I woke up and found myself in a hospital bed, with drips running through my veins and a nurse by my side; I tried to recollect what had transpired that had brought me to the hospital. The nurse, who introduced herself as Sarla, looked at me with some assurance and said that I was lucky to be alive.
Outside there was a ruckus and the hospital staff were trying to control a highly vocal group of people. I looked askance at Sarla. She nodded her head, readjusted my blanket, and said “Your colleague Inspector Kumar from Crime Branch and the press are out there waiting to talk to you. The doctor will be here soon, he’ll decide whether you can have visitors or not. You have just woken up after 3 months in coma”.
Dr. Bharghava came in at that moment. He examined me briefly. His smile told me that I was on the way to recovery. “Inspector Saurabh, hat’s off to you. Single-handedly, you overcame 3 most wanted terrorists and they are now in high security jail. I operated on them including the one whose leg you had broken with a chair. Your colleague Inspector Kumar wants to meet you. I will allow him in for a few minutes only, since you need more rest.” I looked with surprise at the doctor: how did he know my name? Even I was unable to recollect who I was.
“Hello, Saurabh, how are you? The doctor tells me that the knife and bullet injuries could not kill you! What happened, I have to file a report?”
I lay on my back trying to figure out the events of the past. The more I thought, the more confused I became. Yes, a brief flash of memory showed that there was a gang which had attacked me but I seemed to have outwitted them. But how? Surging pains all over my body told their tale.
“You are Inspector Kumar? Can you tell me who am I?” Kumar almost fell back. He whispered to the doctor “Has he fully recovered?”
Just at that moment, the door burst open and people with cameras and mikes surged inside. The few policemen on duty outside were in no position to control the crowd.
A lady apparently from Global TV shouted over the chorus of sounds “Inspector Saurabh, you are a hero. Share your story with me please. The State is preparing to honour you with the highest bravery award for capturing single-handedly 3 fugitive militants.”
At this moment my mind relapsed into a void. I felt I did not exist in the world. All that I remembered was a worried doctor pushing the crowd out and giving me an injection. “Who am I?” I whispered to no one in particular.
Flashes of memory troubled me as I lay in the hospital bed.
Later, one day, I woke up. I felt a sudden surge of light. Events of the past began to cascade in my mind like kaleidoscoping images. This then is my story.
My name is Saurabh, christened as Dave. My mother died at my birth; of severe bleeding. My father was working as a Manager in a public sector bank. However, my mother’s passing away made it impossible for him to continue on a 10 to 7 job. He took premature retirement and became an insurance agent with a life insurance company.
He was my mother, father and nurse. He never made me feel that we were on a budget. Though we would have loved to enjoy some luxuries, such as a vacation to a hill station, we could not really justify going there. Dad lived by his life’s philosophy: ‘It matters not who you are; what matters is what you do’.
And then, I lost my father, too, early in my life. I was just ten. I do not know how I survived. A burning fire within me kept me alive. He was murdered. Too young to take action at that time, nevertheless, I vowed “this cannot go unpunished”.
My father had achieved success as an insurance agent after a slow start. A family who lived nearby wished to meet my dad on business. The family members with a promise to buy several policies, asked my father to meet them at a well-known café. They greeted him politely. The family comprised a grandfather, father, mother and their two small children. After some desultory talk, the parents asked him for two life insurance forms. My dad gave the forms and asked them to fill them up individually.
Just then he received a phone call and excused himself. Taking advantage of his absence, one of them poisoned his coffee. When dad returned, he explained the nitty-gritty of the policies to them. While discussing the policies my dad slowly consumed the coffee. After a while, when the forms had been filled up, he asked the head of the family to send him other supporting documents and cheques to enable him to lodge the forms for issue of the policies. The family left promising to send over the documents next morning.
In the café, after a while, my dad felt giddy. He rushed to the washroom and died. A waiter discovered him lying prone on the floor and called the police. The police identified my father from the driving licence and insurance ID card. They came to our house and broke the news to me. With great difficulty I composed myself and told the Inspector that a family living close by had called my dad out. I had no information on the family.
The police investigated and found from the insurance forms that the family lived a block away, but had left for an unknown destination the previous night. They interviewed the waiter who had served their table: he had overheard part of the conversation and seen what had happened. He knew my dad.
Dad had no near relatives in the city. His sister, his only relative, lived in Patna along with her husband and children. I had met them five years ago, when we had gone to Patna, to celebrate the marriage of their eldest daughter. She was unable to offer any help to me in my time of need.
What next? The autopsy report stated death was due to slow acting arsenic poisoning. A look out notice was issued for the missing family members. The police registered a case of murder by unknown persons.
The Pastor of the church where we attended the Sunday Service was very sympathetic. He arranged for the funeral services of dad at his cost. After my dad was buried, I felt I was no longer a ten year old, but a grown up man with a single mission – Revenge!
I had no place to go. The house where we lived was a rented one. The landlord was solicitous. He let me live there for a while. The bank manager where my dad had an account helped me access the savings of my father. I shifted to a makeshift PG room. As I was unable to pay my school fees, I was expelled. I found stray jobs distributing newspapers and working in shops and canteens.
Time passed by.
The insurance company where my father worked agreed to engage my services as an insurance advisor and gave me a rigorous 3 months’ training. I worked diligently and my income grew by leaps and bounds I also joined coaching classes and cleared my graduation with flying colours.
My dream was to join the police force with the objective to find my father’s killers and bring them to book. With some effort I cleared the IPS examination, viva voce and physical tests. I underwent rigorous training and was confirmed as an Inspector. I was posted to the Crime Branch, Lucknow. I was provided with official quarters in an apartment block in Lalbagh, Lucknow. My second floor flat had a balcony overlooking the crowded street.
I searched for the files of my father’s murder. The matter was more than twenty years’ old. With great perseverance, I managed to lay my hands on the file. The photographs were faded. The information was scanty. It was clear that the police had botched up the case. The accused family comprised the grandfather, father, mother, a son and a daughter.
I conjectured that the grandfather would be in his eighties, parents would now be in their sixties and possibly the son was in his late twenties. The daughter who was just a year old then would be in her twenties. I probed the police files and the internet for further clues but with no success.
In the meantime, love came a calling! I fell in love with a girl whom I met in the local train. Her name was Sarah. She had just graduated and was interning with an ad agency. After several months she agreed to marry me. She invited me over to her house in Aminabad. Her father, who owned a large garments showroom, was gruff and made it clear that he disliked having a policeman in the family. Despite my entreaties he refused to divulge the reasons.
In October 2016, the Crime Branch office in Mumbai provided actionable information that a group of militants had holed up in an abandoned godown in Charbagh, Lucknow. Acting on the information we received from Mumbai, I and reconnoitered the premises with some policemen. We managed to nab a suspect but the others were not there. We took him in for questioning.
At that point in time, a disturbing thought racked my mind. Sarah’s father and grandfather appeared somehow familiar. Did I know them?
The only regular visitor to my flat was a maid servant who cooked for me and also looked after the flat in my absence. It was one of those rainy days. Suddenly, the phone began to ring. I picked up the receiver. A voice shouted from the mouthpiece: “You bastard, how dare you pick up our man? If you do not release him in twenty four hours, you’ll pay with your life.”
Before I could respond the phone was switched off. I immediately asked Control Room to trace the call. Suddenly, shots were fired at my flat’s balcony. The torrential rains made it impossible to see who fired the shots.
The militants had to be neutralised, as soon as possible, as they were planning a big terror attack on the city. According to intelligence reports they had stolen plastic explosives and other bomb making material from several locations in Patna and Kanpur.
At the same time, Sarah and her family had me in a quandary.
I was in a dilemma. What should I prioritise? A sudden knock at the door shook me into action.
I opened the door. My colleague, Inspector Kumar walked in. Over a cup of coffee, we discussed several pending cases, one of which related to the militants. I informed him of the telephonic threats and gun shots. We discussed a plan of action to neutralise the militants without causing any casualty in the crowded area where the militants were holed in. He said that he knew a policeman who had useful knowledge of the underworld and he could help me in locating the militants.
When he left, I decided to visit Sarah to clear the doubts in my mind. She let me in. Her father began shouting that he would have me arrested if I didn’t stop troubling Sarah. I took out the old photographs and compared the faces around me. I recognized with a start that the elders were same people who had murdered my dad.
I spoke with finality “So you’re the people who poisoned my dad? Why?” Sarah’s father looked at me keenly; he had never seen me when young. But the photographs I held and my reference to poisoning linked my dad to me. Her father and grandfather looked at me with guilt writ large on their faces. Soon their looks turned malevolent: if looks could kill, this was it!
“He raped and murdered my wife’s sister” screamed Sarah’s father. Sarah looked flabbergasted. She pleaded with her father that he had the wrong person in mind. Her father pushed her aside roughly and glared at me. “We killed your father and now that you know the truth, you’ve to die too.”
“He didn’t even know your wife’s sister – how could he have raped and murdered her?” I remonstrated. “Your sister-in-law had taken out a life insurance policy with an insurance agent who had a similar name ‘Mishra’. The police reports show that your sister-in-law was in a relationship with this Mishra and reportedly committed suicide because he refused to marry her.
As her nominee, you got the insurance money, didn’t you? And, was it suicide, murder by the other Mishra or, did you kill her because she was pregnant – an ‘honour’ killing? Then you killed the wrong Mishra, my dad, based on wrong information.”
I continued impassionately “My father did no wrong. However, you are guilty, you Sarah’s father, mother and grandfather of murdering my dad in the cafe. And, for your information, I had, in my childhood vowed vengeance against you all. The fact that Sarah whom I love dearly is a member of the family has stopped me from shooting all of you. I am arresting the guilty now and I hope you will come peacefully.”
Sarah’s granddad suddenly climbed up the stairs of the duplex flat and returned with an automatic rifle. Without any provocation, he started firing. I ducked behind a sofa, pulling down Sarah with me. His wild firing killed his wife, his son, grandson and his wife. A shot went through the sofa and killed Sarah. I moved away slowly to the corner of the sofa and shot him between the eyes with my service revolver. Badly shaken, I took one last look at Sarah’s bleeding body. I kissed her for the last time and left the flat, but not before making an anonymous complaint to the police control room.
I reached home in a daze. For the third time in my life I had lost a loved one. I looked at the lovely face of Sarah from her photograph in my wallet. I put my head on the table; bitter-sweet tears welled out of my eyes.
A phone call tore me away from my reverie. It was from the Policeman assigned to me by Inspector Kumar, who was helping me in the militants’ case. He said he had reliable information that the militants were back in the godown in Charbagh. He was trying to reach the godown in his motorcycle but was held up in the traffic snarls. I asked him to continue towards the godown. I would try to reach the place through a shortcut. It took me nearly 30 minutes to reach the godown. Visibility was very poor due to the heavy rains.
The godown doors were closed but though the hinges, I could see some light. I also heard people talking in a dialect that was new to me.
Slowly, I opened the godown door with my pistol drawn. The area was dimly lit with lanterns. Before I could move in further, someone attacked me with a knife. I shot at him and then hit his leg hard with a heavy stool lying near me. He collapsed. The other militants started firing at random. Several bullets hit me, but I was determined to wipe them out. I shot with precision and managed to quieten the guns. Before collapsing to the ground, I heard a motorcycle moving inside the garage. An ambulance carried me and the injured militants to the hospital.
As sunlight streamed into the room, I opened my eyes. The nurse, Sarla was overjoyed to see me awake and in my senses. Dr. Bharghava examined me carefully, and stated that I was now completely out of danger. Just then Inspector Kumar came in. He asked the nurse and the doctor to leave the room.
He drew up a chair and looked at me curiously. He opened a file he was carrying. I sensed that the worst was yet to come. I waited for him to start the conversation.
“You know, Saurabh, aka Dave, I saw the photograph in your wallet when you were brought to this hospital. For a while I did not connect, but then, as fate would have it, multiple murders in an upscale Aminabad flat was referred to me for investigation. I saw the photographs from the scene of crime. One of them was of a girl whose photo I found in your purse. I searched your flat and found the case file of the murder of your father. That is when I learnt of the entire matter. Why did you kill them?”
“You know me so well Kumar. How can you make such accusations? Surely you must have conducted a proper investigation including seeking forensic reports?”
“You know me well too. Yes, I did conduct detailed investigations more so when my colleague is involved. It was your shot which killed the old man. Wasn’t?”
And so, I was taken into custody. It was conclusively proved in the trial that three of the family members who were found dead in the Aminabad flat were themselves involved in a murder two decades ago. It was my father who was the victim. The fact that the eldest male member was responsible for the murder of five people by rifle shots was also conclusively proved by fingerprint experts and ballistic examination of the bullets. That bullets had been fired at me was also proved. I had resorted to firing in self defence. I was honourably acquitted. The news was reported widely in the media.
The Crime Branch wants me back. But after Sarah’s death, what is there to fight for?