The Tree

The Tree

When I was a child, there was a tree with pink flowers right outside my window. Each year, it bloomed at the same time - in the autumn months, and a gentle breeze blew pink flowers into my bedroom.

The tree was planted by my mother. She died two years ago, after a brief struggle with cancer. She planted the tree as a newly wed, just a few months after she moved to her husband's house, from the seeds of a similar tree that grew in her parents' backyard. The year I was born, the sapling she brought blossomed into a tree.

This tree served as the setting for much of my childhood. It was under this tree that my brother and I chased each other as children. When I wanted to cry, and wanted no one else to witness my tears, I would clamber up the branches, and hide myself among the green leaves and pink buds. But somehow, once I was up in the branches - so close, I felt, to the sky, that I could reach out and touch passing clouds - I would forget the reason for my tears, and sit still in the tree, enraptured by the beauty around me. I would stay up in the tree, till the clouds had passed, and the sky had begun to darken, the dying sun bleeding pink and gold across the heavens. The world then seemed a place of infinite wonder, of beauty, and my sadness seemed to have no place in it. And then, just as the stars began to peep out of the velvety night sky, my mother would call, her voice low and gentle, calling me for dinner. I would scamper quickly down the branches, grazing my knees and tearing my frock in the process, and run inside. My mother would never scold me, even though she noticed my awry hair, the rents in my frock, my torn socks. She would smile at me - a beautiful, dazzling, warm smile - as she plucked the leaves and feathers from my hair.

My mother had the most beautiful smile in the world. I am quite certain of this - I have never seen a smile that matches hers. It was the sort of smile that warms your bones, that makes you think anything is possible. It's a shy smile, a special smile - the kind you feel that used only on rare occasions, with intimate friends.

For many years I believed that it was my smile, the smile that she kept only for me, until one day, the first day, on my eighth year, that the tree was in bloom. I had climbed up the branches and was watching a sparrow build a nest, when I heard a low murmur of voices below me. Puzzled, I looked down, brushing a bough of pink blossoms aside. I saw my mother, garbed in a simple green sari, conversing with my Maths Tutor. From the snatches of conversation that rose through the air and reached me, I surmised they were looking for me. My tutor murmured something, something I couldn't quite catch, and my mother burst into laughter - a low, beautiful sound. She smiled then, and her smile transformed her. She wasn't a beautiful woman - she had a unremarkable, plain face - but when she smiled, she was transformed into a dazzling, bewitching beauty. I watched my tutor stutter, under the influence of her smile, watch his mouth gape open, his knees weaken, a sweat break out on his forehead. I watched him reach towards her, pull her into an embrace, and press his lips against her.

My mother didn't resist. She slid easily into his arms, she seemed to accept the hot, fevered kisses he pressed across her lips, her face, down her throat, towards her bosom. I heard her moan, softly, and saw her wrap her arms around him. He slid an arm down, pulling up the folds of her sari, her petticoat settling around her hips.

I saw many things that day, the day the pink flowers bloomed.

When I look back now, I am surprised that I didn't feel angry or betrayed. Those are the things we are supposed to feel, when we watch a scene of this kind. I think I felt a vague tinge of disappointment, but the over-riding emotion was one of surprise. What I had seen that day, from the high branches of the tree - of bodies crushed together, moans and sighs - an experience, that simultaneously, seemed to combine pain and pleasure for those involved - was a thing of wonder, an incident that had provoked my curiosity. I suppose, even then, I must have understood what it meant, because it was only an hour later that I dared venture back into the house, after making sure that I bore no trace of my escapades amongst the branches. I had lurked, guiltily, at the back of the house, until my mother finally saw me. She had rushed towards me then, admonishing me - for my maths tutor had left in the interval, since I wasn't to be found. She had caught my wrists and bent towards me, tenderly. The tenderness had vanished, in an instant, when her finger gently probed through my tussled hair, and emerged, with the crushed remains of a pink petal. She had stared at the petal. When she finally looked at me, her face was stricken. There was fear and guilt in her eyes. I had kissed her then, and she had, in reflex, without thought, had clasped me tightly, her eyes still troubled. I wished I could have told her then that I would have never betrayed her, that I would never tell of what I had seen. But she must have known that - there was no way I could have ever spoken of this to anyone.

No way at all.

Now that I am older, now that I am a woman in my own right, I understand a little more. I can't remember much of my father - he remains only a vague memory of a bald head, black-framed glasses, a white shirt and a pair of shiny, polished shoes. He was never at home much, and never paid any attention to me. I suppose I must have been a disappointment - an embarrassment - I can understand that a man like him, a self-made man who prided himself (so I have heard) on his intelligence, could not have borne, easily, the existence of a daughter like me. Whatever love and attention he had for his offspring was lavished, exclusively, on my brother.

But my mother loved me, and her love had made up for the lack of interest on my father's part. Her love had made me into her ally, made me understand her and her weakness. After that day, the day of the incident under the tree, she had banished my maths tutor from the house. A new tutor was appointed, a balding, pot-bellied old man, who had a tendency to fall asleep in the middle of lessons. I missed my old tutor, but I saw him often enough, lurking outside the entrance of our house, a lovelorn look in his eyes, awaiting a glimpse of my mother.

To my mother's credit, she put my old tutor out of her mind. But there was a hunger in her eyes, that appeared for the first time, a hunger that grew as time passed. My father became more distant, as I grew out of girlhood. I became an adolescent, gawky and tall, uncomfortable with my body. I could not longer be ignored, or forgotten, I was too tall, too awkward. My presence, a reminder of my embarassing, disappointing existence - constantly irritated my father. He spent less and less time at home.

My mother too, smiled less and less often, until one day, when I was hidden amongst the top-most branches, on level with the top-story of the house, I spied her through the window of the guest bedroom, her arms entwined around my uncle, my father's cousin who had come to visit for a few days. I was astonished, intrigued. I was old enough to understand this now. I watched him kiss her, stroke her hair, and slowly, gently, unwind her sari.

A breeze blew through the tree, and a shower of pink blossoms rained down. The spell was broken. Surprised, embarrassed, I looked away.

But from that day onwards, my mother began to smile again, frequently. My uncle stayed and left, but he was replaced by a schoolteacher, an accountant, and later, a widowed neighbor. There weren't too many men - just a select few, and never more than one at a time - but the hunger was now absent from her eyes, and she laughed more. I was happy.

Then, one day, a few weeks after I turned sixteen, my father died, while on a business trip out of town. My brother came down, from college, to help settle my father's affairs. I hadn't seem him for a long time and, although we were playmates in childhood, a distance had begun to emerge between us.

The pink flowers bloomed, a few days later, and I climbed up the tree to escape the strange silences and tense atmosphere that had begun to reign in my household. I missed the way things had been - for years it had been just my mother and me, my brother and father present only for brief periods. My brother and father hadn't understood me, couldn't communicate with me. My mother and I needed no words to do so - we saw each other for what we were, there was no pretence or hiding possible. My brother's presence in the household had upset the gentle harmony that had existed, and I felt like a stranger in my own home.

I sat on the top-most branch and surveyed the world below. I saw my mother exit the house, and come to rest under the shade of the tree. Tears dripped down her cheeks, I knew that despite their difficulties and her repeated infidelities, she mourned my father's passing. A few moments later the lawyer followed my mother out of the house, and stopped at the sight of my mother's wet cheeks. He had stopped down, and sat beside her. They spoke to each other in soft voices, and a moment later, my mother had smiled, amidst her tears.

Even I, high up in the branches, gasped. Her smile was like a rainbow breaking across a land battered by rain.

It was her most beautiful smile, the most beautiful smile I had ever seen, shining amidst the trails of tears that ran past her cheeks.

The lawyer was stunned, gutted by the heart-wrenching beauty of my mother's smile. He had leaned closer, and then, with a cruel, violent force, had pressed her against the tree, had smothered her lips with kisses. Even as his hands wandered across her blouse, my brother had stepped out, from the tiny back door that led to the kitchen. He had stopped, shocked, by the sight of our mother and the lawyer entangled together. He exclaimed, loudly, and at the sound - my mother and the lawyer seperated. My mother had rushed after my brother, as he strode, angrily into the house, and the lawyer had remained, standing, under the tree, as the wind shook the branches, and loose petals drifted down, falling onto his bare head.

My brother walked out of the house that day, and didn't come back.

From then on, my mother didn't smile so often.

How I wished I could have spoken to my brother on that day, tried to make him understand. Perhaps then everything would have been different.

But, perhaps it would have still been the same.

We went on, like this for a while. My mother pined for her son, the son who would not return, who refused to answer her phone calls or letters. Whatever news we had of him was secondhand. We learnt, a year later, that he married a college classmate and had settled in another city. Later, we heard that they had a child.

My mother sickened. Perhaps it was the hatred of her son, or the knowledge that she would never see her grandchildren, but she had lost her interest in living. Cancer grabbed hold of her, and she made little effort to free herself from it's clutches.

As she lay, sick, in bed, autumn came and the pink flowers bloomed. Every day, that fall, I placed a bouquet in a vase by her bedside, as she could no longer go out to see the tree she had planted, so many years ago. She would watch my movements, her eyes sharp and bright. One day, as I moved away, she had grabbed my hands and pulled me towards her.

She smiled then, for the last time.

After she died, my brother came home, with his dry, thin stick of a wife, and their brawling, red-faced son. They wandered through the house, making lists of all the items in the house, the properties that had to be sold.

One afternoon, my sister-in-law followed me into my bedroom. She had sat next to me on the bed, and had placed her hand over mine. "Your brother and I think that it's the best thing to sell the house," she spoke, her voice shrill. "Of course, we'll make arrangements for you." She spoke slowly, as if speaking to a child. She hesitated, before she went on. "There's a good home you know, for people like you. It's a bit far from here, but it's a lovely place." She named a place I knew off, a home for the mentally challenged. I stared at her, stunned. My sister-in-law stuttered, and then repeated the news again, even as my mind reeled. This is what my brother and his wife thought of me?

"It's the right sort of place for you. You'll get the kind of help you need there." She smiled - an ugly, dry smile, and left the room.

That evening my brother spoke to me. He spoke as if to a slow child, or a retarded individual, spacing his words, and using expansive gestures. He told me that I had been wronged, that I should have received proper attention and care in my childhood. When I shook my head, to contradict him, he had spoken of my father.

"It was our father's belief," he told me, "that you should have been sent to the right sort of institution in the first place. You could have been treated if you had gone there early enough. Unfortunately," he continued, "our mother was far too fond of you. She told him that you didn't need it. That you were fine. I thought so too...at one time...But she was wrong. She was wrong," he repeated, brutally.

I wanted to hit him then. I wanted to scream, yell, shriek. I wanted it to drown his words with my voice.

"What a woman," he exclaimed. "She couldn't even wait for a week to pass after our father's death, before she embarked on yet another of her infidelities. How many of them where there?" He eyed me, warily. "You must know. You were always here. But of course you can't - you won't - say."

For the millionth time I wished I could speak. That my tongue would not lie silent, that my mouth would utter words and sentences, that made sense. That I could have told my brother the truth, made him understand. Made him see. He hadn't understood me, my mother or my father. Her infidelity wasn't what he made it out to be - it wasn't a sin, it was something human. It wasn't just her fault - it was hers and mine - and his too. It was the fault of the distance between my parents, a distance I was responsible for.

My brother didn't, couldn't, understand.

Or he would blame her smile, a smile that he would think had been designed to attract. That wasn't it. Her smile was gift, something divine and wondrous - that transfigured her, and the world.

"I know you worshipped her," he continued, cruelly. "She was a bad woman, a bad wife. She wasn't a good mother, to you or me."

I opened my mouth then, I couldn't take it any longer. I tried to protest, to say something - but nothing came out - just the same twisted, ugly moans that issued from my mouth every time I tried to speak. I saw my brother's lips twist into a smirk, heard his thin, ugly wife laugh.

I ran away then, their laughter chasing me. I ran into my room and shut the door.

I packed my clothes, and at night, when my brother's family had gone to sleep, I exited the house. I stopped in front of the tree for the last time, in the moonlight. It was to early for the flowers to blossom, but I pulled a few leaves and buds loose, and stuffed them into my pocket.

I left then.

The house was sold, a month later. The new owner razed the house to the ground, in order to erect an apartment building. I returned, a week later, to watch them cut down the tree that my mother had planted. It was autumn, and the pink flowers were blooming. As the tree fell, the flowers shook free and covered the street in a carpet of pink.

I cried that day.

Since then, I've made a new life for myself. I had a little money - from the sale of the house and my mother's will. I have a little house now, as well, and run the photo studio out of the garage. It's a small place - but it suits me well.

There's a blackboard along one side of my shop. That's how I communicate, answer my customers. And wherever I go, I carry a small slate with a piece of chalk. Somehow, I seem to manage.

I have a daughter now, as well. Her father wasn't in my life for very long, a foreign researcher who came to me to have a set of old photographs restored. We had a few pleasant months, before he returned to his country, and he left me with this beautiful keepsake. She is just a baby now, but she has my mother's eyes and her smile.

Just before she was born, I found, while clearing out my old things, the dried buds and seeds that I took with me, the night I left our house. I've planted a seedling in our garden, and a sapling has emerged. I hope, by the time my daughter is old enough to climb trees, the sapling will have grown into a tree, and that the wind will scatter pink flowers into her bedroom every morning.

The Mills & Boon Novel that Never Was

I should explain why exactly this horrific attempt at a romantic story exists. Mills and Boon are having a romantic short story competition in India, and I thought it would be fun to have a shot at writing an entry. This is one my failed attempts - halfway through, it dawned on me that Mills and Boons are never written in the first person. But here goes...

It was monday morning. And I was at another, boring, long editorial meeting, trying to determine the articles and issues that our next issue of India Now should cover.
Don't get me wrong. I love my job. India Now is a great place to work - we have a great team and we produce excellent content. More than any other magazine, India Now really has it's pulse on what is happening in India today. But I hate editorial meetings. They go and on and on - and there painful, pointless, longwinded arguments. I have to be there of course - but when I'm at one, I pretend I'm lying on a beautiful beach, under clear, blue skies, sipping on a margharita, feeling the sun kiss my skin.
"Ila? Were you listening to what I'm saying?"
The voice of Rajan Moitra, my boss and the chief editor of India Now punctures my daydreams.
Sighing inwardly, I pulled on my brightest, happiest smile. "Yes, of course I was." I shot him an arch look. "How could you think otherwise?"
My editor smirked. "Well, if you were," and his tone clearly told me that he didn't think I was, "then do you have any objections to taking on this assignment? It's just your cup of tea."
Drat and double drat. What was the assignment that Rajan was talking about?
"Ila?"
"Yes, of course. I'll do it." I sighed and slunk back into my seat. What else could I say?

Four hours later, I was buckling my seat belt on a chartered flight. The economy section of the plane was full of reporters and photographers. I spotted my friend Kalpana, a reporter from a newspaper Indian Times, comming through the aisle. Even though she's a reporter for a rival publication, we've both been part of the jounralistic pack for years, and have covered many of the same events. We've been through a lot together - riots, assassinations, murders and gang wars. And in that time, a fast friendship has stuck between us. We'll still vie for the next scoop, and the best quote, but still our friendship survives, intact.
Kalpana saw me wave and headed over. She slipped into the empty seat next to me.
"It's quite brave of you to come," Kalpana said, as she buckled her own seat belt. "I thought you would opt out for this one."
"What do you mean?" I frowned, puzzled.
Kalpana shot me an incredulous look. Just as she opened her mouth to reply, a steward passed us with a stack of press kits. He handed Kalpana a copy for each of us.
Kalpana opened the magenta folder and pointed to the letterhead embossed on the pages inside. "That's why," she said.
I looked to follow her meaning. "TRITON TECH is pleased to Announce the Launch of Paradise Hotels & Resorts Chain"
Triton Tech...Triton Tech. That meant only one thing.
Oh no. Damn it. I had to get out.
Kalpana hissed at me. "You didn't know?"
"No...I...I didn't... Shit. I have to get out of here." I stood up, and scrambled across, just as the pilot began to announce our imminent departure.
Kalpana shot me a worried look. "You better hurry, Ila."
I ran down the aisle, towards the first class section, just as the plane began to taxi down the runway.
A steward blocked my path. "You better get back to your seat, Ma'am."
I stared him down, as I edged my way about him, into the first class section.
"I have to get out," I told him. "I have to get off the aircraft."
"We can't do that, Ma'am. We are just taking off." He gestured to indicate the window outside. The plane had just begun to incline, towards the sky.
"I've got to get out," I pleaded, my voice hysterical. "Please."
The steward was gruff. "Please get back to your seat, Ma'am, I can't let you out. It's dangerous to be standing while the plane takes off."
Just as he spoke, the plane shot towards the sky. I lurched, stumbled forwards, and as the plane swung upwards, fell across, onto the lap of passenger seated in one of the First Class Seats.
A pair of hands grabbed me. "Are you okay? A familiar male voice asked me.
Full of horror, I looked up - into a pair of piercing, hard grey eyes. A pair of eyes I only knew too well.
"Ila?"

I shut my eyes. Shit. Shit and double shit. This was exactly the situation I had been trying to escape from. Here I was sprawled across the lap of the very man I had been trying to avoid. I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand, hoping that this was just a dream.
"Ila? Are you okay?" He sounded as shocked as I felt. "You look like you are in great pain."
Cringing, I opened my eyes. Yes, it was Aditya. Radiantly handsome, clad in a grey suit, whose perfect cut could only have been the handiwork of a Saville Row tailor. His crisp, blue shirt, and his grey silk tie, patterned with a subtle silver pattern fitted him perfectly and would have no doubt cost the entire sum of my monthly salary. He hadn't changed - still darkly handsome with a patrician profile. Waves of black, glossy hair swept away from his forehead with just a tint of grey at his temples. And just a shade uncoventional - the sideburns and the slightly long hair proclaimed him. But this eyes had changed - there was something dark and brooding.
"Aditya, I'm fine." I tried to squirm out of his grasp.
He smiled, it was the same smile that broke the severity of his face, and sent shivers down my smile. I tried not to reveal my reaction - it was awful, that even after all these years, he could still have this effect on me. He helped me to my feet, but didn't release his grasp on my arm.
"You're here for the press conference?"
I nodded, feeling the warm press of his fingers on my arm, shooting sparks across my skin, triggering memories long-buried. Images of him and me together, his lips pressing down on mine, his arms around me filled my head. I felt weak and light-headed. "I've got to go Aditya," I stuttered incoherently.
"I've really got to go."
The smile faded. His eyes hardened and he released his grip on me.
Just then, a door opened, and a woman stepped out of the toilet. My eyes narrowed as I recognized her. It was my once-Nemesis, the Arch-Fiend herself. Priya Malhotra, 32, a glamorous Bollywood actress whose svelte figure curved at just the right places. She was wearing a clinging Armani frock that didn't leave much to the imagination.
"Well!" She exclaimed haughtily, her full, red lips curving into a smile. "Look who we have here." She examined me, sizing me up, a disdainful look on her pretty face.
"Hello Priya." I smiled thinly, and walked past her. Just as I reached my seat, I turned, to see that Aditya was watching me. Our eyes met. There was a look of impatience on his face. Or was it anger? He turned away and, my heart still pounding, I sat down.
"Well?" Kalpana whispered. "What happened?"
I told her what happened. "I really wish I could get off this damn plane."
"But you can't," she told me. "There isn't a plane back for the next two days. You're stuck. Cheer-up, your paths were bound to cross sooner or later."
"Well," I sighed, "I would have preferred later. But you're right."
"That's the way, girl," Kalpana patted me affectionately. "You show him."
I sank back in my seat, trying to calm myself. But I couldn't. I could still smell his cologne, and when I shut my eyes, the image of his face seemed imprinted on my eyelids. It had been two years, but it felt like it had happened yesterday. Two years ago....

The Birth of Maya or Illusion

I Am Become Death the Destroyer of All Worlds.
Richard Openheimer, from the Bhagvad Gita

Cawnpore, 1857.

Screams puncture her dreams. She wakes up, tiptoes to the balcony, leans over the banisters. Her golden-brown ringlets fall over her elfin face, she impatiently tosses them aside. She watches the flames run riot below, twisting and uncurling, snapping along the length of the mansion. She notices the grey shapes that swirl in the darkness, and squints to see them better. They step into the ring of fire, and she sees their faces, lighted by the spiraling flames, faces contorted by anger, malice and passion. She shudders. She hears screams below, and listens intently, hears the voices of her mother, father, sisters as they scream, plead for mercy, and finally - on the doorstep of death - curse their attackers.

She shudders again. It is too much for one little girl to bear, to witness. She returns to her bed, crawls into the pile of silken, white sheets, burrows a hiding place for herself. She falls asleep...and dreams...dreams of something other than fire, pain, revolution and death. She deludes herself with nice dreams, pleasant dreams. She shuts out the noise of pain with these fantastic illusions.

The fires spreads and ravages the house, incinterating everything in its path. The white silk sheets sprout red flames, blacken and shrivel into ash. The legs of the teak bed buckle under, collapse and break...the pieces burnt and scorched.

The fires blossoms and dies, spent.

Hours later, the attackers creep in, sweep the mansion for its valuables and treasures. An old, bearded soldier pauses in the midst of his looting in the little girl's bedroom. He picks up a white rabbit on the floor, fur singed in places, ash dotting the undersides of pink ears, the little pink bunny mouth. He looks across the room, at the little bed, at the collapsed book shelves, with blackened picture books spewing out, at the dolls littering the floor.

He looks at the toy in his hands, and thinks of his own grandchildren, far away from fire and violence, sequestered in a tiny hillside village. He buries his face in the rabbit, and the white, singed fur muffles his loud, heavy sobs, absorbs his swollen, salty tears.

He cries for the violence. He cries for the injustices he has faced, he cries for the buried resentment and anger that has been unleashed in an orgy of violence and revenge. He weeps for the madness and mania that swept over his own soul, that possessed him, transformed him into a grinning, malevolent sprite for an evening; and that has departed now - leaving him alone to face the guilt and the horror.

But he is only human.

The girl murmurs in her sleep, the reality of the old, gnarled soldier and his bitter tears in her room seeps into her dreams, disturbs her carefully constructed illusions. She sleeps still, miraculously unharmed by the fire, undiscovered by the looters, cocooned in a mass of blackened, charred sheets. And when the soldier leaves, his boots stamping across the creaking floor, her dreams flower again.

She sleeps on. The years have come and gone, the mansion has disappeared, the books and shelves have crumbled to ash, but the little girl, wrapped in a nest of greying, rotting sheets, sleeps on, buried in the womb of the earth. She has become a Goddess, and the people of the town have built a small temple around her. Bats flit in and out of the rough, stone structure, and a Brahmin Priest, garbed in a white dhoti, cycles to the entrance of the temple every day, and performs a silent puja. She doesn't even look human anymore - her flesh has withered away, only her white bones, peak out of the mess of flowers of fruits piled by pilgrims and devotees atop her remains everyday.

But her breath still remains, echoing through the small, dark stone chamber, the sound of a child sleeping.

She still dreams.

DIARY OF A KILLER

I spotted him again, sitting at an outdoor cafe. It was past sunset, and the sky was already darkening. The city was covered in a lovely violet haze, as fog crawled through the streets and markets of Delhi. The end of his cigarette gleamed red-orange, dangling loosely from his fingers, ash sprinkling his chair as he chattered on his cellphone. His eyes passed over me, as I crossed the street. He didn't recognize me as I passed his chair and made my way to the covered section of the coffee shop. I stared at him, forcing his eyes to meet mine, and first bafflement, and then irritation washed over his face. Oh, these Indians, I could hear him drawling in an American accent on the phone, as if he wasn't one of us, they stare at everything.

I wanted him.

I had met him for the first time, two months ago. I had paused, as he brushed past me. I stared at him, masses of black hair curling over a perfect, beautiful face, a perfect, athletic body. Like the Apollo Belvedere, sculpted in mid-stride. Or even like Adam, arrogantly nude on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel, his finger reluctantly reaching towards his Maker. He was beautiful, possessing the impossible, perfect beauty that only artists can imagine, that rarely manifests itself in nature.

But he was here, before me, in the flesh, not in paint or marble.

He had gone upto the bartender and, shouldering his way easily through the queues amassed there, had thumped on the bar, until he caught the bartender's attention and was served his drink.

I could never do that.

He came back to his table, filled with raucous, laughing men and lit a cigarette. I ventured closer, like a moth driven to a fatal flame, and asked for a match. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, handed me a lighter. I scurried away, to hide the cigarette I did not have.

He had forgotten about me, and even about the lighter. I watched him later, after he plucked another cigarette from a pack, his smile dissolve into a puzzled frown as he reached into his pockets and found no lighter.

He didn't remember me then.

Was I that forgettable? That easily consigned to oblivion?

Tonight, though, I followed him from the cafe to a night club. I had been stalking him since I had first seen him, knew everything about him - his name, his job, his girlfriend. Vikram Singh, age 25 years, a high-flying advertizing executive in an American firm that had opened up a branch in Delhi recently. A beautiful girlfriend who was a successful lawyer, with a face that belonged to a pre-Raphelite painting. I had practiced his American drawl for hours, until I had got it down perfect.

I had watched him, shadowed him - and he still didn't notice me.

The crowd parted before him like the waters of the Narmada had parted for Vasudeva, holding the infant Krishna. He walked through, easy, confident. He didn't pay attention to the heated, lustful glances that women threw his way, but he was aware of them. I struggled through the crowd in his wake, as it spilled back into the path it had created, elbows poking my skinny frame, shoved from side to side. No one noticed me, no one smiled at me.

I ordered a bloody mary and had waited until he made his move. I saw him edge past the crowd, lean down and whisper to his friends.

It was time. I followed him to the bathroom, and as the door swung to let me in, and felt the syringe in my coat pocket.

He was standing, his back towards me, facing the urinal. I glanced at myself in the mirror that hung over the washbasins, catching a last look at the face that was so easily forgotten. An unremarkable face, a plain face - the sort of face that your eyes would skim over in a crowd. Not striking nor ugly enough to merit attention - just plain, ordinary.

I hated that face.

I turned to him, forced him to look at me. "Hello Vikram."

He was stunned. "What! how do you know my name..." His eyes widened with surprise I pushed him to the wall.

"Wait!" he exclaimed. Fear began to seep in, he spoke frantically, "What the hell do you think..." I cut off his words, pressed my mouth to his.

He struggled, but I hung on. I pressed my body against his, felt the warmth of desire flare up in my groin, and surge upwards. Slowly, his resistance faded, his lips loosened and my tongue crept in.

It was then that I pulled the syringe out of my pocket, and pressing him to the wall, stuck the needle into the nook of his arm.

He pulled away from me, in surprise, but I pressed my hand to his mouth, as he slipped to the floor. Then, his eyes rolled back in his head, his arms and legs began to thrash about, his muscles started to spasm.

I pulled him into a cubicle. He was still writhing on the floor, as I left, shutting the door behind me.

They found the body ten minutes later, limbs sprawled on the floor of the men's bathroom. MAN DIES OF OVERDOSE AT ELITE DELHI NIGHTCLUB the headlines screamed at me the next morning, as I ate my breakfast.

Time to find another victim.

JACK & JILL

Jack was a scoundrel of the worst kind, his mother started to say after she found him pilfering the contents of her hand bag, at age eight. Twenty-five years later, Jack had moved on from hand bags. He used to frequent the sleazy premises of Rosie's Bar and Restaurant, located on the second floor of Acram building, just of Jewel Street. It was the kind of bar where you would encounter a trio of Russian mafia men, dressed in fur-lined leather jackets despite the blistering Indian heat, haggling with a bald chinese man over an aeroplane. You could find anything in Rosie's bar, the locals used to claim. The bartender, a one-eyed, former Mossad Agent called Zohar, knew the city inside out - with one telephone call he could arrange a police raid, a kidnapping, a packing crate full of cocaine or a meeting (for the right price, of course) with the city's top business men. No one knew exactly how Zohar pulled it off, but he did.

Jack was of a different order. The dealings that resulted in a stolen aeroplane, a drug heist or a mafia don killing were still above him, but Jack was a respectable pimp - he had a number of talented girls, to meet a variety of different needs. But the jewel in his crown, so to speak, was Jill.

Rumours abounded that the afore-mentioned Jill was none other than Jack's own sister - but this was speculation, not (as yet) confirmed by fact. Jill wasn't a beauty - in fact if you were to venture one night into Rosie's bar, and saw Jill lounging across a table-top, propositioning a scarred, burly gangster - you wouldn't have thought much of her. She didn't look like a moll - she was far too plump, had greasy lank hair, and acne-scarred cheeks. But the regular clientele of Rosie's Bar could testify to the fact that if you forgot the excess pounds, the bad hair cut and complexion, Jill could work wonders. She had been known to tease out the passwords for swiss bank accounts from the lips of infatuated, stern businessmen. Compromising photographs of her and a certain politician (whose was once touted as the next PM), ruined the politician's marriage and destroyed any prime-ministerial hopes. Once, the gossips claimed, a French actor, an academy award nominee, who had encountered Jill on a trip to India, had sent a private jet to ferry her to his private Carribean Island for a special party.

Jill was very good at what she did.

But it wasn't enough. Jill dreamt of love - of finding someone who would take her home and look after her - of a family, children and a suburban house.

Jack dreamt of being something more than a pimp.

It was their dreams that got them into trouble.

Jack had begun a small export business on the side - a way of getting bigger game. He had started a trade sending exotic, endangered animals out of the country. He had recently laid his hands upon a male Tdijre, a animal that was considered extinct. The Tdijre had been originally obtained for a British gangster. A local IT tycoon, catching wind of this news, outbid the British Gangster, and obtained the last Tdjire.

The British Gangster vowed revenge on Jack, and contracted a local outfit to obtain the Tdijre.

A plan was hatched.

While Jack was busy with the Rdijre deal, Jill obtained a regular. He was a handsome young man - not quite like Jill's other clients. In post-coital moments, he would whisper to Jill of love, and would steal up, during the day, to serenade her with old movie songs. He even began to write her poetry.

Jill was touched.

Soon, the regular brought her gifts. First it was a teddy bear, then a dress, then a golden locket. Her regular told her he was an orphan, a self-made man, and he was lonely.

Jill began to dream.

Jack returned and found Jill in a lackadaisical state, her eyes dreamy, her thoughts far away. Her talents, her clients complained to Jack, had begun to wane. She wasn't bringing her renowned enthusiasm to bed with her anymore.

Meanwhile, Jill's latest regular had asked her to marry him. He mentioned their dreams - of being together, of children, of a suburban house.

It looked like dreams could come true.

When Jack confronted her, Jill attacked him. He guffawed when she mentioned the regular's wish to marry her. "He? Marry you?" Jack had laughed cruelly. Hurt, Jill had picked her things, and sashayed out the door.

A couple of hours later, Jack got a call. He thought it would be his contact in the police, but it was different voice.

"We've got Jill," the voice said. "She's your sister. We know. We're going to kill her unless you bring the Tdjire to the top of the Hill in three hours."

The Hill was the city's largest building, in the center of the financial district.

Jack hungup. He didn't know what to do. He thought of his long-forgotten mother, of his childhood with Jill, of the fights and the good times they had together.

He sighed, picked up the phone and made a few calls.

A couple of hours later, thanks to a favor a security guard owed him, he found himself inside the IT Tycoon's house, next to a tank which housed the repitilian Tdjire. He filled a green plastic bucket with water, and fished the Tdjire out with a tea-strainer. He placed the Tdjire in the bucket, and quickly made his way out, as the obese Tycoon snored upstairs, in his four-poster bed, lying next to his slim, model wife.

An hour later, thanks to another favor, he obtained access to the Hill building, even though it was past midnight. He took the elevator to the top floor, and climbed the fire-escape to the terrace. There, in the moonlight, he saw Jill, she was bound and gagged, and her former parmour, the handsome regular, held a knife to her throat.

"Hand the Tdijre over, and she's yours," another voice spoke. Jack turned, and saw the British gangster, who he had double crossed, step out of the shadows behind the door to the fire-escape.

Jack began to sweat. Things weren't turning out the way he imagined.

He handed the pail over.

The gangster lifted the Tdjire out. The Tdijre lay limply, and curious, the gangster flipped it over.

The Trdjire was dead.

The gangster was incensced. He screamed at Jack, and began raining blows on him. Jack ducked and began to strike back. As they tussled on the rooftop, the gangster's bouncer intervened, and hurled Jack away. Jack stumbled, close to the parapet, and tried to regain his balance. The water from the pail ran over the rooftop, making the ground slippery. Jack slipped, in the mess, and fell over the ledge.

He fell down thirty stories, to his death.

Jill pulled away from her paramour, to watch her brother hurtle to his death. SHe screamed, but her scream was stuck in her throat.

The paramour and the Gangster exchanged glances. The Gangster nodded, just once, and the paramour stepped behind Jill, and pushed her over the edge.

And screaming, Jill fell, to her death.

Jack and Jill
Went up the Hill
To fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down
And broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling After