Kalkoot- The Lost Himalayan Secret Page 6

  Damini paused when she came to the bit about a website that seemed to have been frequented by two North Korean operatives. The website was seemingly innocuous, a support forum for Hepatitis patients. Clearly the North Korean operatives were using the website to exchange messages.

  Damini’s eyes went to a medical test result—the Serum Glutamic Pyruvic Transaminase, or SGPT— quoted at the beginning of each of the messages from the operatives. Was it a code?

  Damini called Mini. ‘I need our decryption expert to work on the numbers and messages from the website.’

  ***

  Mini came back with the decoded messages within fifteen minutes. ‘The SGPT numbers have used a variant of a prime number code that translates to “Demo”. That means anything to you?’

  ‘No,’ Damini said. ‘But carry on.’

  ‘The latest message reads: “Demo on track for this week.”’

  Damini whistled. The ‘Demo’ sounded like some sort of an unsavoury event.

  Damini said to Mini: ‘I need you to scan all chatter on the web for anything on an event called the Demo, even if the reference sounds innocuous, and rank it in order of suspicion. And once again, this is for your and my ears only.’

  ‘Understood, Damini,’ Mini said. She didn’t mind keeping stuff from Kunal; she never liked him much anyway.

  ***

  Mini sent Damini a massive file which listed out over twenty thousand references to ‘Demo’.

  The references were sorted using various parameters, including a sophisticated algorithm for scoring them based on their importance, but there was still no meaningful way to make any sense out of them.

  ‘Let’s limit the scans to items posted in the last twenty-four hours, and let’s use finer scoring options.’

  ‘I’m on it, Damini,’ Mini said over the phone.

  Five minutes later, Damini was looking at a substantially truncated list. Top of the list was a message from a person called Jeff on a social networking site that was an underground meeting place for hippies who were planning out the next rave party in Goa.

  The message had Jeff boasting about how he rescued a ‘bloke’ who seemed to have suffered extensive injuries and was in a state of delirium. The ‘bloke’ apparently kept repeating the words ‘Demo’ and ‘this week’.

  The message seemed to have been posted from a cybercafé, but did not contain any details for Jeff. The social networking site itself used multiple layers of security protocols, and masqueraded as an innocuous tourism website.

  Damini gave out a slight exclamation as she read the second line of the message. Jeff had signed off saying that he would be ‘hitting the scene at Lotus Café’ on Monday night.

  She took a quick decision and called Kunal at the control room. ‘I’m headed to Goa. Will keep you posted.’

  ‘Why the hell are you heading to Goa?’

  Damini sounded casual. ‘Oh, just checking out some leads. Nothing serious.’

  Kunal cursed under his breath. Here he was, stuck in the control room, while his nemesis, Damini, was out in the field, and heading to Goa, of all places.

  PART II:

  DEMONS FROM THE PAST

  SAMEER RAJAN

  CHAPTER 10

  Colaba, Mumbai, Sunday, 10.30 p.m.

  The young woman seated at the corner table at Café Royal threw up her hands. ‘Relationships scare you,’ she said bluntly.

  She was around 5’4”, wearing an ethnic top and a pair of jeans that outlined her figure, her hair falling lightly on her shoulders. But it was her eyes that stood out. Sparkly and vivacious, they could light up a room the moment she entered. At the same time, they could also convey kindness and sensitivity.

  The young man opposite her was the object of her ire, yet he could not help but look fondly at her eyes. For the umpteenth time. They were the first thing he had noticed about her, on a rainy Sunday ten months ago.

  The young woman got up from her chair, jolting Sam Rajan back to reality.

  ‘Let me know by tonight. One way or the other,’ she said, walking away. ‘I need to tell the channel tomorrow.’

  ***

  Colaba, Mumbai, Sunday, 10.45 p.m.

  Sam got into the cab with a sigh. The cab seemed to mirror his mood, trudging along reluctantly through the pouring rain.

  The rain reminded Sam of the day he had first met Ananya ten months ago.

  The sequence of events seemed almost dreamlike in his memory. His realising over a Friday night-out at the Hawaiian Shack bar in Bandra that twenty-eight was not too late an age to reclaim his lost love for the hills. His enrolling for a Sunday trek to the Western Ghats off Mumbai. Then waking up late that Sunday and rushing against time to catch the trekking bus.

  Sam couldn’t suppress a chuckle. His morning wake-up time had been an abiding source of tension between his dad and him. Colonel Rajan was used to springing out of bed at 4 a.m. and going for his morning run, followed by a game of squash, breakfast at the club, a long chat with his Army buddies and half-an-hour of poring over the morning newspapers. He could never come to terms with the fact that half his day was over by the time his son even got out of bed.

  Sam had summoned up all his stamina from his trekking days as he had sprinted to catch the bus. The bus had begun accelerating, but Sam was able to muster up a last-minute burst of energy, notwithstanding the recently added kilos to his otherwise athletic 5’9’’ frame. When he had finally ended up catching the trekking bus, he had plonked himself onto the first available seat.

  That was when he had seen her sitting next to him.

  ‘Hi,’ she had smiled. ‘Warming up for the trek, huh?’

  ‘Sameer Rajan,’ was all that he could manage in return. Involuntarily, he had found himself drawn to those eyes. And the lightly dimpled smile that went all the way up to her eyes.

  That was how it had all begun.

  A smile formed around Sam’s lips as he remembered those days.

  Light. Exuberant. Carefree. Like the raindrops on the cab window.

  Then her parting line from fifteen minutes ago came to his mind, and the smile vanished.

  ***

  ‘Relationships scare you.’ Sam found the words reverberating in his head.

  He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret.

  Their first date, too, had been at Café Royal, over chocolate brownies and ice cream.

  Sam remembered the evening vividly. She had looked beautiful in a one-piece black dress. A few strands of hair were falling lightly over her face. Sam had noticed her graceful walk. And her figure.

  The chocolate syrup had formed a slight outline around the edges of her lips. She seemed almost like a kid who had helped herself to some chocolate on the sly. And she was oblivious to it as she talked earnestly.

  He also remembered their first kiss that night. Hesitating at first, then firmer, then more passionate, until all that remained in the universe was just the two of them, frozen in time.

  Sam remembered thinking then that he would not let this relationship go the way of his other, transient dalliances.

  And yet here he was, on the verge of letting it all go.

  ***

  Mumbai, Sunday, 11.30 p.m.

  Back at his apartment, Sam parked himself on the couch and began preparing for a crucial appraisal meeting with his boss, Ayush.

  He desperately needed to concentrate. He was, to put it mildly, in deep shit at work.

  The investment banking division at Bancroft Cohen was headed by Ayush Sharma, who was better known by the nickname ‘Arsehole Ayush’. The division had severely underperformed under Ayush’s watch, and he was looking for scapegoats. The entire team was to have their performance appraisal meetings on Monday morning. The rumour was that many of the staff might be let go.

  Sam could not afford to get fired.

  He had spoken to the Colonel exactly three times in the last three years. The first time was to inform him about shutting down his education venture. That convers
ation, from the Colonel’s end, had consisted of snorts and an ‘I told you so’ expression, topped up with an order to ‘pull up your socks’ and register for an MBA. Sam had no money with which to finance his MBA. So, the second conversation, mortifyingly, was about asking the Colonel for funds. In the third conversation, Sam had informed him that he had got a job at Bancroft Cohen, and that he would pay back the money soon.

  Sam did not want the fourth conversation to be about getting fired.

  ***

  Unable to concentrate, Sam found himself picking up the phone and calling Ananya. He disconnected after a few rings.

  Why wasn’t she picking up the phone? Had she given up on him? Had something happened to her?

  Sam closed his eyes and composed himself, trying to get a grip on his emotions.

  He had been a bundle of nerves on their first date as well. But as the evening progressed, they had found themselves talking excitedly and yet cozily, almost like lovers meeting after a long hiatus.

  Over helpings of ice cream, she had told him that she loved poetry, theatre, Linkin Park, Rahman’s music and Anurag Kashyap’s films.

  He had talked about how city life made him yearn for the serenity of the hills, about how he had spent six months backpacking in the Himalayas after graduation, and how he had gotten the inspiration to start an online education venture after passing by a group of children at a hillside village.

  She had told him that she believed in not planning her life, about how she had worked for an NGO, and had then taken up her job at Discovery Channel almost on a whim.

  He had told her that he hated office politics and often thought of quitting his investment banking job and doing something more meaningful.

  She had asked, ‘So what’s stopping you from taking the plunge?’

  That question had hit him like a bolt of lightning.

  Sam bit his lip as the cab swerved on to another lane. Even ten months later, he could feel the same discomfiture.

  Sam had sat frozen as a kaleidoscope of emotions had hit him. The constant shadow of the Colonel’s expectations, the pressure to make conventional choices, the grand start to his online education venture, the naïve dreams and aspirations. . . Then the slow route to failure: first the denial, then the seeping realisation that all that the Colonel had dimly prognosticated had indeed come true. And then his finally throwing in the towel and heading for his MBA. And now, all he was left with was the anger—the inescapable anger—and a feeling of failure.

  Too much water had flown under the bridge. It was best to let bygones be bygones.

  ‘Huh, did I say something wrong?’ Ananya had asked, a bit concerned. She had always had an uncanny knack of sensing his feelings better than he did himself.

  He had just shaken his head and looked away.

  The cab lurched as the impatient cabbie tried to overtake a bus, bringing Sam back to the present.

  Here he was, ten months later, at the cusp of losing a relationship.

  Maybe this time he ought to acknowledge his feelings and not look away?

  ***

  Mumbai, Sunday, 11.45 p.m.

  Sam called Ananya again. This time she picked up.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, somewhat tersely. Clearly the argument was still on her mind.

  Sameer could hear the rhythmic noise of a local train passing by in the background, and it seemed to give him a headache. ‘Not reached the hostel yet?’

  Ananya stayed at the hostel at the National Institute of Social Sciences, NISS. Ananya’s employer, Discovery Channel, was producing a documentary series on the Himalayas in collaboration with NISS.

  ‘Nope. Professor Bavdekar was in South Mumbai, so I met up with him to discuss a presentation to the channel tomorrow. We are on our way to NISS now.’ She was starting to sound less clipped.

  Professor Bavdekar was an expert on Himalayan plant and animal life. He was the professor from NISS that Discovery Channel was collaborating with.

  ‘Oh ok,’ Sam said. ‘Maybe we should talk later then.’

  ‘No, we can talk now,’ she said, sounding warmer, much to Sam’s relief. ‘The Prof. has stepped out to use the ATM.’

  Sam stuttered, but Ananya interrupted him before he could say anything. ‘Oops, my battery is running low.’

  ‘Uhh . . . reach the hostel and call me then.’

  There was no response. Sameer looked at his handset. It was working fine.

  Ananya’s battery had probably died out.

  ***

  Mumbai, Sunday, 11.50 p.m.

  The phone conversation with Sam left Ananya in deep thought.

  The initial few months with Sam had been breezy. Friday night dates at cozy cafes, Saturday street food lunches, Sunday morning treks, and snuggling up in the afternoon over popcorn and Netflix. He had been witty, sensitive and a good conversationalist, not to mention a good kisser.

  And then, as things had begun to get more serious and friends began to ask about taking things to the ‘next level’, she had begun to notice the changes in him. Turning up late for dates, steering clear of intimate conversations, losing himself in work over weekends, and shying away from anything that resembled commitment.

  They had gotten close enough for her to understand where this was coming from, so she had laid off. Besides, she was a believer in letting things take their own course. Life was much more beautiful that way.

  But now she had a career and relocation decision to make.

  The Discovery Channel documentary series on the Himalayas was almost complete. The channel had asked her whether she would move to Brazil for a new documentary on the Amazon.

  This meant that Sam and she could no longer be on the fence. She had to know whether their relationship was headed anywhere.

  ***

  Ananya lost herself in rumination for a few moments, and then suddenly sat up with a start as the realisation of where she was hit her.

  She looked out of the car window. What the hell was taking Prof. Bavdekar so long?

  Probably fumbling around the ATM, she thought. But a sixth sense told her to check.

  With mild trepidation, she proceeded to open the door and get out of the vehicle.

  She walked towards the ATM. The security guard was asleep in his chair, and Prof. Bavdekar was nowhere to be seen.

  There was a small, dark, somewhat dirty lane adjoining the building which housed the ATM. She looked around, hesitated and took a few tentative steps towards the lane.

  She heard what she thought was a muffled thud, and then the sound of hurried footsteps. She hesitated, taking a step back.

  That was when she heard the sound of footsteps again, this time unmistakable. Then she felt a light blow on the head and her world went dark.

  CHAPTER 11

  Mumbai, Sunday night/Monday morning, 12.30 a.m.

  The vampire took out a Kalashnikov rifle and started shooting just as a bunch of bloodsucking leeches came out of underground caves and started spouting venom from their sticky mouths.

  Sameer switched off the TV. His need for escapist entertainment had indeed touched new lows.

  He picked up his phone and dialled Ananya’s number. It was off.

  Ananya ought to have reached by now. Unless she had not yet gotten around to charging her phone.

  ***

  Mumbai, Sunday night/Monday morning, 12.45 a.m.

  Sam called Ananya’s number again. It was still off.

  Something was not right. Ananya should have reached a good half hour ago.

  He looked at the living room clock. Traffic snarls did not have a habit of happening at 12.45 a.m.

  Sam called the NISS hostel and spoke to Namrata, Ananya’s roommate. She was pretty definitive that Ananya had not entered the hostel.

  Sam put on his shoes. They probably had a car breakdown on the way. Or maybe an accident?

  ***

  Mumbai, Sunday night/Monday morning, 12.50 a.m.

  The cab driver looked sullenly at Sam as he swiftly
eased himself into the rear seat.

  Sam decided to trace the path that Bavdekar and Ananya were likely to have taken—from Colaba to the NISS hostel in Deonar—and keep a watch out for bank ATMs where Bavdekar might have stopped to withdraw cash. Thankfully, the rains had eased off otherwise the task would have been more tedious.

  As the cab driver lazily switched on the ignition, Sam prodded him to drive fast.

  ***

  Mumbai, Sunday night/Monday morning, 1.20 a.m.

  After having checked out the seventh ATM, Sam threw up his hands in despair.

  He was looking for a needle in a haystack.

  The cabbie was getting impatient. ‘Sahib, I need to take the car back to the stand. I am running late,’ he said in Hindi.

  Sam tried tempting him with extra money, but the cabbie did not relent.

  ‘Ok, fine,’ Sam threw up his hands. ‘Just drop me to one last ATM and I will let you go.’

  ***

  Certain memories have a way of hiding themselves below the surface of consciousness, often manifesting just in the nick of time.

  Somewhere during his ATM-hopping spree, Sam remembered the noise in the background when he had last talked to Ananya.

  The sound of the ubiquitous Mumbai local train.

  So he needed to look for ATMs only in places that were close to train tracks.

  Within three minutes, Sam thought he might have found what he was looking for.

  A WIC Bank ATM. Western India Co-operative Bank. Along D’Mello Road.

  Sam got off near the ATM and paid off the cabbie, who had been muttering a steady stream of curses.

  ***

  Sam took a look around.

  By day, this was a pretty rough neighbourhood, dotted with old warehouses, steel melting shops, scrap sellers and trucking agents’ offices. At this hour of the night, there was not a soul around, not even a security guard at the ATM.

  He walked around to the nearby lane. It was dirty, deserted and dark, the sort of place you would not want to visit in the night.