She looked up from the pages of ‘The Little Red Book’ and stared blankly at him. He stood at the balcony, his silhouette highlighted by the fading glow of the setting sun. Her sapphire blue chiffon sari draped over her slender body, as she rolled over the bed with the book in her hand. His white kurta fell unshamefully over his bare legs as he stood, smoking a pipe, the smoke clouding him like a silvery throng of bees out to attack its victim.

‘It’s tough to agree with all of it,’ she volleyed from bed.

‘You don’t need to agree,’ he replied without looking back, ‘it’s about his perception and ideologies.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Hmmm… true.’

‘And in any case,’ he turned back at his lady love, ‘he is long dead to argue with you.’

Was he joking or was he being sarcastic? As he turned back and smoked his pipe, she realised she had again failed to understand him. Perhaps the same way, he had failed to interpret her over and over again. But, whom has she really decoded? The man she legally stays with or the man who accompanies her illicitly. Neither. Quite like they never managed to know her fully. Yet, she loved them. Both of them. Each for his own reasons. But what was the outcome in both the cases? She sighed, for there was no answer.

Love always rides a boat that’s never meant to reach the shore.

***

‘I don’t know how to react,’ Anshuman sat on the waiting lodge sofa facing the other man in his wife’s life, ‘hit you for what you are or thank you for bringing her here.’

‘Neither,’ Siddharth looked back straight, ‘because your feelings were never a part of our relation.’

‘Quite understandable,’ Anshuman nodded his head and smiled, ‘your relation was never worth it.’ He looked up, ‘Because had you been me, I wouldn’t have ever been you.’

‘You couldn’t have been me.’

***

‘This is Kashish,’ a common friend introduced, ‘one of the most good-looking journalists of the nation. She should have been in modelling na?’

The man Kashish was being introduced to, looked at her and smiled. Without a doubt, she was the most exquisite looking lady at the party that night. Her off-white zardosi sari was pinned on the narrow strap of same coloured blouse, and flowed over her body. Her make-up was subtly done, to make her eyes prominent with the right amount of kohl, cheeks bone highlighted with a faded rust tinge and her lips shine in a natural colour.

He nodded. ‘Very true.’

‘And this Siddharth,’ the common friend went on, ‘one of the most popular fashion photographers around.’ She patted Kashish on the upper arm, ‘Getting a compliment from him is a big thing girl. You shouldn’t have got married so early.’

Kashish smiled at her friend, a little embarrassed, and then looked at the man.

‘So, you do Page 3?’ Siddharth sipped from his glass from Signature.

‘Yes,’ she smiled mischievously, ‘my duty is to ensure you all get coverage.’

Impressive. He smiled and nodded.

‘I’ll be back,’ Kashish excused herself as she was beckoned from another corner of the party floor.

‘Sure.’

As she turned and walked towards her caller, he noticed her in amazement. Her blouse knotted at the back revealed her shapely back and waist which had the right curves leading on to her butt which had the sari wrapped around it neatly. No wonder Hussain paints her ladies in saris.

‘Ms. Kashish,’ he shouted to draw her attention despite the chaos around.

She turned.

‘Would you do a photo session with me?’

***

‘She was the most intelligent woman I had ever met,’ Anshuman said.

‘And the prettiest I had ever seen,’ Siddharth added.

‘Physical beauty doesn’t bother me,’ Anshuman waved off the other line, ‘it’s God’s creation.’

‘Why?’ Siddharth argued back, ‘You made your own brain?’

The Doctor walked into the room, interrupting their conversation. She was one of the most prestigious general surgeons in town and her tensed face cannot signal something favourable.

‘I have a bad news to disclose,’ she looked at Anshuman.

‘What?’ they stood up.

‘We just realised she was a month’s pregnant,’ the doc explained ‘tough luck.’

Both men looked at each other.

***

The sky behind them was slowly turning purple. It was past sunset and the darkness was slowly glooming upon them.

‘A month over and she didn’t tell me,’ Siddharth looked blankly.

‘Perhaps she never knew,’ Anshuman paused while his counter-part looked at him, ‘who the father was?’

Siddharth looked back at the horizon ahead.

‘What do you think,’ Anshuman’s voice gave way for his scepticism, ‘is the cause that made her cling to you?’

***

‘You make me feel beautiful,’ Kashish looked up at Siddharth, ‘And I like that feeling.’

They lay together, naked, covered only in a bed-sheet. Siddharth played with her hair and ran his fingers softly through her back as she rested her head on his chest and kissed his nipples.

‘I don’t need to,’ Siddharth laughed from the tickle sensation, ‘you are the prettiest woman I have ever seen.’

She lifted her face and looked at him.

‘Do we think we love each other?’ she said, ‘Or it’s just lust that keeps us together.’

‘There’s as often as lust as there is love,’ he ran his nail through her head, ‘so, neither of them is unnatural. We are not guilty of that.’

‘Then what are we guilty of?’ she looked puzzled.

‘Feigning to be mere acquaintances in public,’ he looked at her.

He had hit her where it hurt the most.

***

Anshuman chuckled to himself.

‘Well, it’s an art to pretend normally in public,’ he looked at Siddharth, ‘this is not her fault. Marriage teaches this lesson to everyone.’

It was now evening dark all around. The street lights were coming out. The skyline of Mumbai glowed up and a light breeze started blowing all around.

‘You want to have tea in the cafeteria?’ Anshuman asked.

‘I don’t have tea,’ Siddharth shook his head.

‘You can have coffee as well,’ Anshuman shrugged, ‘I don’t have coffee, that’s why I said tea.’

‘You know,’ Siddharth smiled, ‘she makes the best coffee I have ever had.’

‘Kashish?’ Anshuman looked in amazement, ‘But she never had coffee at home. She likes having tea.’

‘Kashish doesn’t like tea,’ Siddharth frowned, ‘she takes coffee with me. And she loves it.’

They looked at each other for a while, realising that the other is right.

‘I am sure there are many such things where her choices varied like this,’ Siddharth looked away in disbelief, ‘We never knew her, did we?’

‘Perhaps we never tried to know her,’ Anshuman sighed, ‘we just interpreted her, the way we wanted to, and fell in love with our own interpretations.’

To be continued…

Perhaps my most complex and matured post on iland ever - Knotted discusses marriage, love and infidelity. Yet, I have refrained from making any comment. Coz neither would I support an act that breaks a home nor would I condemn a feeling that stems out of love…


Part I…

She was smooth, shapely and feminine. He was rough, chiselled and masculine. He rolled his body over hers as their souls brushed across each other on the canvas of love. His hairs rubbed against her soft bare skin, as both of them drowned the other in a whirlpool of desire. He licked her navel and slowly moved up. She wanted him more; he desired for her no less. His lips moved up her throat as her fingers ran down his neck. His chest skin fondled with her breasts as his finger rubbed against her face. For a moment, they gaped into each other’s eyes before he slipped his tongue into her mouth, and lingered on. Her body convulsed upwards in pleasure, as his fingers made way through her long illustrious hair and stroked her back. His hand held her butt and moved down her thigh. She breathed heavily as a drop of tear rolled down her eye and he kissed it. It tasted Love. She looked into his eyes and smiled. She wanted him to do it, and he knew what she wanted. So, he ran his lips on hers and slowly went in.

***

‘Shucks’, Anshuman frowned. His beard looked oddly unkempt and, half-an-hour later, he would be rushing in to meet Megafone’s VAS Manager to discuss the latest big idea of their campaign. Even a stubble needs to be maintained, a filthy look is never fashionable. The overnight stay at his office had left a dark patch under his eye. Even his knee long denim kurta looked crumpled from the overnight sleep on office couch.

The mirror-top light highlighted the contours of his anterior face as Anshuman Mehra stood in the loo and yawned. The cellphone display revealed meagre battery support remaining but no new calls or messages. He was out overnight but not a single attempt to contact from home. Surprising! It was unusual for Kashish not to call every 2 hours, especially when he was out of home or out of town, neither of which was infrequent. Being a Creative Director at India’s leading advertisement agency has its own attributes.

The splash of the wintry water seemed to breeze in some energy into his skin as he stood by the large round glass basin and cupped the tap water on his face. It’s going to work, Anshuman assured himself, you have come up with an idea they can’t resist. A couple of knocks on the door alerted him. Sophia’s alarm! He was taking too long in the loo. It was time to get ready for the meeting. But not before calling up Kashish once…

The phone kept ringing. Anshuman looked at his watch as he opened the door and stepped out into his cabin. 11o’clock and she was still asleep? And almost at the moment when he had decided to terminate the call, the response came.

‘Hello,’ an unknown female voice said.

‘Who is this?’ Anshuman looked back at his cell’s display. He had not dialled a wrong number.

‘Who are you Sir?’ the lady questioned back.

‘This is my wife’s number,’ Anshuman sounded confused, ‘has she left it with you?’

‘Well, no,’ the lady cleared her throat, ‘I am Ms Kashish’s attendant at Lilavati. She is admitted here Sir.’

‘Now, who is that?’ Anshuman chuckled. He was sure it was one of her journalist friends trying to shock him, ‘And it’s not a healthy joke to crack.’

‘No Sir,’ the lady seemed making an effort to convince her caller, ‘I am indeed her attendant.’

‘Okay,’ Anshuman was still not in a mood to be convinced, ‘then why didn’t you call me up if Kashish is indeed admitted with you? You had a patient and you didn’t even bother to find who her relatives are?’

‘Actually Sir,’ the lady swallowed and took a pause, ‘we thought we have her husband here.’

***

The journey from his Goregaon office to Lilavati had been the most disturbing hour of his life. He had called up Lilavati reception. Kashish was indeed admitted there. She had suffered an accident on Sion - Panvel highway. But it was an SX4 she was driving! How did she get that? And why was she driving it? And who was the man the hospital authorities thought to be him?

***

Siddharth Kashyap. The man who had brought Kashish to the hospital and everyone mistook as her husband. He was 5’11”, fair, well built and a few years younger than Anshuman. His clean shaven face was bandaged on the forehead, while his plastered hand hung from the neck, around his black party shirt. It was too much of a disco wear to be seen in a hospital.

Anshuman could sense Siddharth’s eyes following him as he crossed the latter and walked towards the ICU. The injury was serious and an internal haemorrhage was gradually pushing her to a state of non-recovery. She could go to coma any moment, the doctor informed Anshuman, perhaps there is something very strong in her mind that she has escaped it till now.

There has always been something very strong about her mind – ever since Anshuman met her at the launch of Megafone’s first national campaign – he was the assisting mind behind it and she was a budding pretty journalist. Her knowledge about advertising and charm had bowled Anshuman ever since she took the interview. A couple of years later they got married, away from home and known faces, in the seclusion of Bahamas and company of each other.

‘Hi,’ Anshuman walked up to the waiting lodge.

‘Hi,’ Siddharth stood up.

‘So,’ the confusion was evident in Anshuman’s voice, ‘how do you Kashish?’

The man looked at him, non-apologetically and non-hesitantly.

‘Kashish and I are in love.’

to be continued..

Sorry for messing up the last part. I desperately tried to make it convincing and interesting but perhaps chose a topic too difficult for myself to write convincingly. Sorry… Let me know your views and how you think I could have improved it, coz I am at a loss..

Two people almost spoke at the same instant. 'Sorry' said Riyaaz and 'Stop it' said Srijit.

'I want you to remove your clothes,' Abhigyaan didn't heed his friend's interference, 'and show me that you are not carrying anything illegal.'

'Please don't do this Sir,' Salma came ahead, 'we are inno…'

But she was stopped. 'Don't come ahead,' the command came, 'this is investigation.'

Salma stopped short. 'We are innocent Sir,' she said and looked at Riyaaz who was now gritting with agony and humiliation.

'Perhaps,' Abhigyaan was almost sounding like a cold-blooded murderer, 'but till I verify, I need you to kneel down and put your arms behind your head.' A pause and addition came, 'For your husband's safety and for helping me in wrapping up this entire episode fast.'

'Abhi, stop it,' Srijit walked up from his seat, 'let them go.'

'Don't interfere,' he signalled with his arm and Srijit stopped short.

Salma knelt down and folded her hands behind her hand, while tears ran down her face at a torrential speed.

'I am not taking this anymore,' Riyaaz shook his head, fuming with anger, 'if you wanna kill me, go ahead.'

'I am absolutely certain of that,' Abhigyaan pointed his gun at the man, 'you are not afraid to die. After all, that's why you can be suicide bombers.' He now diverted the aim towards Salma, 'But you might not want your wife to die.'

Riyaaz looked with anger, tears rapidly swelling up in his eyes.

'So…' Abhigyaan continued, 'how do I make myself clear now?'

Riyaaz removed his jacket and dropped it on the ground.

'Shall I ask you something,' Riyaaz looked up with eyes as red as blood, 'Had I not been Riyaaz and some Raja, would you have done the same to me and my wife even then?'

'No,' the answer was unapologetic, 'had you been Raja and not Riyaaz, you wouldn't have been a threat to my family or my society. Open your kurta and jeans.'

At this point, Srijit walked ahead in protest and rebelled against his friend.

'Stop this right away,' the senior correspondent blurted out, 'this is not an official investigation anymore.'

'Yes,' Abhigyaan turned towards his friend, 'perhaps it's personal.'

'But why?' Srijit was shocked that his friend was avenging his personal loss from two strangers, 'What are you trying to do?'

Abhigyaan gaped into his friend's eyes. 'Terrorise.'

A short momentary pause followed. Srijit could not have missed the venom in his friend's eye. The severity in it was indeed terrifying.

'I want to see these people go through the same pain,' Abhigyaan was still away from vulnerability, 'what Priyani might have gone through that night.'

'And why do you want inflict the same on them?' Srijit knew his friend was pained but this repercussion was unacceptable.

'Because I am a Muslim,' Riyaaz answered from his place, 'isn't that evident to you Sir?'

'Exactly,' Abhigyaan confirmed, 'because, for you guys, my wife was battered to death. She couldn't even see me in her final moments.'

'But we are not terrorists,' Salma's voice was pleading.

'Who knows?' Abhigyaan smirked, 'After all, you all have the potential to do so.' He turned to face Riyaaz, 'I am yet to give you a clean chit, so better hurry. Remove your jeans.'

Riyaaz stood at his place, looking at Srijit hoping him to interfere.

'Do you want to me repeat what I had told you,' Abhigyaan noticed the sloth in the reaction, 'or you want me to prove that I can do what I said?'

Riyaaz looked around, zipped open his jeans and let it fall down his legs. He stepped out of it and shook it show that it didn't have anything. He now stood on the street, wearing just his undergarments ' a body hugging white vest and blue v-cut briefs, shivering in the chill.

'This is too much Abhi,' Srijit was now furious, 'let them go.'

'You can say that,' Abhigyaan wasn't reacting normally anymore. Perhaps the pain suppressed in his heart had transcended him to a different altitude of emotions. 'Because you didn't burn your wife tormented to death by these terrorists.'

Srijit looked in disbelief.

Abhigyaan turned towards Riyaaz. The latter shook his jeans and kurta with full might, though by now he had realised all efforts to prove himself innocent would be futile.

'I am not done,' Abhigyaan's jaw was tightening up, 'remove your clothes.'

'Enough,' Srijit shouted, 'you get into the car and leave this place right away.'

'Please leave us Sir,' Salma cried.

'No, he isn't done,' Riyaaz nodded, 'let him complete his investigation. You want to know the truth, right? Go ahead.'

Riyaaz pulled out his vest and dropped his briefs. On the chilly winter night, the hapless young man was shivering in the cold yet stoic in his courage.

Salma had now lost all her self-restraint. She was crying uncontrollably.

'Let me tell you one thing Sir,' Riyaaz was now initiating the discussion. He knew he couldn't go home as another harassed innocent citizen. 'It's not only you who have died in the killings,' his tone unmistakably sarcastic, 'we have faced the same whenever needed for the country. A 26/11 didn't discriminate among religions.'

'Don't generalise terrorism with religion,' Srijit added on it.

'Why? Are terrorists from any other religion as well?' Abhi countered, his tone arrogant and defiant, 'I haven't ever heard of any.'

'You know what forced all the terrorists what they are?' Riyaaz was now challenging, 'because of many Riyaaz have gone through.'

'Now you are showing your true colours,' Abhigyaan wanted Riyaaz wanted to make such a comment, 'after all that's what you are greatest at ' giving excuses for your acts. We didn't force you guys to take up weapons ' you forced a guy like me to bear hatred towards one community and harass two innocent people just the way you guys do. Communal violence, USSR destruction, Oil disputes ' everything in this world is your excuse to terrorise and kill innocent people. That too, by calling it a religious war ' religion, my foot!'

'Don't bring in these issues Abhi,' Srijit made another futile attempt to intervene, 'these are way beyond us and our personal ties.'

'Why should we realise that all the time Goddamm it?' Abhi's pain was now slowly surfacing behind his monstrous face, 'Why should we keep dying and yet console ourselves on the fact that this has nothing to do with religion?'

'Yes, it has nothing to do with religion,' Srijit limped ahead, his voice now sterner, 'it might have something to do with certain countries. But, at this point of time, it has much to do with personal animosity than anything else.'

'Yes, you are right,' a drop of tear rolled down the corner of Abhigyaan's left eye, 'but you know the reason behind it? Because I am tired of coming to terms with all this. Every time, we die for no reason. We initiate a peace process and get shot in return. Not only civilians, the cops as well. Think of the cops and the commandos who flew from all over the country to save innocent people and got killed in the process. And what treatment do we give them in return? We let the trial for the terrorist who was caught to go on for months and perhaps years? Why? HUMANITY! Bloody hell.'

The shriek of the bereaved DCP echoed all over the deserted street, interlude by the breathing and sobbing sounds of the others present alongwith.

'And who fights for that convicted terrorist?' Abhi went on, 'another brother of his from the same religion. Superb! Ask them, "What's the reason man? Why are you taking innocent lives?"  You know what the answer is ' "1947 and Kashmir!" What the hell? What 1947? What do you know of it? We don't enter your nation with machine guns in your 5 star hotels because you killed lakhs of Hindus in 1947. And what Kashmir? Hello… when was Kashmir ever yours?'

'Exactly,' Srijit tried to console his friend, 'it has nothing to with people from our country. And our country is not about one religion. It is as much for a Raja as it is for a Riyaaz.'

'That's the tragedy dude,' Abhigyaan puffed, 'we think it's the same for all. But it's not. They are first Muslims and then Indians. For us, it's the other way round.'

'Really?' Srijit looked straight into his friend's eyes with a sarcastic smile, 'I think the man standing in front of me isn't an Indian trying to kill another Indian ' he is a Hindu trying to kill a Muslim. Correct me if I am wrong.'

For the first time, Abhigyaan was silenced on his battleground.

'This is not the same guy I have known for years,' Srijit was trying to excavate his friend from the demon who had overtaken, 'and neither is this Priyani's husband.'

The last line did have its effect. It almost sublimed Abhigyaan's anger and averted the danger for that night. Almost! Had Riyaaz not made the fatal mistake!

All of a sudden, he darted forward. Perhaps it was the rage of humiliation or hope to escape. He rushed ahead to hit Abhigyaan.

'Riyaaz no,' Salma shouted trying in vain to control her husband.

Seeing the young man rush towards him, Abhigyaan raised his gun to alarm him. The sudden change caught Srijit by panic. He felt that Abhigyaan would shoot the guy, and in his attempt to save him, he caught Abhi's arm and tried to fold it away. But by then, Riyaaz had already landed himself on the cop and hit him in his belly with the knee.

Salma released her arms and kept shouting her husband's name, pleading him to stop while Srijit kept on fighting with his pain to separate the two men who were now hitting each other. And then it all stopped in one sound.

The noise of the gun shot was almost deafening. One shot that tore across all other screams and sounds. And a pause followed ' a silent, pregnant pause, waiting to erupt into something beyond imagination. The victim fell on the ground, a pool of blood slowly encapsulating the body which was losing life gradually.

The three men were startled out of their fistfight as Salma's head struck the ground, blood running down her back. The bullet had hit her chest and pierced it completely, victimising her within a few moments. 'Riyaaz…' she called out, 'Riyaaz…'

Like a wounded tiger captivated within an undersized cage, Riyaaz Ahmed darted towards his wife, held her head in his lap and tried in vain to save her life with a piece of handkerchief bandaged on the wound. The cloth soaked in blood immediately but the blood didn't stop and it drained away with itself Salma's last breaths.

Abhigyaan stood at his place, marbled with horror. His hatred had claimed an innocent life tonight. And as Salma muttered Riyaaz's name in her ultimate moments, he visualised how exactly Priyani might have wanted to see him while struck with a bullet. He now realised the meaning ' it was not because Priyani wanted him to save her. It was because she wanted to tell him how much his love and their relation had mattered to her. It was just because she wanted to be with him one last time. Tonight, he had killed another Priyani himself. Not because of his love for Priyani, but out of hatred towards her killers. He had allowed love to succumb to hatred. The realisation was killing him internally.

Srijit bent down by Riyaaz to console him, but the wounded man held his deceased wife in his arms and howled. He wanted no one to be with him, especially those two who were associated with the worst night of his life.

'Go away' he kept shouting, 'Go away. Leave us alone.'

Abhigyaan and Srijit drove back, without words, at torrential speed. Srijit stayed back at his friend's place ' unable to gather courage to get back home alone.

'I didn't kill that girl intentionally,' Abhigyaan spoke one-sided, 'it was an accident.'

***

As the dawn broke, ushering in light into their darkest night, Srijit got up and readied himself to leave. The trauma of the last night had silenced him.

He knocked on Abhi's bedroom to inform him before leaving. But, there was no response.

After a couple of knocks, Srijit tried to push the door and it opened. The sight almost caught Srijit by surprise. The room was vacant. Where did Abhi go?  He looked all around, until a letter caught his attention. It was neatly folded and placed under the water jar on the dining table.

Srijit opened to read it. Expectedly, it was addressed to him.

Srijit,

I don't know whether I should start by apologising or should I try to clarify. Perhaps it isn't adequate to do either of them. Neither I deserve to be pardoned nor have I the right to clarify. Actually, I don't have anything to clarify.

The demon that overtook me last night couldn't have borne out only from my loss or my love. It was something much deeper, something much more severe, something much more sinful. I don't deserve to be a cop anymore nor live life of an innocent citizen. I was trying to avenge Priyani's death and lost her again, this time killing her myself.

And I am sure that I instigated Riyaaz enough to kill another Priyani somewhere else. That's how the cycle goes. You were right; I was first a Hindu last night and then an Indian. I was taking out someone else's anger on my countrymen. I made the terrorists victorious. The feeling that I have been going through for the past few hours is something I can't explain to you ' neither would you believe me if I do.

I am going out ' don't know where. And I don't intend to come back either. I haven't taken anything along. Just do me one small favour. I have left a cheque on the stool beside my bed. Give it to any child welfare organisation you deem fit. Priyani loved children. If possible, take care of this house. It has her remnants.

And, if you ever feel I wasn't a bad guy, just forgive me for what I became last night.

Take care.

Your friend

Abhigyaan

I thought of putting the entire remaining portion in this post as it’s only one episode remaining now. But, then it would have really long and tedious post for you to read, it’s already quite lengthy. So, I am breaking it into two parts… I just hope I am able to hold your interests till here…

A year back…

Abhigyaan had been waiting to see Priyani ever since the moment he had appeared at the spot. As the survivor hostages rushed out of the hotel under police security, he scanned them, madly searching for his wife ' forgetting that he wasn't an ordinary citizen but a gold medallist IPS officer.

It had been almost 24 hours after his arrival that he finally saw her. She was dressed in a blue chiffon sari he had gifted on their first marriage anniversary, looking as ethereal as his wedding night bride draped in benarasi and adorned in simple jewellery. 'You look perfect even when you wake up,' Abhimanyu used to complain fondly, 'this is bad. I suffer from inferiority complex.' However, this time around, Priyani Banerjee was lifeless.

The bullets had battered her body at six different places, seemingly rampaged as a mark of cruelty and terror. The frozen blood and pallor on her face made it evident that her dead body had been lying unattended for quite some time. However, there was not even a tinge of fear on her face. Priya was always braver than me, Abhi told himself and smiled painfully yet proudly.

'She is my wife,' Abhigyaan could hear himself speak with voice choked with anguish, while Priyani was being transferred on a stretcher to the ambulance kept awaiting.

A child ran up to him as Abhi moved towards the stretcher. He was barely twelve years old, presumably of American origin, clad in a blue t-shirt and red slacks. 'Are you Abimenu?' the child pulled him by the arm, 'she saved my life from the terrorists and kept calling your name in her final moments. I would be thankful to her all my life.'

As if he was not defeated already, Abhi had to hear this. For a moment, he could visualise Priyani lying in a pool of blood somewhere on the hotel floor, battered with bullets and calling his name. Suddenly, Abhi felt her voice reach his ears, as she muttered her name while heaving with pain. She wanted him to come and save her from the inevitable, from the terror, from the death she was fighting. After all, he had always been her hero.

And on the panic-stricken Mumbai street, Abhimanyu held the arm of a foreigner guy who was perhaps one-third of his age, and burst out crying ' howling in pain and anger.

 

A year later…

Abhi stood out on the open streets, looking blankly, radiant eyes soaked with grief. Srijit adjusted the gear, stopped the engine and opened his door. And almost instantly a motorbike crashed into him. Abhigyaan hadn't taken notice of the bike when it had sailed past him but the screeching sound of the bike and shriek of his friend and a girl compelled him to take notice.

As he turned, Srijit sank down on his knees while the pair riding the bike rushed down it.

'I am really sorry,' the guy explained while they bent to attend the lower shin where Srijit seemed to be hurt, 'I was about to take the left turn, so was driving on the left.'

'It's okay,' Srijit nodded his head.

Abhigyaan walked rapidly towards the place and held his friend by the arm.

'Are you okay?' he asked, 'how did it happen?'

'Actually I didn't realise that Sir was about to come out,' the guy clarified in a tensed voice, 'I was about to take left turn and crashed into him unintentionally.'

'It's okay,' Srijit wreathed, 'I should have put the indicator on as well.'

Abhigyaan opened the driver's door and made his friend sit comfortably on the driver's seat. Srijit slowly pushed himself over and stretched his leg to reduce the pain.

As Abhigyaan turned to talk to the couple, he finally caught notice of their appearances. The boy was around 6 feet tall, fair, sharp features with a rough cheek skin spotted with shaved beard marks and black hair highlighted with streaks of almond. He wore an olive green waist-length kurta, stonewashed dark brown jeans and a black leather jacket. The girl was much better looking in comparison to him. She was fairer than the guy, about 5'4" in height, clad in white salwar-kameez with the dupatta worn over her head, neatly done make up, well matched oxidised accessories and a black oversized vanity bag hanging from one shoulder.

'I am really sorry,' the guy repeated and the lady joined her, 'yes sir, indeed.'

'Not an issue,' Abhigyaan nodded, 'I think you should go now. It's not safe driving a bike with a lady so late at night.'

'Thanks,' the pair acknowledged together.

They strolled back and got on the bike. The guy started the engine, raised his hand to his head and wished the strangers 'Khuda Hafiz.' Unknowingly, he spoilt all his hopes to reach home safely that night.

'Excuse me,' Abhigyaan's reaction came faster than he might have anticipated himself.

The guy looked back and smiled, 'Yes?'

'May I know your name?'

Srijit looked at his friend, alarmed by the tone, sceptical of what lay ahead.

'Riyaaz Ahmed.'

'And her?' Abhigyaan asked.

'Why do you want to know?' the guy was displeased by the questions.

Abhigyaan didn't respond to his question but brought out his identity card from the jeans hip pocket. 'DCP Abhimnayu Banerjee,' he flashed the card, 'you want to ask something else?'

'Salma sir,' the lady added trying to avert the trouble, 'we are husband-wife. Both of us work in a call centre. We are returning home after our shift.'

Abhigyaan nodded weakly, rubbing his finger-tips, a signal Srijit knew as a tendency his friend displayed had whenever he was unsure or attempted at conjuring any explanation. In most probability, things were not shaping up favourably. Abhi pondered for the next line and finally figured what he wanted to ask.

'Why are you not wearing a helmet?' Abhi pointed out, 'please get down from the bike.'

Riyaaz and Salma couldn't figure out that the reluctant stranger they had met a few moments back was slowly turning into a monster. Riyaaz turned off the bike's engine as they stepped off the bike, unaware that their nightmare hadn't yet started.

'We are sorry Sir,' Salma initiated the apology with a smile, 'as the streets are vacant, we thought we would cherish the cold wind.'

'May I see your driving license please?' Abhigyaan pointed.

Riyaaz handed over his driving license, unwillingly, and observed the cop. Abhi scanned the license and kept in his hand.

'Please step back from the bike,' he ordered Riyaaz in a no-nonsense tone.

'Why?' the young guy was flummoxed.

'Is there something wrong,' Srijit asked.

But there was no response to Srijit's question.

'Do as I say,' Abhigyaan brought out his service revolver tucked under his belt, 'please step aside and co-operate.'

Salma almost freaked out at the sight of the gun. 'What is this going on?'

'Routine enquiry Ma'am,' Abhigyaan remarked, 'please ask your husband not to compel the police and oblige peacefully.'

Salma looked pleadingly at her husband, and Riyaaz nodded.

'May I know what are you carrying in your bag Ma'am?' Abhigyaan diverted the attention.

'My bag?' Salma looked confused, 'Why?'

'Well I doubt it contains explosives or related materials,' Abhigyaan's face could have hardly revealed to any stranger that he was making all this up. Perhaps he had practised all of this many times to gain that expertise. And this was the night for execution.

'Bomb?' Salma was on the verge of tears.

'Well,' Abhigyaan swallowed, 'perhaps. Or any other not so congenial for the society.'

'Abhi,' Srijit spoke out, 'what's wrong? Is there any reason for your doubt?'

'Our first reason for scrutiny is personal doubt,' Abhigyaan looked at his friend, 'first level analysis to prevent anti-social activists and activism.'

'Why do we seem anti-socials to you?' Riyaaz blurted from his position.

'Doubt Mr. Ahmed,' Abhigyaan smirked, 'there's no logical reason to doubt.' He turned to face Salma, 'May I now please see the contents of your bag?'

Salma wiped the tears which had betrayed her restraint. She zipped open the bag and showed it to the investigator.

'Turn it and drop all the contents on the ground,' Abhigyaan ordered.

Salma didn't ask any other question. She turned her bag upside down and shook all the components on the ground. Her cosmetics, money, sunglass, notepad, pens and keys ' everything lay scattered on the street, while she drooped her head in embarrassment and grief and her husband looked on helplessly, unable to protest.

Srijit knew he had to budge in, but he was sceptical if Abhigyaan had any feasible reason to doubt the couple. After all, his friend had been an expert in this field for years.

'Ok, it's clear,' Abhigyaan smiled. Everyone else gasped in relief, hardly realising that the torment was far away from over.

'Sir,' Abhi turned towards Riyaaz, 'it's your turn now.'

Riyaaz emptied his pockets and poured his wallet's contents on the ground. After he finished, he looked up said, 'Anything else?'

The DCP smiled and said, 'You haven't yet started.'

'I'm sorry,' the frown on his face expressing his confusion as he saw the other two onlookers and faced back the cop, 'I didn't get you.'

'Well, I need to check your clothes,' Abhigyaan ordered, 'Strip.'

To be continued in the 4th and last part… Will be posted in one more day…

A year back…

When the taxi finally stopped at Apollo Bandar, Abhigyaan could feel his entire life being stripped apart into fragments. The Taj Towers was ablaze, the police had barricaded the area, and a confused cry of grief and terror blanketed the place. For the past 12 hours, he had not been able to get through Priyani's cell, and everytime he thought she would receive the call, he had met only with disappointment.

The police missions, encounters and other ventures never succeeded in weakening his spirits or courage, but the Deputy Commissioner of Kolkata police could now feel his legs tremble as he stood on the chaotic Mumbai street, watching the Mumbai police combat the belligerent attack on the city's oldest five star hotel.

 

A year later…

Srijit Roy Chowdhury stood in the basement car-park, smoking a cigarette, waiting for his friend to appear. He was about to take out his cell when Abhigyaan appeared at the entry ' his white pyajamas changed into denims, a dazzling silver Rolex watch shining on his right wrist with the kurta sleeves rolled up, and the archetypal rimless glasses back on his face.

'Ready to go Sirjee?' Srijit shouted.

'Yes reporter!' Abhigyaan laughed.

As the finally settled on the front seats of Srijit's golden SX4, Abhi took out his Dutch 9.4 revolver and kept in the dashboard.

'Man, what are you doing?' the sight of the revolver almost jolted out Srijit in surprise.

'What?' Abhigyaan adjusted his seat belt, 'this is my service revolver. I am entitled to carry it all the time.'

'Yeah, but this is just a casual drive.' Though this was not the first time the Senior Correspondent was seeing a gun, he had hardly planned for a drive tonight with a revolver in his dashboard!

'Once a cop, always a cop.' Abhigyaan winked at his friend.

'Yeah right,' Srijit dropped the argument and turned on the ignition of his car, 'especially when he is drunk.'

***

There's a different aura to Kolkata streets when they are rain-soaked. The best part is however the decreased amount of dust and traffic.

'Tera… hone laga hun…' Atif Aslam sang one of his latest chartbusters from the SX4 music player. Srijit adjusted the volume with his steering audio control.

'Change this song,' Abhigyaan spoke from his half laid position.

'This is a popular number man,' Srijit decreased the volume, 'and a melodious one as well.'

'First stop trying to remind me that I am a man,' Abhigyaan smirked, 'and change this song. I don't like this guy.'

'But…' Srijit tried to explain.

'The rules are mine,' the rejoinder came before Srijit could complete, 'You remember it, right? I am not in a mood to listen to a Muslim voice now.'

The tone and words silenced even the man known for his gift of gab. Srijit looked at his friend lying with the seat inclined, dumbfounded, and changed the track. Kaliash Kher sang out "Tu jaane na…"

***

They had stopped twice on their way. Once at Goutam's ' a food joint near Ultadanga for late night snacks and their cold coffee with ice cream, and the second time for a smoke on the by lanes of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Airport.

Abhigyaan sat upright, while the car cruised along, with his eyes shut. However, despite the loud music, he could hear Srijit's nail tapping the steering wheel occasionally. The smell of tanned leather in the air said they were crossing Tiljala.

Suddenly, he could hear a faint sound of an argument which soared as they gradually moved ahead. Srijit hadn't noticed the chaos but when Abhigyaan peeped out of the window, even he looked around.

Much to their surprise, they could see a middle aged lady and a young girl arguing with a truck driver, with a traffic police playing a hapless referee.

Srijit pushed his brakes but even before he could stop the car or say something, his partner had dashed out and was strolling towards the place or argument with the revolver tucked in his waist.

Srijit stopped the ignition and came out. By the time he could catch sight of the entire scene, the traffic police was explaining the situation to Abhigyaan. The young girl was almost in tears. However, the other lady who was presumably the mother had maintained her calm and putting up a strong fight. Srijit could see a Maruti Alto parked near the truck, the former with a headlight broken and a crumbled bonnet.

'But, you didn't even blow horn while coming out of the street,' the lady said.

'You know what the time is?' the truck driver didn't seem to bother the presence of the cops. As the discussion continued in Hindi, Srijit noticed the driver had a strong Jat accent with a physique about 3 inches taller and 5 inches broader than Abhigyaan. The lady, with Gujarati diction of speech, seemed too much in contrast in her petite frame.

'Mom had come to pick me up from airport,' the girl seemed to gain some strength in the presence of the two new men, 'we were returning home and his truck came out of the blue. We did blow horn but he didn't.'

'Civilised women don't return home at this time,' the driver's tone was that of sarcasm.

But the reaction that the comment generated was something none present at the scene could have guessed.

Abhigyaan's arm swung in a lightning speed, crashing on the driver's lower jaw and the giant Jat spun twice before collapsing on the street with a banging sound. Srijit could hear himself whistle as everyone gasped at the sudden turn in events. 'Get him in for the next week,' Abhi instructed the traffic police with an iron face as if nothing had happened, 'call police from the nearby station.' He turned at the two women, 'Avoid late night flights. Now, get back fast.'

Even before they could thank him, Abhigyaan was walking back towards the car ' a quckly lit Dunhill fine cut light dangling from his lips.

***

It was past midnight when the car breezed along the deserted city streets, the window shutters brought down to let in the drizzle.

Srijit had turned on the radio half an hour back. The baritone voice of the middle aged RJ permeated through the confines of the car, as he interjected the songs with anecdotes, conversation with callers and quotes of great people.

"The clock in my office shows 12:45," the RJ announced, "and the date  sends shivers down my spine. It's 26th November. Exactly a year after the black day of every Indian's calendar, 26/11, that tarred our lives and our memories forever.”

From the corner of his eye, Srijit could see Abhigyaan suddenly attentive to the announcement on air. He knew this was the last topic they would like to discuss tonight, in this drive. He pressed the tuner on his steering and changed the channel.

'Back,' Abhigyaan's voice was almost commanding.

'Abhi…'

'Back.'

Srijit shook his head and adjusted the tuner to the previous station. The RJ was continuing.

"The number of deaths was beyond our imagination. But, the ulterior motive was much more than the death; it was the terror that was injected in the minds of the people ' the helplessness, the fear of losing a loved one, the fear of facing death unprecedentedly. But, did the terrorists actually succeed in doing so? Do you think that they created a sense of panic which they aimed at? If yes, then why? Have we become cowards or have we started accepting that our system wouldn't ever do anything to protect us from the terrorists? If not, then why not? Have we actually started taking danger in our stride or have we started neglecting the deaths of others unless it happens to someone near and dear to us? I want you guys to call me up and answer…"

'Sensitisation, that's all they can,' Abhigyaan looked outside and brought out a cigarette while the RJ repeated his phone numbers asking listeners to call in and voice their opinions, 'all they want to do is survive on dramatisation.'

Srijit braked the car and pulled it to halt. Abhigyaan thrusted it open and almost burst out into tears. Srijit released his seat belt and turned to console his best friend.

'They don't realise what those people go through,' the vulnerable DCP complained, 'who lost everything that night.'

'Don't do this to yourself man,' Srijit rubbed his hand on his friend's back.

'I feel like…' Abhigyaan couldn't complete his sentence. His jaws tightened and tears streamed down his cheeks.

Srijit felt miserable for his friend. He had seen Abhigyaan trying to put up with the trauma for the past one year. But, what was about to happen in the next half an hour was something he could have thought he they started on this drive. He didn't know that for the rest of his life he was going to wish he had not stopped the car at that place.

Half a mile away, a couple was approaching them on a bike. Riyaaz and Salma!

To be continued in the concluding part…

“DRIVE” is my first attempt to write something socially relevant on rediffiland. Hope it makes sense, comes across unbiasedly and you all like it.

The Jet Airways flight cruised down the Chhatrapati Shivaji Domestic Airport. Within a few moments, Abhigyaan Banerjee was seen running across the runway, without heeding the ground instruction, not waiting for the bus to carry them to the terminal. Clad in a khadi blue shirt, black jeans, a black jacket that waved in the air as he ran, and carrying a handbag which could hardly contain even a day's clothes, Abhigyaan drew everyone's attention as any other 6'2" handsome guy would do if he rushed into an airport premises and at an equally rapid pace, ran out of the exit gate.

As the taxi turned right and sped onto the Western Express Highway, Abhigyaan could feel his arms shiver as he rubbed them against each other, and his lips stutter into a prayer every few seconds. His life was stuck around 30 kilometres away, while the entire world seemed to be glued to their television sets.

An year later…

The rain wet November winds splashed against the sliding widow of the 32nd floor flat. Abhigyaan Banerjee unlatched the lock of the 12 feet broad pane and pushed it open. In a moment, the rain drenched his face and the turquoise blue knee-long kurta. Abhigyaan stood there, savouring the rain. It's been quite a while since I last got myself wet.

The glass filled with a large peg of Imperial vodka clinked with the sounds of ice cubes. From somewhere in the giant hall of his flat, Kishore Kumar sang one of his most cherished tracks ' 'Badi sooni sooni hai, zindagi ae zindagi.' Abhigyaan peeped down the window and looked at the giant facade of the tower, which was now getting soaked in the unprecedented autumn showers. Beauty and death are just two facets of the same eye, he thought to himself, the top floor is the most exotic yet the most perilous. If I jump from here, no one might be even able to identify my face. But I am here, cherishing the music, rain and the vodka. A smiled outlined his lips at the thought.

How many times had he thought of jumping over and ending his life? With an overdose of campose stoshed within his stomach, he thought he would jump over and die painlessly. But, he never could. The house has her remnants ' her smell, her touch, her colours, her presence…

The calling bell honked and jerked him out of the reverie. Abhigyaan turned dizzily and looked at the watch hanging from the wall. It was almost quarter to eleven. Who has turned up so late, Abhigyaan frowned and turned back at the window, I am in no mood to respond.

The bell honked again, this time twice at the same instant. I am gonna kill this person.

Abhigyaan darted towards the door, his legs swaying in a non-liner motion, the ice cubes banging against the glass interior. He turned the lock and pulled open the door. But the late night intruder was not someone Abhi could vent his anger upon. Srijit Roy Chowdhury stood at the door, smiling at his childhood friend. He was dressed in a casual loosely fitted black tee, track pajamas and floaters. Contrary to the tall muscular built of Abhigyaan, Srijit was lean and around half a foot short.

'So, Mr. DCP,' Srijit quizzed, 'alone with a drink?'

DCP Abhigyaan Banerjee smirked at being reminded his post. The futility of his office has been striking him for the past one year. It has been the biggest liability of my life.

NDTV senior correspondent Srijit knew Abhigyaan ever since they met at a press conference four years back, and almost immediately they struck a chord. For the past few years, they have maintained a close association ' perhaps it was because of their same schooling background, their common love for driving or unadulterated fight against terrorism.

'Come in,' Abhigyaan greeted his guest for the night, 'I'll make one for you as well.'

'Man, I have come to take you out,' Srijit smiled back, 'hurry up. The night's calling us. Let's go for a drive.'

'Are you mad?' Abhigyaan turned and walked back to his room, 'take your girl-friend along.'

Srijit walked into the room, toddling behind his friend, 'Morally you should not make such a remark to man who has just broken up a week back, that too after five years of courtship.' He closed the door behind him. 'But, I will pardon that because I am loving the weather as much as I am loving my single status.' He winked. Abhigyaan smiled at the remark.

'Come on man,' Srijit tossed the car keys in his hand, 'both of us are on leave. And it's a perfect night to hit the streets. After all, both of us have been cross-country drivers.'

'Why have you taken a leave?' Abhigyaan forcepped out another ice cube and dropped it in his vodka, 'You should be working, now that you are free.'

Srijit laughed at the joke but restrained himself to make a reply. 'See man,' he inclined on the sofa handle, 'now that I am free, I have time to be with myself. Prior to this, even when I took an off, it went off accompanying that girl and listening to her crib.'

Abhigyaan shook his head and looked back outside. 'If you actually want to drive tonight,' he looked back at his friend, 'the terms would be mine.'

Srijit knocked his boot on the ground and folded the right palm on his forehead. 'Yes Sir.'

To be continued…