.
I swear inwardly.
My best friend has a bomb rigged to him. And I'm having a conversation with the biggest terror threat the city has ever faced: my mother.
But that's not something I'll ever reveal.
Oh! No. And it’s not because she is now a criminal. It's just I've never thought of her as my mother. Besides, she's not saying anything, is she? No sign that she's recognized me either.
"Bet you have an entire team of them—strays, I mean—by now." As long as I keep her talking, she won't pull the detonator. I hope.
"It's actually an army." Her eyes glitter in the sunlight, "I know what it is to lose a son, and for no fault of my own. Now it's time for the city to share my pain."
She likes being theatrical, my ma. She always had a dangerous edge to her too, but could she have gone this far? Is this the same person I ran away from? No. I still can't believe it. Easier to think of her by whatever name she's taken to calling herself by.
"Why do you want to kill him?" I ask. Inside, I am quaking.
"I don’t want to kill him,” she says. "At least not yet."
"You!" She gestures to the creep, "Get him down."
When the guy hesitates, she snaps, "Now!"
It's as if she's whipped him. He jumps down onto the tracks and, unchaining Panky, gingerly half carries-half drags him. He pushes Panky back onto the platform before heaving himself up.
Hearing me, he stirs, then manages to sit up cross-legged on the platform.
His eyes widen as he takes in where he is. He looks around, jerking a little when he notices me, but doesn't say anything. Just raises his eyebrows as if warning me to stay quiet.
Turning to her, I ask, "What do you want?"
She looks from me to him and back, "Which of you has the key you stole from my ancestor? You must have it. Hand it over now."
What is she talking about?
"You are crazy," Panky says, trying to sound flippant. He sounds more angry than afraid, and slightly slurred as if he's been drugged.
His knees are shaking so much he's pressing them together, locking hands around them to prevent them from knocking. He is terrified, but is trying not to show it.
"I have told you over and over again, I have no idea what you are talking about. I am simply renting that bungalow; it does not belong to me," he says, lower lip trembling. He may be wounded but his spirit is far from broken. Go Panky!
"No! Of course not, you could never own a place like that. And anyway. It belongs to me now."
Then her words sink in. For me and for Panky.
"You killed our landlady?" I ask, shocked.
She doesn’t even acknowledge me, instead says, "Last chance. Is one of you going to tell me where you have hidden it?"
I know she doesn't make idle threats. I swallow, clenching my fists at my sides, wishing for something. A weapon. Should have taken the sword with me.
