Fatal Mistakes Read online

  ‘What, meeting in a local train?’ she asked, rifling through a drawer. ‘Yeah, it’s weird. But maybe not that weird. Remember that time you were writing about the horse-betting scandal and you met that jockey at that nightclub—Bombay Cocktail Something …’

  ‘Bombay Cocktail Lounge,’ Uday supplied.

  ‘Right, and I had asked you how come you met him in a public place if he was afraid to be seen talking to the press and you had said—’

  ‘It’s a noisy, dark, crowded place, nobody will see or hear us; I remember …’

  ‘Exactly. A Virar local is a super-crowded, super-noisy place. What could possibly happen to me if I met Anu there?’

  ‘I don’t know! Trains have been bombed in this city before, you know!’14

  ‘As an act of terror, not to kill one person,’ she said, trying another drawer. ‘I’m not that important. You would have to be deranged to try anything in a local train. Forget deranged, there isn’t enough space to try anything in a local train!’

  Uday didn’t seem to have an answer for that. But he didn’t seem convinced, either.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘Something about this … feels off. Are you sure you don’t want to tell Nathan?’

  ‘I’ll tell him; I’ll have to tell him at some point, but not now. Let me at least find some concrete evidence first. Maybe after I meet Anu, I’ll have something to take to him.’

  Uday shook his head, still looking unconvinced.

  ‘Look, Uday—’ Avantika began, then broke off.

  ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed triumphantly, as her fingers closed around the small square case she’d been looking for. Turning to Uday, she asked, ‘What is Nathan going to react more positively to? Some half-baked facts I’ve gathered while working on a story I hadn’t been assigned? Or a fully fleshed-out story, with concrete proof that we can go to print with? Hmm?’

  He nodded grudgingly, but she could see the restless way his fingers were drumming his desk. He was worried. And she knew exactly what to do about it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, sounding like someone comforting a child about a lost balloon, ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned.

  ‘But you haven’t even—’

  ‘No, OK, yes, you’re right. Tell me.’

  She told him her idea and watched him intently as he turned it over in his head. It wasn’t exactly terrible. Maybe he’d see that.

  ‘That’s a terrible plan,’ he said finally.

  ‘Hey, it could work,’ she said, sticking her chin out at him. ‘Be a little positive.’

  ‘Sure, sure, seeing that it’s such a … cunning plan.’

  ‘Are you calling me Baldrick?’

  ‘Yes. Same chance of success, at this point.’

  She rolled her eyes. But there was an uneasy flutter in her chest. It didn’t bode well that he had doubts about this. Especially since he had a pretty big part to play, if things went badly. Judging by his reaction, there wasn’t even an if. Just a when.

  Now, as she stood among the fleeing hordes of home-bound office workers, Avantika checked her watch. 5.31. The large digital indicators that announced which train would go where from which platform were lit up in all their black and neon-red glory. The indicator on platform four showed that a fast train was due to leave for Virar at 5.36 p.m. Which meant this train would stop at every station between Churchgate and Mumbai Central, then hurtle like several tons of high-speed iron directly to Dadar, then Bandra, then Andheri, then Borivali, before slowing down again to stop at every station between Borivali and Virar.

  Avantika looked around restlessly. Several loudspeakers were blaring announcements about train times, delays and urging people to leave their surroundings clean despite the overwhelming evidence that they couldn’t care less. She checked her phone. She didn’t want to miss the subtle ‘ting’ of her message alert in this pandemonium. The screen lit up just then with a new message:

  5.36 Virar fast

  Middle ladies 2nd class

  Platform 4

  Fuck. No, wait, there wasn’t even time to swear. Avantika broke into a sprint. Fast locals on the Western Railway line usually had twelve coaches, and the last compartment was one of the three reserved for ladies. When the train pulled in at Churchgate station, it was the quickest to reach from the ticket window.

  But that wasn’t the compartment Anu had asked her to get into. Neither was it the second-closest compartment. No, the text said ‘middle ladies’, which meant the ladies compartment slap bang in the middle of the train, next to the first-class compartments. It would’ve been a miracle, reaching there in time, had the station been empty. And this one was anything but. Passengers waiting for other trains, hawkers selling cheap, unbranded potato chips and other deep-fried snacks, and urchins holding huge baskets of colourful hair accessories, counterfeit make-up items, even knick-knacks for the kitchen, all swarmed the platform now, waiting for the train driver to blow the whistle, after which most of them would frantically leap on to the train and get going with gay ticketless abandon.

  Avantika shoved her way through the teeming crowd, elbowing someone here, dashing by someone there. There was no time for apologies. No time to see where she was going. Like the mythical Arjun, who could only see the eye of the bird he was supposed to shoot, her eyes were peeled for the red slanting lines and the demure woman painted over the ladies’ second-class compartment she was hurtling towards. The guard blew the whistle. Avantika gasped without slowing down. Where the hell was it?

  She had a terrifying moment of doubt: she hadn’t passed it by, right? It was somewhere ahead? Not behind her? There wasn’t even time to look behind. She had to get in this train, in that compartment. She simply had to. This was her only chance to meet Anu. She could not miss this train. She wouldn’t. No matter what. Most of the passengers had pushed and shoved their way into their compartments and the ones who couldn’t get in had dropped back on to the platform, edging away from the train.

  The train, which had already begun pulling out of the station.

  Racing along the edge of the platform, Avantika finally saw it. The ladies compartment. About eight feet away. The train hadn’t picked up pace yet. Avantika, on the other hand, did. She reached the door to the compartment. She leaped. Her hand found the long iron pole at the entrance and she swung herself inside, making the pack of women standing near the doorway shuffle backwards, muttering to themselves.

  She had made it. She was in.

  TUSHAR PRASAD

  2003–2019

  ‘Enemies ahead!’ the automated white-girl voice said.

  Tushar ignored her. There were always enemies ahead. He rushed into the abandoned house, picking up the loot strewn around the floor. Police vest, motorcycle helmet, first aid kid—where the fuck were the guns—ah, yes, an Uzi, a 0.56 mm, an M416. He ran out the door as Amey’s voice filled his headphones, ‘Arré, this fucker is not stopping!’

  ‘Wait, I’m coming there only,’ Tushar replied, running ahead.

  He opened fire and messages filled his screen. You killed HulkHero with UMP9. You killed kikofrmjapan with M16A4. That should keep them down for a while. He ran ahead, firing at more enemies, the cheers of his teammates drowning the sound of the door opening quietly behind him.

  ‘Shit, who are these chutiyas, yaar?’ Tushar asked, as hidden soldiers from the other team fired back at him, ‘Bots or what?’

  ‘Definitely bots,’ his teammates chorused in his ears.

  A new message appeared on his screen. Your teammate Bhairox fell from a high location and injured himself. He chuckled derisively, not sensing the three figures who had crept up behind him.

  ‘Why are you jumping around if you don’t have enough health?’ he said into his mic. ‘How will you play PUBG like this, bro, how?’

  His friend was being revived, but his attention had already wandered to the other messages. Your teammate Vin88 killed donKok with a 9 mm. Your teammate AxePati
l killed Sh00ter with M16A4.

  ‘Enemies ahead!’ the automated white-girl voice said again. ‘Enemies ahead! Enemies ahead!’

  And suddenly, he was shot. He could see his health drain, as he ran away from the fire.

  ‘Arré, yaar! I’m killed! I’m killed! They got me!’ the boy gasped into the mic. ‘Help me, bro! Shitshitshit he’s coming to get me! Anyone has healing or what?’

  He was completely focused on running away from the gunfire on the screen, so it was a bit of a surprise when he felt something cold and hard press into his neck from behind. What the hell? He started and whipped round. Only to find himself staring straight into a gun. A real gun. His gaze shifted to the person holding the gun. The three people were dressed identically. Hoodies. Track pants. A cloth tied around the face and head, so only the eyes were revealed.

  The person with the gun yanked at his headphones roughly and pulled them till the wire disconnected from the laptop. On the screen, his avatar was just standing around. A sitting duck for stray bullets. The boy swallowed. He felt disoriented.

  ‘Give your mobile,’ the one holding the gun said in Hindi, the voice sounding thick and muffled under the cloth.

  The boy quickly held out the phone.

  ‘Unlock it.’

  The boy obeyed. A second later, the shorter of the other two snatched it and began typing a message. That’s when the boy noticed they were all wearing surgical rubber gloves.

  ‘Wh … what do you want?’ he stammered.

  Nobody answered him. The one holding the gun merely stared at him, till the one with his phone tossed it on the sofa and nodded and said, ‘Done.’

  ‘Go there,’ the one with the gun said, pushing the boy roughly in the direction of the window.

  He stumbled, found his balance and obeyed, his stomach clenched with fear. His parents were both at work. The next-door neighbours had not come back from their vacation yet. As he reached the window, he wondered if he should shout to the watchman from the window. But the watchman would be at the front gate. Could he even be able to hear from that far? Tears pricked his eyes. He could try screaming for help, but he had no idea what they’d do to him if he tried. He had no idea what they were after. He turned around to face them.

  ‘If … if you want money—’ he tried.

  A ringing slap. There were purple spots in front of his eyes.

  ‘Sit on the windowsill, go.’

  The boy climbed gingerly on to the windowsill. It was a long way down. Sixteen floors. Perhaps they’d leave him here and go away. He tried not looking at the ground below, tried to ignore the rising panic in his chest. Tried to replace the fear with rage. It didn’t work. Whoever these motherfuckers were, they had a gun. And it was aimed at him. He gulped.

  ‘Chal, go on, turn around,’ the figure with the gun ordered.

  For a moment, the boy didn’t understand. Turn around? How? He was sitting on a windowsill! What were these fuckers playing at?

  ‘Turn …’ the gun clicked as a bullet slid into the chamber, ‘around.’

  The boy found his fingers frozen to the sill. He was breathing heavily as he willed them to move. Slowly, painfully, every muscle in his body stiff with fear, he turned, lowering first one, then another shivering leg over the edge of the windowsill. The movement made his cargo shorts ride up a little and goose pimples erupted on the skin of his calves as they came into contact with the balmy breeze. Sweat had formed patches on his t-shirt now. His breath caught in his chest. There were no ledges under the windows of this building. Only the ground. Sixteen floors below.

  Unseen by the boy, the figure with the gun nodded at the shortest one, who stepped forward hesitantly till it was right behind the boy. It took a deep breath. Then, with a sudden movement, it pushed. The boy gasped in shock, but it was too late for the gasp to turn into a shout. Seconds later, there was a dull thud from outside.

  For a moment, the short figure stood rooted to the spot, trembling furiously. The one with the gun tucked it away into the waistband of its track pants and clapped the trembling figure on the back reassuringly, as the second figure began removing identical burqas from the rucksack it was carrying. ‘Don’t worry,’ the figure said. ‘The first time’s the hardest.’

  They left the room as quietly as they had come. The only movement in the empty house was a message flashing on the laptop screen. Nik2003 knocked you out with DP-28.

  Nine

  Avantika panted, trying to catch her breath. She edged her way inside the compartment, swaying against the movement of the train, to keep her balance. Most of the seats were already taken. She found a fourth seat15 at one end of the compartment and sank into it with a sigh of relief. She gulped big mouthfuls of water from the small bottle in her purse. She needed to start running or something. Get some exercise. This was ridiculous; she could hear her heart racing. Trying to breathe normally, she looked around. Any of these women could be Anu.

  Well, not really.

  The compartment was filled mostly with working women, returning home after a full day’s work at one of the numerous government offices, courts or businesses in Nariman Point or Fort. Areas that had once been bustling business districts, which were now significantly quieter after old corporate houses, banks and new businesses alike had moved their offices northwards to the Bandra Kurla Complex or the concrete wasteland that was Andheri, or even farther. But seeing the almost full compartments of the trains leaving Churchgate station, you’d never have guessed it.

  There was a gang of women seated together in one section. They were exchanging snacks and gossip, admiring each other’s jewellery and outfits. Probably train friends, she decided, well aware of the phenomenon. Train friends were friends you made on the train. Usually on the train you took every day, just like they did. You sang songs, talked about your problems, saved a seat for each other, even celebrated each other’s birthdays in that small, crowded space you occupied for an hour or two every day. It was like a middle-class drum circle or cheap communal therapy or something out of an HR exec’s daydream. But Anu was unlikely to show up as part of a whole gang. She certainly hadn’t indicated in her texts that she was part of one. Avantika turned her gaze to the rest of the ladies.

  The woman in the window seat was clearly a teacher or a professor, judging from the pile of answer papers in her lap. She held them firmly with one hand to stop the breeze from ruffling them, as she checked them with the red ballpoint pen held in the other. Another woman was adjusting a plastic bag full of unshelled peas that peeped out from her huge handbag. No doubt she had bought them on the way to the station. Yes, there she goes. Avantika smiled to herself, as the woman began shelling the peas, deftly popping one end, sliding the peas so they came loose from the pod before dropping them in a clear plastic container. It was a long journey home. Might as well make the most of it.

  But apart from these two ladies, the vast majority of them seemed to be busy on their phones. Some talking, with their earphones on, some listening to music. Others watching movies or TV shows on their phones and still others playing Candy Crush or Temple Run. Some of the lucky ones seated in the corner seats were even napping, their heads resting against the side of the compartment. Nobody met Avantika’s eye as she tried to make eye contact. She craned her neck to look behind her in the compartment. There too, were women too busy to look at her. Where the hell was Anu?

  She typed out a text on her phone. I am here. Where are you? A moment later the screen lit up. I will be there soon was Anu’s reply. What the hell? What did that mean? Avantika frowned at her phone. Was Anu getting on at one of the other stations? That was the only possibility, but … Getting into a Virar fast at Churchgate was one thing. But the train would only get more and more crowded as throngs of passengers crammed themselves into it at every station after Churchgate. A woman next to her got up unexpectedly and Avantika slid into the empty seat. She peeped out of the train’s window. They had just passed Grant Road station. Next would be Mumbai Central. And t
hen, the yawning pit of hell that was Dadar.

  Women wouldn’t enter the compartment at Dadar. They would attack it. Like Tennyson’s Light Brigade, they would charge through the entrance, fully intent on either getting inside or dying in the process. Or more accurately, maiming anyone who got in their way. They meant business, Dadar ladies. And once they were in, forget seats, there would hardly be any standing room inside. How on earth would Anu even enter after Dadar? How would Avantika herself find Anu in the crushing horde, let alone talk to her? Avantika chewed her bottom lip, fidgeting with the strap of her purse. She had assumed Anu would be waiting for her inside the compartment at Churchgate. She had assumed they would talk quietly and she’d get everything she wanted. She hadn’t counted on being stuck in a Virar local—that too in the damned second class—without a source, surrounded by a mob of frustrated commuters who would trade their firstborns for a seat. One of them tapped her on the shoulder now, extending her palm, fingers outstretched in a questioning gesture. Avantika raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Where you will get off?’ the woman asked in Hindi-accented English.

  Great question, Avantika thought, I’d like to know as well.

  Aloud she said, ‘Borivali,’ hoping it would be true.

  The woman turned to the lady next to Avantika. This kind of ‘advance booking’ of seats was common enough in trains. The mad rampage that would otherwise occur would put to shame fans scrabbling for Rihanna tickets. Avantika looked out of the window, chewing her lip anxiously. The sky had been a gloomy grey at Churchgate. Now, as the train pulled into Dadar station, it had darkened. Rain lashed at the windows of the train, as the women nearest the windows scrambled to pull down the glass shutters. Here it comes, she thought, bracing herself. The train lurched to a standstill.