Fatal Mistakes Read online

  Which brought her to Yash Reddy. She had Googled the name, which had been a stupid move. Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, all clamoured on the search page, announcing the scores of Yash Reddys on their platforms. Patiently she skimmed each profile. Activists and analysts, bankers and biochemists, engineers and entrepreneurs stared at her from their profile pages. She knew how social media algorithms worked, broadly speaking. The most frequent users or the ones who had used the platform most recently would be thrown up first. The rest would follow. Eventually. She scrolled till she was bored, then decided to try a different route.

  She searched for ‘Yash Reddy + Mumbai’ in the news section. An HSC Commerce topper, an upcoming Telugu film actor in the city for some event—and wait, what was this? Yash Reddy, the maverick CEO of WSpot.com talks to us about his journey from suit to trailblazer? With the blazer bit in red because it was a pun? No. Way.

  Her phone rang. The name on the screen said ‘Anu’ and she nearly dropped her phone in her hurry to answer it.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was silence. Then a woman’s voice said, ‘Avantika Pandit?’

  ‘Yes, hi, this is Avantika. I’m so glad you called, I actually wanted to ask you …’

  She saw Dhruv coming in her direction, an expectant smile on his face. She had to make this quick.

  ‘So, I know the names of the people already murdered,’ she said hurriedly, ‘but Yash Reddy—’

  ‘Hi, this will just take a second,’ Dhruv said. ‘Tomorrow night works for you? Olive, Bandra. Say around nine? I have to book a table so …’

  ‘It’s on,’ she said with a smile.

  Why did that sound like she was making a bet? Maybe she was. This was the first time she was going out after breaking up with Rishi, after all. Dhruv smiled back and walked away and she was so engrossed in watching him leave—how many squats did you have to do to get an ass like that? — that she almost forgot she was on the phone with Anu.

  ‘Um, sorry, what was I saying? Oh yeah, that last date in August, na,’ she said into the phone. ‘Is the Yash Reddy you mentioned the CEO of WSpot? Same guy?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ she asked, only to be answered with a click followed by the tone of a disconnected call.

  OK, she thought, I’m just going to find out the hard way, I guess.

  It is an hour later. Not terribly far from Avantika’s office, a phone rings.

  ‘Hello?’ The voice that answers is polished but impatient. It doesn’t have time for this.

  ‘It is me, Madam,’ the caller says in Hindi.

  ‘I had told you not to call me unless it was important,’ the voice is curt now, but the Hindi it replies with, is courteous.

  ‘Something has happened,’ the caller says and there is fear there, trying to break through the thin veneer of confidence. ‘I tried telling …’

  ‘What happened? Make it quick,’ the voice interrupts sharply.

  For some time, there is only silence as the voice hears the caller out.

  ‘And you’re sure she knows?’ the voice finally asks.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how much but—’

  ‘Beat him up,’ the voice sighs, ‘That should be warning enough. But don’t go overboard. We don’t want him dead. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, Madam. Only beating.’ The caller hesitates. ‘And … and what about the other one?’

  There is a pause. When the voice answers, it has no expression, no feeling. It could be the voice of a robot.

  ‘Make sure nobody finds her. Ever.’

  Six

  Avantika looked at her watch. Ten minutes past nine. He was late. It had rained an hour ago and the weather was playing Hamlet. But that was the Mumbai monsoon for you. Would it be hot and humid? Cold and damp? Bright and sunny? All three in quick succession? Nobody could tell. Least of all the city’s Meteorological Department. Avantika pitied those guys. It’s one thing to be proven wrong at work, but to be routinely trolled by the weather was just harsh.12 Who were you going to complain to? Inhuman Resources?

  She made up her mind and approached the hostess. The table was booked in Dhruv’s name and as the hostess led her inside, she looked around. Olive was what she called a ‘fancy place’ in the deep recesses of her mind. Done up in a Mediterranean theme, all white walls and lush green indoor plants, it nestled snugly in the posh part of Bandra13 known as Pali Hill. The food was supposed to be spectacular, but that wasn’t the main attraction. Once a frequent haunt of the swish set, it was a place to see and be seen in. Quite a far cry from the hidden, near-empty restaurants she’d met Rishi in. He’d been popping up in her head a lot this evening. Bound to happen, she told herself, the last time you had a non-platonic meal with someone, it had been him. She ignored the voice that sat up and cooed, Ooooh, non-pla-taaw-nic. She could still remember the last time she’d seen him. The image of him and Natasha, limbs entwined under the sheet … it didn’t make her gut twist like it used to anymore, but it was there in a folder of her mind marked ‘Shit You’ll Never Forget’. There was a lot of stuff about Rishi in there.

  She sat at the candle-lit table, fidgeting. This will be so awkward if he doesn’t show up, she thought. A part of her still thought this was some sort of twisted joke. Agreed, Dhruv didn’t seem to be the kind of jerk who’d play a cruel trick like that on a person, but really, who knew? Not all men, sure, but a lot of them, as Hannah Gadsby put it. She smoothed down her dress unnecessarily. She had changed her mind thrice before settling on a deep forest-green shirt dress cinched at the waist with a tan belt. She took a sip of water, as she looked around. A Bollywood actor sat at one of the tables with some friends. A well-known socialite was cosying up to a model at another table. Wasn’t she recently divorced? Avantika remembered reading Binoy’s cleverly vague gossip piece on it. Lots of insinuation, no names and ergo, no liability. There had been something about a very public spat. Well, she knew all about those. All those times, with Rishi screaming at her at a party, in the college canteen, in a club, the things he’d called her, the way he’d made her feel like a nobody … She began typing a text to Binoy. She was halfway through when she changed her mind. Who was she kidding? Let alone the fact that the woman was apparently ‘good friends’ with this model, Binoy probably knew the man’s name, real age and actual sexual preference, even if the society siren didn’t. She smirked. Society siren. That’s exactly how Binoy would’ve put it.

  ‘Well, at least you found something to amuse yourself with,’ Dhruv said, slipping into the chair opposite her. ‘Sorry. Traffic was a bitch.’

  She smiled. He was wearing olive-green chinos with a crisp white shirt tucked in, which stretched tautly across his chest. The sleeves were folded back to the elbows, showing off his sinewy arms and he was drawing admiring glances from the other tables. Even the socialite was peeping.

  ‘For a minute there, I thought you’d changed your mind,’ she said smiling, as a server handed them menus.

  ‘Not a chance,’ he grinned. ‘You look great, by the way.’

  ‘Ah, flattery,’ she said lightly, looking at the menu.

  ‘What will you drink?’ he asked her.

  She asked for a glass of white wine, but he ordered a Hoegaarden.

  ‘Beer? Really?’ she asked playfully, ‘I had you pegged for something more … old? Like bourbon or something.’

  ‘Single malt, actually, but good guess,’ he grinned. ‘No, it’s just … I’d like to drop you home and I’m not going to drink and drive, so …’ he saw her smile and added, ‘But you go ahead and order whatever you want. I’d love to see you tipsy again.’

  It was over a year ago that he had run into her at a bar. She remembered very little of the night, but whatever little fragments her memory threw up were enough to embarrass her. She made a face at the recollection and he laughed.

  He laughed a lot during the rest of the dinner. To her surprise, so did she. They talked about music and movies and their professions and
their families. She told him about Aai and Baba, and Baba’s match-making antics. He told her about how he wished he wasn’t the heir to a business house, even though he only had to attend one meeting with the board every month to see how it was doing.

  ‘How very Bruce Wayne of you,’ she grinned.

  ‘Can’t stand the stuff, never have,’ he shrugged.

  ‘What, money?’ she joked. ‘I’ll take it off your hands, no problem.’

  He looked a little taken aback, and she kicked herself.

  ‘I was joking, ha ha,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Very badly, obviously.’’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he gave a careless wave of his hand, ‘I can tell when someone isn’t joking about taking my money. They usually ask me to marry them first. And then, when they find out that there really isn’t as much money as they’d heard, they lose interest.’

  She ate her salmon in silence. You and your big mouth, she told herself. Leave it to you to turn a perfectly nice evening into a minefield of awkwardness. She had found out last year about Dhruv’s failed first marriage. The woman had claimed to ‘just not be in love with him anymore.’ Which was unfortunate enough without some loud-mouth joking about it. Although why someone would want to marry Dhruv Juneja just for his money was a mystery to her. He was handsome, talented and had so far proven himself to be a great date. Oh, so we’re making a list of reasons to like him, are we, a part of her asked snidely.

  ‘How is Aisha?’ she asked, changing the subject. His sister happened to be her ex-classmate. To say the two women didn’t get along would be the same level of understatement as saying the bubonic plague was not great.

  ‘Annoyingly happy,’ Dhruv replied with a grudging smile. ‘Marriage suits her. San Francisco too.’

  ‘And Laxmi? She’s fine?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice light.

  Her once-best friend had relocated to California with Aisha last year after a series of events that had led to Avantika’s return to investigative journalism.

  ‘She’s freelancing for a design firm, apparently,’ Dhruv replied, cutting a slice of his duck breast. ‘Do you want to taste this? It’s great.’

  He held out the fork to her and she took the proffered bite. The duck was melt-in-the-mouth soft and she made an appreciative sound, only to find him looking at her with a quiet smile.

  ‘Whaa?’ she said, covering her full mouth.

  He didn’t reply immediately, just shook his head and went back to his dinner. She held up her hands quizzically.

  ‘You look really pretty right now,’ he explained.

  ‘With my mouth full?’ she asked, in disbelief. ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘You always look pretty to me,’ he said quietly, looking her in the eyes.

  She felt her mouth turn up at the corners, without so much as a by-your-leave. Thankfully, the waiter chose that very moment to bring their desserts.

  Later, when he asked if she’d like to go for a drive, she said yes. She felt her stomach clench a little as he sped leisurely down the Bandra–Worli Sea Link, then relaxed slowly when she realized that he was driving safely. She had never felt safe with Rishi in a car. He always drove far too fast and there had been too many near-misses, too many almost-hits, that left her stomach lurching and her hands shaking. But with Dhruv behind the wheel, she found herself breathing easy, letting the salty sea breeze caress her face and ruffle her hair as they drove with the windows down.

  Even if this didn’t work out, she thought, even if it didn’t go anywhere beyond this one date, at least she’d have this one memory of a perfect evening. She smiled to herself as he pulled into the compound of her society and stopped the car under her building.

  It was nearly midnight. Most of the lights in the building were out and the only person outside was the elderly watchman who was struggling to stay awake. She got out of the car and to her surprise, so did Dhruv. They stood face to face, in the lobby, the silence blooming like a sudden exotic flower.

  ‘I was wondering …’ he began. ‘Actually … never mind.’

  ‘Wow, hesitation,’ she said, grinning. ‘I like it. Go on.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he smiled and the light caught the dimple in his cheek. ‘I was just wondering what it would be like to … kiss you.’

  She looked at her shoes. Then she looked up at him and grinned.

  ‘Niiiice line,’ she said. ‘Also … keep wondering.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Wow. You don’t make it easy for a guy, do you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Good. Because if I wanted something easy, I’d pick up the Mumbai Daily crossword.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ she raised her eyebrows. ‘Most people find our crossword pretty tough.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m not most people.’

  ‘Arrogant too, ladies and gentlemen. How is a girl to resist?’

  ‘Hey, it’s not arrogant if it’s true. Then it’s just …’

  ‘Irritating?’

  ‘Confident.’

  ‘I like my word better.’ She smiled and held out a hand. ‘Thanks for dinner. I had a great time.’

  He looked at her with an amused look on his face. Then, he took her hand and turned it so the palm was facing downwards. Then he raised it to his lips.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he whispered, looking into her eyes. ‘Can’t wait to do this again.’

  His lips grazed her hand. She felt her breath catch.

  ‘Wh …’ her voice sounded hoarse. What did he mean? Was he referring to the date? The kiss? What was happening? She cleared her throat. ‘This, as in? You want to … go out again?’

  ‘I’d love to.’ He stepped back and smirked. ‘And thanks for asking. Very sexy, when a woman takes initiative.’

  She stared at him, puzzled for a moment. Then realization struck and she burst out laughing.

  ‘All right, OK, that was … you’re really …’

  ‘Thanks, I’ve always thought so,’ he laughed.

  Then he leaned in and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Call me,’ he said, as he walked back to the car.

  Avantika grinned and shook her head, as his car pulled out of the compound. Oh God, she thought, I’m going to call him, aren’t I?

  HASAN AZIZ

  1993–2019

  It was still dark outside and the horizon was an inky blue-grey haze of clouds. Hasan Aziz hurried along the narrow lanes of the slum he lived in, hoping he’d make it before it was too late. The slum bordered the railway tracks near Ghatkopar station and the clatter of the day’s first train was still some time away. Hasan tightened the fold of his blue-checkered lungi and made his way towards the tracks.

  The rail tracks shone a dull blue in the faraway fluorescent lights of the railway station. The floodlights around this patch hadn’t been repaired yet, so he still had some privacy. He put down the small plastic bucket full of water, hitched up his lungi and squatted. Aaah. The joy of a good shit early in the morning. There was nothing else like it.

  People didn’t understand that. They didn’t realize that if you want your life sorted, you first have to have your shit sorted. And not just metaphorically, either. Hasan always felt great after taking a good dump. It was such a cleansing experience. You felt ready to face whatever other problems the day would throw at you. And in Hasan’s life, there was no end to problems.

  Like Nikhat, for instance. Stupid girl. Hadn’t he told her not to open her mouth? But she had done exactly that and then he’d had to listen to Aslam’s sanctimonious ranting, the bloody hypocrite. His brother had married his wife the day after she turned eighteen. Aslam had been in his mid-thirties at the time. But no, that wasn’t wrong. Only what Hasan did was wrong. Bloody two-faced hypocrites, the lot of them.

  They didn’t talk about it anymore at home. There was a surly silence instead of the friendly bickering. He had even heard his sister-in-law demanding angrily why Aslam didn’t throw him out of the house. Fat chance, bhabhi-jaan. Aslam couldn’t
afford to live in their tiny double-room on his own. He needed Hasan’s help to make rent. And Hasan knew it. He wasn’t going anywhere. If she wanted to pack off to her brother’s place, she was welcome.

  There was a scrabbling sound behind him and he picked up a stone from the railway tracks and threw it absently in that direction. More scrabbling. Bloody rats. Making life miserable in his room also, creeping up at night through the window, biting his toes and eating the leftovers. They’d become very bold these days. Just that day, a huge bastard, the size of a cat almost, had just sat there on his chair, staring at him as if it was the fucking landlord. Not even a little scared. He’d have to tell Aslam to put down poison or get one of those traps or something. Trap the motherfuckers when they least expect it and kill them for good.

  He shifted his position slightly. The sky was clearing, but it was still dark. He’d have to head to the common bathrooms once he was done here. Have a bath, get ready for work. The foreman at the construction site where he worked was a real bastard, cutting your pay if you were late by even five minutes. Hasan had already had a few arguments with him—now if the train was late, he would also be late only, na? But he didn’t want to push his luck. He was saving up to buy a rickshaw and while there was no shortage of construction sites in the city, he didn’t want to go looking for a new job doing the same old thing.