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  Nimboo Baba had been born Nimesh in the holy city of Benares, by the banks of the Ganges. His family had moved to Delhi and Nimesh had been placed in a municipal school from which he had dropped out in the fourth grade. Having run away from his parents, he did everything he could in order to survive on the streets. He had sold newspapers on the pavements, washed cars at parking lots, prepared tea on railway station platforms, and even picked pockets. One day he had met a wandering ascetic and had been miraculously transformed.

  The stories cranked out many years later by Nimboo Baba’s PR machinery would go on to say that a sage had visited Nimesh’s parents on the day that he had been born and had gifted them with a lemon. Apparently he had told them that, while a lemon was sour, it had incredible curative properties. “Your son shall be like a lemon—a healing medication—for the world,” the sage had supposedly said.

  In Hindi, the word for lemon was nimboo and thus Nimesh the pickpocket would soon become Nimboo Baba the great spiritual master. He opened his first ashram—a meditation center—in Delhi. His evening sermons, during which he would use ordinary examples and simple language, began to be attended by ever-increasing numbers. Over the next two decades, Nimboo Baba would open over a hundred such ashrams in India and would claim to have over twenty million disciples, including followers from the United States, Europe, and the Far East.

  The man waited in the cool, air-conditioned interior of his black Mercedes-Benz for Nimboo Baba’s sermon to be over. When it was time for the Baba to exit the grounds and head over to the luxury suite that was permanently booked for his comfort at a prominent Mumbai hotel, he chose to get into the waiting car instead.

  Munna offered Nimboo Baba a bottle of chilled mineral water from the small refrigerator built into the armrest. The godman accepted it and quickly gulped down the contents. “These sermons leave my throat parched,” he complained.

  “Given the amount of land and money that you have amassed from your sermons, I imagined you would never thirst for anything,” replied Munna, with a twinkle in his eyes. Nimboo Baba laughed. The only one who could speak to him so openly was Munna.

  What was never mentioned in the PR material published by the Baba’s marketing machinery was the fact that his outfit acted as a massive money-laundering center for Munna’s ill-gotten wealth. Millions of rupees from illicit operations found their way as “donations” into Nimboo Baba’s ashrams, from where they were converted into legal assets such as land, buildings, bank balances, and legitimate businesses. A perfect instance of Hindu–Muslim partnership.

  Munna’s association with Nimboo Baba went back several years, to the time when Munna had been attempting to establish his supremacy in Mumbai’s underworld. On one particular evening he had been injured during a shoot-out with a rival gang. Wounded and bleeding, Munna had sought refuge in one of Nimboo Baba’s ashrams. The Baba had kept the police away and ensured that Munna was provided with medical attention. That day had been the genesis of a symbiotic relationship between the two men, the guru providing occasional advice and spiritual wisdom—besides a nifty way of laundering Munna’s money—and Munna providing financial support to the Baba.

  “How is my special disciple getting along?” asked Nimboo Baba. “I hope you are assisting in every way that you can after the Thailand return.”

  “Getting along rather well, I would say,” replied Munna. “And yes, I am happy to help. How are your dealings with the Attorney General progressing?”

  Nimboo Baba laughed. “He’s up to his neck in gambling debts. I have been bailing him out whenever he needs me to.”

  “Good,” replied Munna. “With him so indebted to you, we continue to have leverage. I must tell my betting managers to keep taking wagers from him.”

  “He was the country’s top-earning lawyer before he accepted the Attorney General’s position. Where did all his money go?” asked Nimboo Baba.

  “Men who are very active in their professional lives tend to be equally active in their personal ones,” offered Munna sagely. “He changes his woman almost every month. Expensive proposition.”

  Chapter 49

  RUPESH LEFT HIS Jeep to navigate the last few yards on foot. His team briskly jogged ahead of him. Rupesh felt his shoes squelch in the muck along the banks of the canal. Scrap-metal houses bordered the sewer that lazily flowed through the slum, carrying a thick sludge of floating plastic bags, bottles, chemicals, garbage, and tons of human and animal excrement. Asia’s largest slum—Dharavi—was spread over a square mile of Mumbai and over a million wretched souls called it home.

  “Do we know the exact house where he was spotted?” asked Rupesh, keeping up with his men.

  “Yes, we do, sir. This lane is the recycling area of Dharavi, full of small workshops that reprocess paper, tin cans, plastic, and cardboard. Toward the end of the lane is the bootlegging operation that our informer told us about. He’s holed up there.” Rupesh looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past midnight.

  They reached the target shed in a few minutes. It was single-storey and ramshackle with a footprint of less than a couple of hundred square feet. Patched together from rusting and mismatched corrugated-metal sheets, the windows and door were simply jagged holes cut through the tinwork. The stench from the brew could be detected from far away in spite of the overhanging and all-pervading stink of sewage that thickly enveloped Dharavi.

  Rupesh’s advance party had already brought the operation to a standstill and all the men working there had been rounded up. In the center of the shed stood a massive vat in which country liquor was being adulterated with industrial methylated spirit, batteries, cockroaches, cashew husks, and orange peel. Rupesh placed a kerchief over his nose and mouth as he headed over to the single man who had been cuffed and made to stand apart from the others.

  “Thought you could get away, eh?” asked Rupesh, delivering a near jaw-breaking slap to the terrified man’s face and drawing blood from his mouth.

  “Believe me, sahib, I ran because of fear. I am innocent,” protested the cuffed man nervously. It was Bhosale, driver of Lara Omprakash’s vanity van.

  A crowd had gathered outside the bootlegging hut and Rupesh’s men were using batons to keep them at a distance. Among the rounded-up men was one who looked more menacing than the others. Rupesh motioned him over.

  “Your shithole of an operation only functions because I choose to look the other way,” he said, carefully avoiding using Munna’s name. “But if I find you harboring a murderer again, I shall crush your balls with a walnut cracker. Is that fucking clear, motherfucker?”

  The leader nodded warily. No point getting busted by the cops. The stock of deadly hooch that was inside the premises had a street value of a million rupees.

  “Tell your goons outside to clear the way,” instructed Rupesh to the bootlegger as he seized Bhosale by the scruff of his neck and shoved him toward the waiting police Jeep.

  Once inside the vehicle, Rupesh cranked up the engine and the Jeep took off like a rocket. There were a sub-inspector, two constables, and Bhosale inside it with him. The vehicle weaved through the dark and empty streets of Mumbai as they headed toward the distant suburb of Mira-Bhayandar.

  “Where are we going?” asked Bhosale nervously, sandwiched between the two constables on the back seat of the Jeep.

  “It’s party time, my friend,” replied Rupesh. “I do not want you to think that the Mumbai police are poor hosts. We are capable of showing our guests a good time.”

  Most of the development of the Mira-Bhayandar area had happened on the eastern side of the railway line, whereas to the west it was still covered by mangroves and salt pans. Rupesh brought the vehicle to a halt in the compound of a construction site on the east side. At this time of night it was empty.

  Rupesh got out of the Jeep and signaled his subordinates to follow along with Bhosale. They passed cement mixers, earth movers, piles of construction materials, and stacked-up scaffolding beams until they reached a temporary constru
ction elevator, which was little more than an iron cage boarded up with plywood.

  Bhosale anxiously surveyed his surroundings, his eyes darting about like frightened mice, as the rickety contraption creaked its way up to the seventh floor—the last to be constructed thus far.

  “Laundry time,” barked Rupesh. He took a large pinch of tobacco from his pouch and placed it in his mouth. The two constables removed Bhosale’s handcuffs, grabbed him by his underarms, and swung him over the side of the incomplete building.

  “Hang him out to dry,” said Rupesh with a grin on his face. The constables allowed Bhosale to grasp the edge of the concrete slab with his fingers as his body dangled from the seventh floor.

  Bhosale looked down at the distant earth beneath his suspended feet and felt a warm sensation in his crotch. He had peed involuntarily. “Help!” he pleaded, feeling his fingers losing strength. “I beg you to spare my life, sahib.”

  Rupesh and his men watched Bhosale’s fingers turn white as he struggled to keep himself alive. Rupesh moved to the edge and gently placed one foot on the prisoner’s left hand.

  “As of now, I have only rested my foot on your hand,” he said softly, enjoying the kick of the tobacco in his mouth. “In the next few seconds your fingers will feel my entire weight. I shall then step on your right hand. You will howl for mercy but I shall not listen. You are scum and I shall be overjoyed when you fall into your muddy grave.”

  “Please, sahib,” howled Bhosale. “I’ll do anything. Mercy! Please!”

  “I simply want your confession, nothing more, nothing less. Give me a full disclosure and I shall step away,” promised Rupesh. He then began to apply more pressure to Bhosale’s hand.

  Chapter 50

  THE WEATHER WAS hot and humid when Ragini Sharma, the opposition MLA—Member of the Legislative Assembly—from Alibaug constituency and a potential aspirant for the post of Minister for Women and Child Development, gathered along with thousands of women supporters at Chowpatty Beach and marched to Azad Maidan. The march was a protest against a violent gang rape that had taken place a few days previously in Mumbai. Ragini Sharma was demanding the resignation of the state’s Home Minister.

  Ragini’s party only had permission to hold a protest meeting at Azad Maidan—an open area of ground in the heart of South Mumbai—not a rally. Ragini Sharma had chosen to defy that ruling and declared that her supporters would march along with her even though it would lead to road blockages and traffic snarls at several places during peak travel hours in the country’s commercial capital.

  Addressing a crowd of over a hundred thousand supporters—men, women, and children—at Azad Maidan, Ragini Sharma took center stage with confidence and grace. After greeting her supporters, she said, “According to the government’s own statistics, a woman is now raped in India every twenty minutes. Even though the number of sex offenses has increased, the number of convictions is falling. Why do we have an incompetent Home Minister at the helm? Isn’t it time for us to send this spineless government packing?”

  The crowd roared its approval as Ragini warmed to her theme. “Two days ago, a young woman of twenty was gang-raped by seven men from her neighborhood. Her attackers filmed the assault on their cell phones. Should we allow such monsters to walk the streets of Mumbai? When will we be in a position to guarantee safety and security to the women of this city?”

  Ragini waved to the gathered crowd and raised her folded hands in a gesture of humility. She knew that this political rally was a reaffirmation of her own strength. Assembly elections in the state were less than a year away and Ragini realized that she stood a fighting chance of becoming an influential voice in the fractured political landscape.

  She looked at her watch. She had to be back at her constituency within a couple of hours. She nodded to her team that it was time to bring the public meeting to an end. Toward the rear of the crowd stood a young man dressed simply in an open-collar shirt, jeans, sneakers, and cap. He realized that Ragini Sharma’s public gathering was winding down and decided that he needed to move quickly so that he could reach her destination before she did.

  Chapter 51

  THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN hunter and prey is unique. It’s almost like unrequited love because one party hardly feels anything at all. Ask a stalker about his relationship with the one he stalks and you will begin to understand the intense yearning that I have to live with.

  I have been stalking you but you do not seem to notice my presence. What a shame! Later tonight, my face will be firmly emblazoned on the retinas of your eyes. You will be incapable of forgetting it—forever.

  I was seated in the visitors’ gallery of the Legislative Assembly when you rose to address the speaker during question hour. I was among the crowd that listened to you with rapt attention at Azad Maidan. You have so much concern in your heart for the poor and downtrodden women of Mumbai! Your words almost brought tears to my eyes! You know that I’m fibbing, right? Just like I know that you don’t give a rat’s ass about the exploited women who live in this hellhole.

  I was way ahead of your car with the flashing red beacon as I drove from the public meeting to your constituency home in Alibaug, on the outskirts of Mumbai. So very nice of you to drop in and check on your constituents. I wonder how many of them will attend your funeral, Ragini Sharma?

  I am quietly working along with the team that is planting saplings in the front garden of your bungalow. Luckily, all the workers are temporary hires and do not recognize each other. I am wearing a casual labourer’s dirty clothes and my head is covered with a soiled cap to protect me from the harsh sun. I ensure that I keep my cap lowered so that my face remains mostly hidden from the prying eyes of the policemen in your security detail. I am invisible to you and your men.

  Your arrival in the constituency results in a long line of people queuing up to request favors and dispensations. It is late by the time you retire for the night. By that time I have already moved into your bedroom.

  You are completely unaware of my presence. A good hunter must wait patiently for hours, not allowing the prey to pick up the slightest suspicious scent. I am lying in wait for you—right under your bed—up toward the headboard so that my feet are not visible.

  Your maid walks in to deliver your customary glass of milk and then leaves. You toss and turn for a while, reading a Mills & Boon in bed, but after twenty minutes you switch off the lights.

  I wait for another hour to ensure that you are fast asleep before I crawl out from under the bed. In one rubber-gloved hand I hold a yellow scarf and in the other I carry a rolled-up wall calendar and a specimen bag. It’s time for me to get some work done.

  Sleep, whore, sleep, slut … deeper … deeper … breathing shut.

  Sleep, bitch, sleep, cunt … deeper … deeper … while I hunt.

  Chapter 52

  YELLOW GARROTE STRANGLER arrested, screamed the headline of the Afternoon Mirror. The byline was that of Bhavna Choksi’s chain-smoking editor, Jamini.

  Rupesh leaned back in his swivel chair and placed his feet on his desk. He peered through the angle formed by his shoes to observe the expression on Santosh’s face as the Private India chief perused the article. Besides the other details, special prominence had been given to the photograph of ACP Rupesh Desai, mentioned as the no-nonsense cop who had captured the killer.

  “Policing is about keeping as many balls as one can in the air while simultaneously protecting one’s own,” remarked Rupesh as he smiled at Santosh.

  “This is crap, and you know it,” Santosh replied, throwing down the newspaper on the desk.

  “Is it only crap because I solved a case that your fancy team with all its sophisticated methods couldn’t?” asked Rupesh slyly.

  “It’s not about that—” began Santosh.

  “Then what exactly is it about, my friend? I thought we had a clear understanding that all credit for solving this case would be mine alone. Since when did you begin to fancy the spotlight?”

  “I am
more than happy to let you have all the publicity you want, Rupesh,” said Santosh. “But please do remember that I know what extra-legal methods are used to extract confessions. Most importantly, the driver—Bhosale—had no motive for murder at all.” He thumped his walking cane on the floor to emphasize his point.

  “He may have been blackmailing his boss, Lara Omprakash,” argued Rupesh. “He may have known some of her secrets. Possibly he wanted more money and she refused. He killed her in a fit of rage.” Rupesh seemed determined to make the jigsaw puzzle pieces fit together even if he had to hammer and chisel them into place.

  “Nisha has managed to get hold of an extract from the security register in Film City, where Lara’s movie was being filmed,” Santosh told him. “It would be worthwhile for you to have a look at it.”

  Rupesh took the list and glanced at it casually. “What exactly do you want me to see?”

  “The list shows the date and time that any given vehicle passes through the main gate of Film City,” explained Santosh. “The security agency is duty bound to log all registration numbers, time in, and time out.”

  “So?” asked Rupesh.

  “Look at the registration number highlighted in yellow. It’s Lara Omprakash’s vanity van. You will see that it was there several times during the past few days,” explained Santosh.

  “Why are you wasting my time like this?” complained Rupesh. “The city wanted the killer nabbed. He’s safely in a lock-up.”

  Santosh ignored this comment. “The problem,” he continued, “is that your hypothesis is unable to explain how the fuck this man—your prime suspect—could have been driving Lara Omprakash’s vanity van in and out of Film City on Sunday night when Kanya Jaiyen was murdered, as well as on Monday night when Priyanka Talati was killed!”