Asifa

“Where were you?” I asked Ritu, as she closed the door behind her.

My daughter looked at me with exasperation, trying to weave a generous dose of irritation and sarcasm in her withering look. She was in her early twenties now, with righteous angst in her heart and an equally righteous chip on her shoulder, so naturally, my questions were irksome. But irksome or not, 11 pm in any case, was not a proper time to come home.

Delhi or no Delhi.

“I was at that protest march, Papa!” she said, a bit crossly. “I told you!”.

True. I had received the Watsapp FYI. For your information, not For your Approval. The liberated Gen-next, asserting it’s liberty.

Protest march. I rolled my eyes.

It had become the in-thing these days. People lined the streets in protest, but if you asked some of them, they didn’t even know why they were there. Probably for the free potato chips and apple juice – small price to pay, since numbers needed to be optically demonstrated to the target audience of that march. The media would be there and would report on the popularity or otherwise of an issue, based on the pitch and fervour of the protesting crowd. I remember I had participated in one, with my friends, it had been a Friday night, several years ago, when we were teenagers. We were actually looking for girls in that march.

But the Lathi charge that started had not been amusing. I forget what the issue was.

Anyways, I digress. Let me tell you something about myself and my daughter.

I am a lawyer with a good practice (read lobbying) in Delhi. And when my daughter showed that she too was inclined towards law, (our genes being the guilty party), I set the wheels in motion for her, as any nepotism inspired Dad would do. I spoke to my well-connected friend and ensured that she was now working as a paralegal in a prestigious law firm. Of course, I kept this whole thing from her; she needed to believe that she had been selected from the Campus, simply based on merit. While idealism didn’t suit our family or the members of our exalted profession, I had to give her some latitude for inexperience. I didn’t want to burst her idealistic bubble, not so early at-least and I was sure that the Courts would do that. I wanted her to learn the ropes independently, to get her hands dirty, and maybe her soul too, in the process.

As usually is the case. The best sort of experience.

Unfortunately, she seemed to have caught the humanitarian bug.

I was given to understand that an NGO had approached her and her friends, to take up pro bono cases, in their free time. And I was panic stricken to see the level of excitement in her face. Instead of taking cases of the rich and the famous, she was wading in the sewers and the slums of this advocacy driven city. Idealism had it’s limits, but they were being stretched. And I didn’t know how this NGO had found out about my idealist daughter and her idealistic friends (read suckers), but the damage was done.

Pro bono cases for the downtrodden. Seriously.

What in God’s name had gone wrong?

She had been admitted to an elite school, by design. Ours. We made sure she hobnobbed with a bunch of appropriately snooty friends, while we boogied with their even snootier parents. We made sure our kitty parties were filled with lame, harmless conversations. Branded clothes, yearly trips to Spain (her favourite) and the States. Conversations around Mercs and Ferraris and the handsome boys that drove them.

All this and our daughter ended up wanting to construct a halo around her head. Where did we go wrong with our kitty party upbringing?

I looked at my wife and rolled my eyes. Halos didn’t come cheap, however I could buy one for her, if she needed this. But no, our aspiring little Mahatma wanted Life to slap her on one cheek, so she could offer the other one.

“And what’s the issue this time?” I asked.

“Asifa, Dad!” she said.

She walked past me to her room in a huff. The pro-bono charity stopped at the doorstep to her room, she needed her own room, paid for by me, of course. And the irony was lost on her.

My wife came up to me and gently massaged my forehead. “Come to bed, Benji” she said. “This is just a passing fad. Speak to your friend, bury her in some heavy corporate litigation; all of this will go away.” And my wife walked away.

I sat there in silence. My whisky lay untouched, the cigar lay on the ashtray, the whiff of smoke permeating the room.

Asifa. Shit. Shit. Shit. 

This had become breaking news some time back.

Asifa, a very small girl. And the unspeakable had happened to her. Unspeakable, a taboo topic for discussion, especially in ballrooms and parties and corporate boardrooms. It was so distressing talking about such things in front of dainty little girls, who grew up on Cinderella and Rapunzel. You couldn’t bring Phoolan Devi into the conversation just like that, right? 

So Unspeakable. Yes. But not for the media.

The media had had a field day with the news when it broke out. Especially when the industrialist Makhijani’s son was caught, with a powder. They were desperately trying to prove that it was face powder. They, as in, the Counsel for the defence. The media, of course, was impartial, while stressing on the possibility of it being face powder. 

And Freddy Makhijani had been seen on the CCTV camera (they had missed to erase one, I suppose). And he was with Asifa. Who was struggling, miserably and desperately. And trying to scream. And getting smothered.

The viral videos on the net added to the madness. The Dark Web claimed to have full frontal footage, no idea where that came from, but they were charging for it. There were three other friends of his in that car, they claimed. The friends were all jeering and egging him on, and she had been dragged into the car and then tried to jump out.

And he had jumped out with her and she had started to scream, and there was powder around his nostrils and his eyes had become pin-pricks and he had been filled with a mad, manic, hypnotic, psychotic rage and then…..

And then…..

I shook my head at the memory of that video. My years in law had dried all the tears from my face, only phony ones remained for appropriate occasions, and leaving behind a cynical sarcasm, a mask, that served as my coping mechanism. That and my cigar and whisky. But the video had been very disturbing. I downed my whisky.

I thought of Rishabh Vaidya. The sonofabitch moronic newscaster, pardon my French, had actually had the gumption to thrust a mike into that little girl’s face and ask her, whether she had done anything to provoke the guy who had, well, you know.

How intelligent of him. A nine-year-old frail girl, returning from her friend’s birthday party and waiting for her Ola. Her other friend who was with her, had been busy on her mobile and hence not able to act, instantaneously, when the car with all the boys screeched to a halt in front of them. And when the guy got out, she turned and ran and Asifa stood there, rooted to the spot, transfixed by pure terror. Or so went the noting in the FIR.

On that busy road, in the dim twilight, with cars rushing by and zero pedestrians, who would stop to listen to the screams and wails of a girl, anyways?

And Rishabh Vaidya wanted to explore whether there had been any provocation.

And the girl was shivering and foaming, and her eyes had turned glassy and Rishabh Vaidya was demanding an answer, the self-proclaimed lord of all the conspiracy theories…

I remembered the poor girl. Her beseeching eyes, wracked with shame and terror and the realization that the world was a terrible, cynical, cold, lecherous place, filled with monsters and false sympathizers. In her village, she would be castigated as an omen, astrologers would research her Kundali and come up with self evident predictions about the placement of stars and constellations.

And her parents, who would have the worst of it all, plagued by the sneering ridicule in the eyes of their neighbours, at not being able to protect their girl.

Screw Rishabh Vaidya. Nobody cared about the domestic violence case pending against him.

Or the molestation case by his maid-servant.

I tapped the cigar on the ashtray and took a long, satisfying puff. Then I unwrapped myself from the comfy chair and went and sat on the desk. I googled “Asifa” and the entire garbage popped out before me.

A new YouTuber by the name of “Dark Secrets” was screaming about a rabid controversy. Something about terrorism. He had a huge fan following and the language that was unleashed could only be described modestly as graffiti. But he seemed to have inside information. He didn’t care to clarify whose insides had been compromised for that.

I read the whole gory tale. Her parents had been unable to get an FIR registered, since the identity of the alleged perpetrator had dulled the senses of whoever heard that name. Maybe, they thought and hoped, maybe some unknown person would come forward. Maybe the personal driver or the watchman of the Makhijanis, if they acted fast enough. This needed to be dealt with, carefully and sensitively. But this was the new-age era of Insta reels and You-tube videos and the parents had been accosted by some righteous indignants hanging outside the premises and they claimed that the police had been rough. And Insensitive.

And then the media came in.

With the exception of that swine Rishabh Vaidya, the media had actually forced an action on the part of the authorities. And many came forward in support of the girl’s parents, their grit, their determination, their grief.  

But the parents’ grief was nothing, compared to the grief of the leader of the local opposition party. He was suffering like nobody’s business. Yes, his team had sufficient glycerine packets. I knew that sonofa…. Never mind.

Then a bunch of small-time ambulance chasers had gotten on the bandwagon. They said that they would take up this case. They gave a sweet homily to the media about love and tenderness and care and justice and injustice and women’s empowerment. And then a righteous NGO entered the scene, pouring water on all these ambulance chasers and approached these pro bono innocents. My stupid daughter and her stupid friends, all with that teenage sense of right and wrong and a desire to change the world from their tunnel vision, that believed only in black and white.

Grey would appear only when it appeared in the hair, I supposed.

The media was holding debates. And the bastard Freddy Makhijani was in Switzerland. Vacationing. Those pics were also loaded in the media.

Hashtag – Freedom.  

I had instructed my daughter not to take up this case. So obviously, being the teenager that she was, with a bunch of rebellious rap songs in her Wynk kitty, she had to take it up. Thankfully, she was involved only in a harmless way, with protest marches and blogs and stuff. Who cared about these things in a democracy, right?

But I went to sleep that night, with a heavy heart. And a premonition that something bad was in the offing.

-00-

A calm breeze blew across the bungalow, which overlooked a wide expanse of gardens on one side. It was a balmy afternoon and any occupants of that bungalow should have been enjoying the idyll provided by such exotic surroundings. Unfortunately, the surroundings were anything but. There was no longer any privacy left, as a few media people kept on lounging at the gates, their vans idling in the distance, hoping for any member of the Makhijani family to get out and give them sound bytes or glares or any dropped hints or statements that would give them the spice they needed for their news curry. But the Makhijanis were busy and their family lawyer had just gone inside, giving rise to a variety of speculations. But the boy wonder still hadn’t returned from his stint in the Swiss Alps.

Mr. Makhijani set up the Teams call with his son. He was surrounded by his wife, his daughter and her husband and their family lawyer. Controversy was not new to them as he was deeply entrenched in the local Delhi politics. But a case like this wasn’t one of those run of the mill things. It would need careful handling.

“Faneesh!” Mr. Makhijani bellowed. It was clear that he was enraged, as he didn’t use the pet name. Freddy Makhijani, sitting on the other side of the video, reared back, as if he had been slapped. The bellow reverberated around that room and his wife blanched. The effect was impressive, especially since Mr. Makhijani rarely directed such explosive invectives towards his darling son.

“Hi Dad” Freddy’s voice was subdued and sheepish. He knew what he had done. He had been known as a wild kid, full of tantrums and hot air. But the media backlash and the resulting furore had sobered him and now his father got his full attention. And respect. At least till this thing blew over.

“You have landed all of us in a lot of shit, Faneesh!” Mr. Makhijani emphasized each word, slowly and long drawn. He had been told by a speech therapist that voice modulation and pauses and long drawn sentences create an effect and this occasion merited some of that emphasis, he reckoned.

Freddy said nothing. His Mom had taught him that when his father was in a temper, silence was the best response. It helped ease the temper.

She should know. The slap marks on her cheeks had gradually reduced over time.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” the father bellowed even more; alpha male to the last.

Freddy shut his eyes and his face tightened. He wanted to retort, he could retort. He knew his father wasn’t a saint when it came to women. But he held back. This was not the time. But he would remember this, he whispered to himself, gritting his teeth. He would get back at his old man. He would…

No, stop, he reminded himself. He was in deep shit and the old boy was his only lifeline.

Sure enough, the family lawyer butted in. Mr. Mehta had dealt with Mr. Makhijani in the past, he knew how that man could be quietened. He also knew that the rascal of a son couldn’t be reformed. He also knew that for all his bellowing and blustering, Mr. Makhijani was secretly proud of his Casanova son.

The crime wasn’t in the commission. It was in getting caught.

“Sir, we have bigger matters to discuss”.

“Ah yes. Freddy, Mr. Mehta here has some good news.” Makhijani’s voice eased off several decibels.

Mr. Mehta: “How are you Freddy?”

“I’m doing good, Uncle. How are you—”

“Cut the crap!” Makhijani bellowed again, asserting his dominance. “you can have your lovely reunions later. Mehta, tell him what happened”

“Yes Sir. Uh. Freddy. We have had a bit of a good news for you.”

“Yes, Uncle?”

“There’s this lawyer, Bansilal Tyagi. He’s connected, quite well connected in fact. He’s speaking to the girl’s parents. In fact, he visited them in their slums yesterday and he spoke to them” Mehta was flapping away with his mouth, he was uncomfortable in the presence of this perverted psycho, although the psycho was thousands of miles away.

“Yes, Uncle?”

“He told them that this case would take years and people would lose interest and it’s better for them, to make peace with what happened. He gave them a different narrative”

“Oh how lovely, Uncle”

Mehta’s face tightened. This psycho nauseated him, but now his servile, sweet-as-sugar voice grated even further on his nerves. He had read the article in the paper. Had he not been the family lawyer…

He continued.

“Mr. Tyagi is meeting them, again. The girl’s mother screamed at him and yelled at him to leave. The father was slightly better, but he seems to be practical. Also, he’s a drunkard.”

“A drunkard? Wow. It means you can-”

Mr. Makhijani cut him off.

“Quiet!” he snapped. “Not another word.”

Freddy stopped talking, subdued.

Makhijani regarded Mehta with baleful eyes.

“Listen, Mehta. I want this Tyagi to give them a good offer. A good offer, understand? And also pay Tyagi well, ok? I don’t want him to come after me later on. I won’t tolerate it.”

Mehta cringed at the subtle accusation. “Don’t worry, Sir” he said. “Bansilal is a fixer. He’ll fix it, so that this case dies out, before it causes any real harm”. ‘

“Good. And that narrative? Make sure it sticks. And remember – that friend who was with her - ”.

“I’ll take care of it” said Mehta.

Mehta declined the offer of Rose Sharbat and the furtive offer of whisky and escaped the premises.

“It’s not fair!”

I was pained to see the agony on Ritu’s face. But these things happened all the time. She would learn, I reasoned, with time she would understand how this world works and how things actually come to pass. But this was not the time to proselytize. I stayed quiet. She had to take that load off her chest and I was there as the dumping ground, I knew. That’s what Dads are for, especially when it comes to daughters.

“Asifa’s parents!” she whimpered again, like a little girl. “They’ve… they’ve… they’ve withdrawn the case…”

I couldn’t understand the reason for her tears. As a lawyer she was supposed to stay detached. They broke that into you, during your training. A lawyer, especially one driven by the cause of justice, would never be able to sleep in peace, if he or she made each individual case as their focal point of self validation. But then, she would learn, I reasoned. I just hoped that the learning would be drilled into her subconscious fast enough. This was getting out of hand.

I pulled her close to me and gently stroked her hair, while she sobbed into my chest.

“Why, Papa?” she cried. “Why? They had a good case!”

Good case. It was good that she could not see my face. Her definition of a ‘good case’ was significantly different than mine; diametrically opposite that is.

My wife brought some herbal tea and in a soothing voice, asked her to sip it. She sniffled somewhat and took the proffered drink and started sipping.

She continued.

“They had an affidavit from the friend, you know!” she said. “and the affidavit is no longer there. The sub-inspector claims that there never was any affidavit! A bunch of other papers are also missing.”

I glanced at her sharply.

“Ritu!” I said, my voice low but firm. “Do not get involved with the police. What will Bhatnagar Uncle think?”

Sanjeev Bhatnagar was the Commissioner of Police at Delhi and a personal friend. Because of him, our relations with the police were cordial and that was always a big help. Now my stupid girl was going to ruffle some friendly feathers. Friendly and powerful feathers. Never a good thing to do.

“Papa!” she said, hesitantly, “Can you not find out what happened?”

“Beta!” I shook my head. “What do you think has happened? Maybe the parents realized that they didn’t have that evidence. Or maybe they just want peace. You have to understand that sometimes, peace is a choice.”

“But she is their daughter, Papa!” Ritu said.

I shrugged. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll have a word with Sanjeev Bhatnagar. But I want you to drop this silly pro bono case. There’s no evidence and now even the parents have backed out. Why do you want to pursue this now?”

She drained the rest of the tea and kept the cup on the table and getting up, she left the room without saying a word. I knew she was annoyed, but I always kept my promise to my girl, so she knew I would do what I promised.

I stared after her. I would speak to Bhatnagar, of course, but I knew from experience, that nothing much would come out from it.

Maybe if she heard it from the horse’s mouth, she would drop it.

We were having dinner that night. It was a subdued conversation. Then I said, “Beta! I’ve spoken to Bhatnagar Uncle.”

Ritu perked up. “Oh, thank you Papa. Thank you. What did he say?”

I shrugged. “Not much” I said, buttering my toast bread, while my wife gave me scolded looks, at the amount of butter I was using. “You understand he couldn’t share the details. Confidentiality and everything. But he told me that the parents were no longer certain. Even the friend claimed that it had been an unknown drunkard, who had tried to attack Asifa and she said that Freddy Makhijani had actually helped her. And yes – she denied having given any affidavit, she didn’t even know what that was. She denied running away from there. She said Asifa was lying. She…”

My daughter banged her spoon and fork on the table.

“Papa!” she said, furious. “Do you think I’m naïve, just because I’m new? You’re feeding me the latest slop which is on TV right now. The twist in the case. The ‘Freddy is actually the savior and not the attacker’ story. You really expect me to believe that?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe, Beta.” I said. “But the parents have withdrawn their FIR”.

I glanced at her. There was a look of rage on her face.

“You know what I’ve heard, Papa?” she said, venom in her voice. “Some sleazeball lawyer has contacted those parents and offered them cash and threatened to cause further harm to their daughter…”she choked back her voice, emotion getting the better of her.

“Threats?” I said, keeping my voice even, with an effort. “First of all, you shouldn’t believe in such rubbish. And secondly, if someone has threatened them harm, do you blame them for taking a step back?”

“Blame them?” she was almost shouting, “that’s a nine year old girl, Papa! And what happened with her – you know what it’s called.”

I said nothing.

“What’s the use of enacting all these bloody laws, if they won’t get enforced?”

She was shouting. And my silence was baffling her, as a lawyer, she was used to counter arguments. But then again, I knew the unnerving power of silence. That’s the difference between theory and practice. No amount of eloquence can power through a blank wall.

She couldn’t take it any more. She got up, her dinner unfinished.

“I’m not going to let this happen.” She declared.

“Sit down and finish your dinner” my wife admonished her. That just served to fuel her rage. Without a word, she left the room, and went to her bedroom, slamming the door.

I looked at my wife.

“Don’t worry, Benji” she said. “It’ll wear off”

But I didn’t believe her. I thought this was reaching alarming proportions. But I didn’t want to alarm my wife.

A week later, my daughter entered the house.

The last week, it had been like a cold war between her and me. I knew she usually had her moods, when she was angry with me, she was exceptionally and bitingly polite. It used to irritate me earlier, now it actually made me feel better, because I knew this was the pre-reconciliation stage.

But not today. Something was different, today.

I had been enjoying a ghazal and sipping red wine. I saw her eyes were unnaturally bright and the wine turned to water in my mouth.

“What happened?” I asked. “all ok?”

She came and sat next to me.

“We are filing a petition in the Court, Papa. We are going to resurrect the matter.”

I sat up in my seat, dread clutching me.

“Which matter?” I asked.

“Asifa, Papa!” she said. “We can file a PIL, saying that the parents are being harassed, or a writ or something, I don’t know. Habeus Corpus. Anything. We’re working out the details. We’re meeting a Counsel, who has agreed to hear this case for a nominal fee.”

I stared at her, aghast.

“Have you lost it?” In my anger, I whispered, I was so angry, I forgot even to shout. “Why are you even getting involved in that matter?”

She stared back at me and I was appalled at the expression in her face. I suddenly realized that my daughter was grown up, my little girl was no longer little. This case and this way of life had added years to her and suddenly I was sitting before someone new, a stranger of sorts. The righteousness wasn’t just a fad, it was going to be a part of her personality. It made me suddenly wonder, unkindly maybe, if she had chosen the right profession. This was a big case, political case, with several nuances. Even if she wasn’t the lead in the case, she would be part of the group that would be seen as troublemakers.

But none of this would make any sense to her, I knew. She was far too involved in this case now, she had taken it far too personally and now, there was no turning back.

She had her mother’s traits and there was an overarching impact of her mother’s genes, I realized. The obstinacy and steely determination, she had taken from me, but the soft, emotional core, that came from her mother. And in this cold, ruthless world, an emotional core, while good for microblogging, usually led to stress and ulcers and mental health issues. I’d seen a lot of that happen in the recent past and I was suddenly afraid for her.

“See you, Papa!” she said, abruptly, sensing that I was sufficiently numbed to respond. This was the sort of escapism that she hated in others, but she was doing it with me, now. And there was nothing I could do about it. Atleast not at that moment.

“I have to go early to bed. Big day in the Court tomorrow.”

And I realized that nothing could dissuade her now. Her mind was made up.

And away she went, leaving me staring at her. Then I turned around and looked at my wife. She was ashen faced, she too had misjudged her daughter – as I had.

Damn that Asifa. And that Makhijani. And that law firm which had started the pro bono department. And me believing that it was a harmless fad, when she came to me, wanting to work there.

Damn! Shit!

-00-

 

Breaking News!

 

Asifa and her parents killed in an accident on the highway!

 

Asifa, the girl who was at the center of an alleged rape controversy, involving Faneesh a.k.a. Freddy Makhijani, the son of Mr. Gurcharan Makhijani, was killed in a road mishap, along with her parents. A truck rammed into their rickshaw, killing them on the spot. The driver ran away from the spot and is untraceable. The rickshaw driver also lost his life. 

 

The police claim to have leads on the missing driver and have informed the neighbouring States about the culprit. They learnt that he had consumed a lot of alcohol at the bar, just half an hour before the accident, they said. They had made inquiries with the bar manager, who was most co-operative. They were confident that he would be nabbed, within days!

 

Asifa was in the news recently, since a petition had been filed to investigate the closure report being filed in her case and the withdrawal of the PIL filed by her parents. Now with their deaths, it is not clear what will happen to that case, it will probably become another case, relegated to history.

 

Follow this page for further updates…

It had been fifteen days since that news. Ritu had started coming out of her bedroom now, since the past three days. She had been on medical leave, many more in her group were, but now it was going beyond medical leave. Thankfully, my connections would help. It had been a devastating shock to her. In her grief, she had had a gamut of emotions, raving and ranting about conspiracy theories and murder and stuff like that. We had to give her a sedative to quieten her. Now she was fine, although subdued.

But her eyes had lost her sparkle.

Ritu, my baby daughter, was lost in that gap, where the scales of blind justice had slipped. I hadn’t wanted her hands to get that dirty. Unfortunately, they were blackened forever.

She came and sat on the sofa. Her eyes were red from crying, but she wasn’t crying that much now. I didn’t know if her heart had hardened because of this, but she would no longer be the starry eyed first timer, eyeing justice for the exploited.

“How are you feeling, Beta?” I asked, gently.

“I’m ok, Papa” she replied.

“And are you quite clear about your decision?”

“Yes, Papa”.

Ritu had quit her job now, she wouldn’t take up those cases anymore. Her friends tried to dissuade her, but I guessed she had taken this personally. She had lost confidence in herself. I hoped she retained at least a modicum of faith in justice, but I wasn’t really sure of it.

She had an interview at a company today; it was all fixed by me, so I knew she would bag it. Again – not known to her. Some things never change. Her mother’s honest overarching genes, for one.

All civil litigation this time. I made sure this time. No pro bono bullshit. Legal contracts and arbitration and stuff. Nothing criminal or dangerous. Boring, maybe, but safe. 

Every father needs to protect his daughter, after all. Life may make her strong, but I had to be the shield and the cushion. Though it was clear that she wasn’t the same person now. She had entered the storm willingly and she was a different person now that she had come out. Our relationship had also changed forever, because she hadn’t received the whole hearted support that she expected from me, but now she might realize that experience had taught me a few things as well. So maybe in the long run, it would work out fine.

She kissed me on the cheeks, took the lunchbox from her mother and left. Atleast she kissed my cheeks and gave me a smile. That was something, I guess.

My wife came into the room.

“This has really taken a toll on her” she said. “I hope she’ll come out of it”.

“I know.” I sighed. I remembered when we encountered such matters and felt that a travesty of justice had been done. How naïve I was. The whole world is a travesty. I said, “Then again, maybe, she needed this dose of realism in her life. She won’t go through life with blinkers on”.

My wife shook her head.

“You say the weirdest things, Benji” she said and left the room.

I leaned back into the armchair and closed my eyes. My daughter’s face, her naïve dream to change the world, to deliver justice, her disillusionment, her sad eyes flashed before me. To my astonishment, tears rolled down my face, something which hadn’t happened for years.

The tears continued to roll down my face, deep into the night. 

There was a celebration, albeit muted, at the Makhijani house.

Whisky bottles clinked. People cheered.

The senior Makhijani had his arms around his boy wonder, the great Freddy Makhijani. The Casanova, now marketed as a savior. A masterstroke.

Freddy now, no longer Faneesh.

And Freddy, fresh from his morning fix and the promise of weed in the evening, was moving around, pumping hands. If people noticed that his pupils were dilated or that his hands were shaking, they didn’t say anything.

The prodigal son, no longer prodigal.

“Hey, Mehta Saheb!” Makhijani boomed. “All’s well, that ends well, eh?”

Mehta Saheb wasn’t feeling at all overjoyed. When the news of the case getting re-opened had been brought up, there had been a panic at the Makhijani household. And there was no clue as to how this crisis could be averted. Mehta had found himself sweating and had sleepless nights. He had had to visit his doctor twice. Since he was the family lawyer, he had no illusions that Makhijani would try and make him a scapegoat somehow. He had been praying for a way out of this predicament. Toying with the idea of going to the police. Being an informer.

And then that accident. A most providential one. Snuffing out the lives of Asifa and her parents. The truck driver had vanished without a trace. But Mehta had heard that he was in Nigeria now, with a case-load of cash, which would soon get over, given the number of women he was visiting.

And who knows – maybe the truck driver too would meet with an accident.

Mehta continued to have sleepless nights. But it was for a different reason now.

Makhijani had ensured that Mehta’s son and daughter got enrolled in the best Universities in the US and arranged their visas and paid their student loans also.

“Your kids are like my kids, Mehta” he had said. And Mehta knew that Makhijani had him trapped and boxed in. He understood the message. He understood the whole thing. The cruelty and viciousness of it made him feel sick, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Mehta couldn’t meet Makhijani’s eyes. And as for Freddy, the perverted psycho sickened him.

Then Makhijani looked beyond Mehta and at the man that had accompanied him.

 

The slick lawyer. The fixer. The man who had met Asifa’s parents and offered them the carrot and the stick. The man who had floated the idea of turning the entire narrative on it’s head and making Freddy the savior, instead of the wolf.

And who had proved his loyalty later on, when the shit was going to hit the fan again.

Now no shit would hit the fan. It was swept into the sewer, like all shit is. Except that this one had been a nine year old girl with beseeching eyes.

Part of the sewer now, Asifa.

He was paid much more handsomely than Mehta. And Makhijani would ensure that a lot of his acquaintances knew about this guy – this is how business was done, among people who only relied on references. They all needed someone who could get the job done, no questions asked, no philosophical, moralistic discussions. Only results – requested and delivered. That’s the sort of man that always got ahead.

“Bansilal Tyagi, my man!” Makhijani shouted. “Hey Freddy, come here, my boy. Come and meet the man who has saved you, saved all of us, not once but multiple times.”

“Hello Tyagi Uncle” said Freddy, stepping forward. “Thank you so much for saving my life”.

“Call me Benji” I said. And shook his hand.