The passenger seats of the Qualis were so designed that the passengers faced each other.  Meenal glared at Vipin and took over, trying to reassure Tara Desai. 

Tara ji, please, can I call you Taraji.  We are not kidnappers, we are doctors.  Vipin is a cardiologist and I am Dr. Meenal, a psychiatrist.  We want to help you and your husband.

Tara looked around.  There was a driver and a security man in the front seat of the car.  Vipin was sitting next to her and  this lady who said she was a doctor was sitting opposite her.  She was sobbing bitterly. Vipin handed her a box of tissues and instructed the driver

Outer Circle ke chakkar lete raho

I don’t know what to say

Vipin just said “Madam please read the file”

She tried to control herself and read the file.  It contained reactions of readers of Shirish’s novels and also the opinions of their loved ones.  Fresh tears broke out.  She was a timid person, easily bullied by people stronger than her. 

What can I say?  What do I do?

Can you tell us exactly what is your husband suffering from?  What does your doctor say? , Meenal asked gently

We have a GP, a family doctor.  He says Shrish is overstressed and needs to stop writing.  Ashwin, my brother is his agent.  He does not agree.  Shirish wants to keep writing.  He gets violent when I try to stop him.  Yesterday night he turned violent while writing.

“You say he turned violent”, asked Meenal taking Tara’s hands in hers.  “Tell me”

Tara started speaking.  She had a lot bottled inside her.  She spoke her heart out, her worries, her concern for her husband, her fear, her pain at watching Shirish deteriorate, her anger that her brother did not share her emotion.

Meenal said “Taraji, I have some colleagues in NIMHANS.  I would like your husband to be brought to the hospital and we can take care of him.  He will be safe there”.

He never will, and Ashwin won’t let him

“You have to try”, said Vipin firmly, as he instructed the driver to drive to the Café.  “If you can get through to him, he will remain a historical writer of repute, otherwise he will be known as a mad man with dangerous powers”.

Meenal said angrily “Vipin”

He was relentless.  “Madam what does he get, some kind of sick pleasure by messing with the brains of the people who read his books?”

Tara got very angry.  “You don’t know Shirish.  He was shy, quiet, a thorough gentleman, and then …….. 

What happened?  Tell us more. 

“I have to go home” she said, shaking her head, “My husband is not well”

Vipin said firmly,

“Madam tell your driver to follow our car, we will accompany you to your home” and when she looked unsure, he added “You can tell anyone who asks that we are fans”

Tara looked at them pleadingly and whispered “He says he hears people who force him to write their stories.  Once I took away all the writing material and he nearly killed himself”

Meenal looked worried.  She said “Madam, Hearing voices is considered by clinical psychiatry as an auditory hallucination and as a symptom of conditions such as schizophrenic disorders, manic depression and psychosis. I am surprised that a competent psychiatrist was not called in to treat your husband” 

Tara looked cornered.  She spoke “My brother and the doctor told me it was stress”

Meenal said  “I understand Taraji. Hearing voices can be a very disturbing experience, both for the person who hears voices and family and friends .  Moreover, it appears that your husband feels the voices he hears have control over him.  It can be a stressful experience coping with such a patient, not to mention dangerous for the patient can attack his care-givers”.

She then added, “I have informed the doctors at NIMHANS and they are apprehensive that your husband may harm himself and others.  We request you to kindly give us permission to take him to the hospital where he will be safe and get proper treatment”.

Day 4, 8 p.m., Desai Residence

It was a simply constructed double storey house, noted Vipin, as then entered. 

Tara asked a servant “Bhai Sahib kahan hain?”

“Bahar gaye hain” was the reply

Meenal exchanged surprised looks with Vipin – this woman asked for her brother, not her husband who was ill.

“Tara” came a querulous voice from somewhere in the first floor.

“Coming Shirish” she answered.  “I’ll be up in a moment”.

A thin, pale bespectacled man came to the stairs limping.  He started coming down blinking curiously at the new faces.

Kaun hai?  Tara, where were you? 

Tara was trembling by now.  She said quickly, “I had gone to the mandir.  I have brought you Prasad.  I thought I would bring it up with your dinner”

Shirish was looking at Meenal and Vipin, as he limped down the stairs into the hall.  Vipin walked up to the author and introduced himself

“Sir, I am Dr. Vipin Chaddha and this is Dr. Meenal Vashisht.  It is a pleasure to meet you.  My Didi is a very big fan of yours”.

Shirish limped to the sofa and sat down inviting them to sit with a gesture.  Meenal sat down quietly to observe.  She did not approve of the steps Vipin was taking, but both Vipin and the minister were angry at what had happened.  Moreover, the SHO of Noida had been contacted on the phone.  The man was frustrated and angry.  He went far enough to say dire things about JAADU-TONA, which had freaked the minister’s mother who was now getting the house purified by tantrics.  She could understand why he was being pushy, though she felt uncomfortable.

All human beings are superstitious, even if they profess to be rational and scientific.  She could not give a rationale explanation for what had occurred in Noida and Panchkula.  The man looked weak and bookish.  His writing had proved powerful beyond the rational world!

Vipin had started a polite conversation about the Desai books and the author’s fascination with Rajasthan.  The living room was full of paintings and knick knacks from Rajasthan.  Shirish was smiling gently as he said

“My wife painted some scenes for my books.  We got the original paintings framed and they are hanging here”

There was a pause as tea was served.  Vipin asked

I hear you are not well.  The stress of writing is getting to you?

Desai carefully put his tea cup down and said in a stronger voice “There is no stress in writing”

Ashwin burst into the room in anger.  He had been shocked when he saw the ministerial Qualis parked outside.  He shouted

“Shirish these people have come to take you away.  These people will not let you write.  They will lock you up and keep you away from your work!”

The man reacted with astonishing speed.  He sprang up and ran to the wall that was adorned with an antique sword and shield and ripped them off.  His stance was catlike, of a person who was an adept fighter.

Tara screamed “Shiirriiiiiiiiiiiish”!  Ashwin don’t do this.  They only want to help!

Vipin yelled “Meenal, take her out with you”

Ashwin continued to add fuel to fire

“Every one thinks you are mad, Shirish.  Look even my sister, your wife thinks you are mad.  No one recognizes how brilliant you are.  Even Tara …. Your darling wife got these doctors here to take you away!”

Meenal did not wait a second, she half dragged, half pulled Tara to the living room door.  The author was screaming abuses at the top of his voice, and when he saw that his wife was escaping, he started throwing things at her, the tray, tea cups, snack bowls, decoration pieces.  A brass artifact hit Tara on her back and she fell.  Meenal ducked, escaping being hit by the edge of a tray and both women crawled out into the porch.

The gunman and driver along with the policemen were looking towards the house.  When they saw the servants and the women flee, they jumped into action.  Meenal shouted after them,

Stop that man, Ashwin.  Bring Mrs. Desai’s brother out.  Bring them out safely.  We can help Mr. Desai

The men did not stop to listen and they rushed in.  The minister’s brother in law was inside and no one wanted to face the minister’s anger in case something happened to him.

Tara was totally shell-shocked and went and sat down crosslegged in the grass.  Meenal looked at the house, from where they could hear sounds of metal clinking and crashing furniture. 

Tara started chanting softly “Please God, Please God, Please God ……….. make them stop.  Don’t hurt him.  He is not well”

Vipin was scared.  The tired mild looking bookish man had transformed in front of his eyes into a lethal warrior, holding a shield in one hand and throwing whatever he could at his wife.  He quickly crouched behind the sofa.  He could hear  that idiot Ashwin whipping the writer into greater fury.

What happened next was totally unexpected.  Goaded into extreme fury the writer bit his own arm, and started licking the blood.  It drove him over the edge.  Picking up the sword he started thrusting and slashing any and every thing that came in front of him.  Splinters of wood, shards of glass started flying all over the room.

Vipin raised his head, wondering if he should flee or stay and try to overpower the man.  He saw Ashwin walk towards Shirish, still talking, trying to control him

“Only I could see your genius.  No one else has ever understood you.  You have to write your stories.  Forget everyone, I will get your stories printed for the world to read”

The man stood swaying on his feet, licking his own blood from his lips.  His eyes were wild and his hair and shirt wet with sweat.  His lips parted in a horribly demented grin and he thrust his sword into his agent’s body.

The cops and his driver and gunman saw the opportunity and overpowered the man and disarmed him, and tied him up.  An ambulance was called and the writer was heavily sedated and sent off to NIMHANS, the wounded agent was given first aid and also shipped to a nearby hospital.

Day 5, 9a.m., Chibber suite, Maurya Sheraton, Delhi, breakfast

Meenal was glaring at Vipin and Ramola, giving them a piece of her mind. 

You two owe me big time.  I am a psychiatrist, not a leading character in a thriller.  I do not appreciate being in this situation.

“Sorry Meenal Didi, but you do look after mad people, so I thought you would be okay with this” said Vipin with what he hoped was a winsome smile.

“I treat disturbed people, not mad men” said Meenal coldly

Ramola said softly “ Meenal Didi, we really appreciate your help”

Meenal smiled slightly mollified.  She mock threatened “You owe me big time, young man and I will collect”

Alpana said firmly “I am totally with Dr. Meenal, Vipin.  There was no need to do such herogiri”

Dee, I did not expect any danger.  We were just going to persuade the writer to agree to some mental examination, that is all.

AC was busy on the phone.  He looked up and said “Well, Mr. Desai has regained consciousness and has been given his laptop.  He can continue writing at the hospital.  Mrs. Desai has agreed to not get any further books published”

Mrs. Desai is also undergoing treatment.  The poor lady has been under a lot of stress.  The doctors say she is quite relieved right now.

And her brother?  enquired Vipin

“He has certain habits that have to be corrected’ said the minister mysteriously.  “Our men have had a talk with him, and he has agreed to go abroad for treatment”

Ramola and Meenal looked confused.  Alpana shook her head and said ‘Don’t mind him.  He loves to feel important.  All this means is that Ashwin has some previous police record and has agreed to leave the country rather than be punished”.

Every one was eating when Ramola voiced what all were thinking but no one had said

“There are so many Desai books in the markets.  I wonder who they will affect next”

Day 4, 11 a.m., Desai Residence,

It was a sleepless night, but Tara was used to that. She quietly sat in the living room sketching. She loved sketching pretty butterflies and cheerful cartoons. They soothed her soul.  Desert scenes, warriors and desert women disturbed her now. She avoided doing that unless she had to. The household had slowly become normal. Her cellphone rang and she absently picked it up.

Hello.

Is this Tara Desai.

Yes, may I know who’s calling?

Mrs. Desai, this is Vipin Sehgal, calling on behalf of Minister Amrit Chibber from Chandigarh. I would like to talk to you.

I think you need to talk with my husband’s agent, I’ll give you his number

Madam, I have already talked to your brother. If you look outside your house, some policemen are stationed outside your house. Your brother has threatened us last night and the minister does not like threats.

Oh my God! What has Ashwin done? What do you want.

I want to talk to you and Mr. Desai, Madam

My husband is not well.

Madam, can I meet you

I live in Delhi, said Tara stalliing

Madam, Mr. Desai’s publisher has given us all relevant information. That is where I got your number. I know where you live and can be there within an hour if necessary

No, don’t come here. Please don’t.

She was panicking. Ashwin had threatened this Minister, police was watching the house. This was unthinkable.

Collecting herself, she said, “Today is Tuesday and I go to the Hanuman Mandir at 4 in the evening for pooja. Meet me at the mandir.

No madam, I will meet you at 5 p.m. at Starbeans Café at Connaught Place. Do you know where it is?

Yes I do

The phone went dead

Feeling restless, Tara went to the guest room where Shirish was sleeping, drugged, feverish and restless. A male nurse was sitting there watching TV with headphones. She paced around the room aimlessly and then went up to her bedroom.  The broken furniture had been removed and Ashwin was sitting studying the story Shirish was working on. He looked up at her and smiled.

Hi, Tara. I just read the story Shirish is writing right now. I swear, this is going to be the biggest grosser when its done.

The doctor told us that Shirish should be given treatment.  He should not write any more. You know he said that Ashwin.

Uff Tara, stop being fussy. He has many more stories inside him
What about Shirish, Ashwin?

Ashwin shut the laptop and carefully put down the lid
He got up and hugged his sister gently, and said.

I know you are worried. You think I am being selfish. The thing is, Tara, Shirish is a genius. He will be remembered through history as one of the finest historical writer of all times. We have to help him write. If we stop him from writing, he will go mad You tried that once, remember

Tara did remember She had taken away the laptop and locked it up, she had thrown away all writing material. Shirish had started hitting his head against the wall, going more uncontrollable by the minute until he got his laptop

Much later, she had tried to ask him what had happened. The answer was “They want me to tell their stories and get mad if I don’t”

Who are they?

I don’t know

She asked Ashwin who had gone to the window and was looking out

Ashwin I saw some policemen around the house, what is the matter

Ashwin looked out, then turned with a strained smile “Arrey didn’t I tell you? Yesterday there was a theft in the neighbourhood. You don’t worry about it. Just concentrate on getting Shirish well. It does not concern us

Tara was going to tell him about the phone call, but something made her shut up She just smiled weakly and said “You better have your lunch I have my Tuesday fast today”and drifted out

Day 4 , 5 p.m.Starbeans Café at Connaught Place

Tara Desai walked into Starbeans Cafe on foot.  The driver had been instructed to park in front of a saree shop.  She did not like this stealth and deception she was indulging in, but her instinct told her to hide this meeting from her brother who would not like it.  She looked around feeling like a fool.  She did not even know the appearance of the man she had come to meet. An extremely attractive young man, in his early twenties came up to her and said softly
“Mrs. Desai?  she nodded and he introduced himself as he led her to a table at the corner.While the coffee and sandwiches came, they sized each other. Tara saw a determined good looking youth, apparently from a good family.  He in turn saw a skinny middle aged lady, whose anxiety was clear on her face.  Tara fidgeted, took a nervous sip of her coffee and asked

What is this all about?

Vipin told her about the Noida murders, the strange attack on his sister.  He added,

Madam, I have been on the internet all night, and have collected a lot of stories about reactions of fans of your husband’s books.  I can tell you strange stories.  My sister is the wife of a minister, Madam and we are raising a call to ban your husband’s books.  We would like to give you advance warning before we take this step.  
He handed her case studies of a girl who tried to jump off a bridge – and had no recollection of it.  Another shy bookish schoolboy who nearly killed a bully.  She was trembling while she heard him out.  She was almost in tears as she blurted out

He is not well, he has not been well for about ten years.  He only gets up to write.
Tell me more Madam, said Vipin softly
She got up, shook her head, trying to control her tears, picked up the file and rushed out. A couple of men in khakhi stopped her mid flight, and Vipin joined her, saying gently

Madam, I must insist that we meet your husband., and he ushered her into a waiting jeep.
 
Meenal was in the jeep and she looked very angry at this daylight kidnapping.  Tara broke down into tears

Parasrao was astride a camel, in Baroli in 16^th Century Rajasthan, waiting for the priest to bless the camel train that he was to escort to the King’s palace.  The King was building an impressive fort, and he was proud that he had been given the duty to escort the sculptors and their finished pillars and frescos to the fort.  At seventeen, it was a command that made him proud.  His brothers thought he was too young.  If he reached home without any untoward happening, they would shut up and not tease him any more.  In the distance he could hear the sculptors going clink clink as they chiseled the stones which would soon be beautiful pillars with intricate designs, or sculptures of Shiva or the Mother Goddess to adorn temples and palaces far away.  He smiled to himself thinking of the end of the journey.  His uncle, the King, had fixed his marriage with a beautiful young girl who had caught his eye.  She was a friend of his cousin, the princess and also came from a respectable Rajput family.  This was his last mission this year.  After this he was to get married to Girija.  His brother would escort the next camel train.

As was the norm those days, a camel train this size attracted people who wanted to travel.  A few spice merchants, some peddlers who sold glass bangles, toys, and a family that wanted to go on pilgrimage, all of them had joined his train.  He and his band of soldiers would protect them and guide them through the desert.  At the end of the journey they would be paid in cash or would be given gifts by the people.  At the auspicious hour, a pundit came and chanted some mantras and distributed Prasad, and with the blowing of the conch shell, they began their journey through the desert.

“Shirish, you’re still up?”  Tara’s sleepy voice brought him back to the present in a start.

“Huh, what time is it” he asked, rubbing his tired eyes.  It often happened like this.  He would be so engrossed in the book he was writing that he would forget the time and sometimes even his present surroundings.  She reached for her mobile phone and checked. 

“Its 2 am.  Why don’t you get some sleep, Shirish?  Its late, and you must be tired”

“No, darling” he said absently.  “You go back to sleep.  Shall I turn off the lamp?”

“No, its all right” she replied, and he went back to the story he was typing frantically on the lap top, forgetting his wife and his surroundings.

The desert…..hot…… endless, the sand dunes going on for miles.   The sun was beating down on them.  They could see no village or human beings.  Just the rippling sand stretching to the horizon.  It did not bother him.  He was Parasrao, nephew of the King, a Chandravanshi soldier.  He had traveled from his town Amber to Baroli and back many times with his father and brothers.  This was the first time he was doing it independently.

“Shirish, are you writing a new story” asked Tara softly.  There was no answer.  She smiled to herself and settled herself in a more comfortable position.  He was sitting at the table engrossed in typing on his lap top. He was such a compulsive workaholic.  Many times, when he got involved in the story he would be writing, he would be unaware of any one.  He had to be reminded to eat and would fall asleep in front of his lap top. She sighed.   She looked at him with, smiled sleepily and slowly drifted back to sleep.

When he judged the sun to be at its peak, he gestured to the train.  They stopped and made camp.  It was time for their mid day meal of bajri and green chillis, pickle, washed down with salted butter milk and then rest under the wagons.  They would resume their journey later when it was cooler.  By night time they would reach the oasis and have fresh cool water.  It was just a two day journey in this season.  It was dangerous to travel this stretch during summer storms but no storms were expected in spring ….

At three they resumed their journey.  It was cooler now, and Parasrao did not let any one slow the pace.  They had to reach the oasis by night-fall.  Darkness fell with suddenness in the desert.  The stars were bright and shiny.  He took stock of their direction from the Pole Star. They were traveling in the right direction.  He could feel the gritty sand irritating his skin around his neck and under his eyes.  One of the wagon drivers gave a shout.  They all breathed a sigh of relief.  They were approaching the oasis.  Even the camels had smelled water.  They sped through the sand eagerly.  They did not notice the shadowy figures of the bandits until they were attacked.

The attackers must have got their information from spies so they were waiting to ambush the camel train.  Maybe a rival king wanted to delay his uncle’s fort.  There was no time to think.  His shield went up automatically to deflect the sword that was descending on his neck.  The rest of the soldiers were busy deflecting the attack.  Even the sculptors all had weapons and joined in repelling the attack.  The old people, women and children quickly hid under the wagons.  His adversary was strong and well trained.  Parasrao was battling for his life and honor.  The attacker was astride a horse.  Parasrao feeling handicapped on the camel, slid down, bringing down the horse with a blow on its neck.  The bandit jumped of the horse straight on to Parasrao.  Parasrao deflected the man with his shield.  He thrust his sword at the man’s chest, but the man was wearing armor.  He parried the sword thrust with ease. This was the first time in his life that Parasrao was fighting in earnest and not with his brothers for practice.  All his life he had trained for this day.  The bandit managed to run his sword through Parasrao’s side.  It was a shallow cut, but he was bleeding profusely.  He could smell the blood …… and then he went berserk.  He did not know how it happened but he was on a killing spree.  He fought like a maniac, killing the bandit who had attacked him and then attacking the others.  The smell of blood drove him over the edge.  He killed another, then another.  He kept slashing those bandits, even though he knew they were dead …….

Tara woke up to the sound of breaking glass.  Shirish had a metal curtain rod in his hand, the wardrobe was ransacked and he was smashing the mirror on the dressing table.

“Shirish stop it” screamed Tara.  “Some one help me!!!  She sprang to hold Shirish but he was uncontrollable.  The dresser fell down with a crash and a piece of wood embedded itself in Shirish’s leg.  He started bleeding profusely.  The noise roused the entire household.  The door burst open. Ashwin, her brother and Shirish’s agent and servants rushed in.  It took Ashwin and three servants to restrain the writer. Someone switched on the light.  The room was in shambles, things strewn around, glass shards all over the floor, furniture upturned.  Shirish, totally overpowered, stopped struggling and collapsed in a heap. 

It took all the soldiers to control Parasrao and take away his sword.  Even then, he calmed down only when they threw all their precious water on him.  The smell of blood got washed away and Paras collapsed, shivering.  He was so tired.  He somehow stumbled into one of the wagons and fell unconscious.  The camel train resumed its journey to the oasis.  Even after reaching the oasis, he did not wake up for his dinner or a wash.  They let him sleep.  A poultice was applied to his wounded side and he was wiped clean.  He did not wake up.  They put him in a sarai room and let him rest.  He had been so brave.  A true Chandravanshi soldier.  He had earned his rest.   

 Dammit Ashwin, it was a bad fit this time, said Tara extremely annoyed.  He needs a doctor.

Get the doctor here then, Tara.  We can’t get the people to know, said Ashwin

Tara knew the facts, her husband was mad.  No, not the usual kind of mad.  When not writing he was a quiet shy kind of a man.  When he wrote, it was as though some one else took over.  It was getting even worse now.  Her brother was of no help.  He wanted book after book to be written.  The books sold like hot cakes.  The sad thing was that with every book, they got richer and Shirish went deeper into madness.  Today he attacked the dressing table, tomorrow it could be her.  She kept all these thoughts to herself, knowing that Ashwin would not listen. 

What happened, is he writing something new?

I think so, she replied

Is the lap top safe?

Yeah, I guess so

I got a call from the publisher.  Some minister wants to meet Shirish. 

You know how it is, Ashwin.  He wont be able to meet anyone or even make sense until he gets the book out of his system.

She got up and picked up the phone

Who are you calling?  He asked

The doctor, who else? 

She was irritated.  Her husband was unwell, her brother was greedy and paranoid.  It was easier when she was just an artist who drew attractive pictures for childrens’ books.  That is how she had met Shirish Desai, started making book cover art for his novels and became his wife.  At first she thought her brother who worked as her agent would help her manage the publishers etc.  Now she wondered ….

Day 3, 4 p.m. Chandigarh, Chibber Residence

Stigmata?  What on earth is that?

I have seen it once before, a Roman Catholic lady, she was an old woman, an Indian immigrant in U.K.  She had crucifixtion marks on her hands and feet.  She was uneducated and deeply religious.  Quite unlike your sister.  They appear in some people. There was a movie some years back on this stuff.  Check it out and leave me alone.  I have to do some work.

Vipin did not take any offense.  Meenal often talked and behaved like this.  He went off to his room, and started searching for stigmata on the net. 

Wikipedia said :

Stigmata are bodily marks, sores, or sensations of pain in locations corresponding to the crucifixion wounds of Jesus. The term originates from the line at the end of Saint Paul‘s Letter to the Galatians where he says, “I bear on my body the marks of Jesus,” stigmata is the plural of the Greek word stigma meaning a mark or brand such as might have been used for identification of an animal or slave. An individual bearing stigmata is referred to as a stigmatic.

He found it far fetched, but apparently there were recorded cases of this.  He also found the movie and started downloading it.  To kill time he switched on the TV.

The Noida murder was in the headlines still.  The old man who had confessed had died without regaining consciousness.  The doctors did not believe he could have struck any one with the strength needed to kill. Moreover there was a bloody wooden wicket.  The police was tight lipped, and stuck to their “No comments” stance and the media was speculating a lot.  The police had first said that Nagpal had confessed to the attack, but it looked like a frame up.  The man was mentally unstable, dumb and most probably a drug addict.  Then old footage of  Nagpal was also shown, along with his polythene bag, a blood stained hammer, and a book.   Vipin stopped doing anything and stared at that scene intently.  Then he went to his laptop and started searching for details of the Noida murder. 

He rang up his brother in law

Hello, Jijaji, kahan ho aap.

Bolo bete

Jijaji, yeh Noida wala case dekha TV par?

Yes, what about it.

Jijaji, the mad man was carrying the same book Didi was reading.  May be we can find a copy of the same book in Joshi’s house.

What are you trying to say?

I don’t know what I am trying to say Jijaji. 

Bete, I will be home soon, then we can talk okay?

Vipin kicked the table in frustration.  AC was using the same tone he did when Vipin was a schoolboy. Then on a sudden hunch, he searched for Shirish Desai on the net.  There were many references to Desai, the popular fiction writer who wrote historical adventures and romances, set somewhere in Rajasthan desert around the 16^th and 17^th Century. There were many websites of fans, an entire list of his works, excerpts of his books.  Vipin read some of the excerpts.  They were interesting, adventures in deserts and oasis, camel trains, trade routes, royalty ….. just the kind of stuff Didi, who loved history would lap up. 

Reputed historians commended Desai on the historical authenticity of his research, most of his readership was female.  The funny thing was that there was no personal information of Desai ….. no photo, no address, nothing.  This was strange.  Even people who wrote dry as dust medical thesis had an email address, a telephone number, a home page.  This was a popular writer, with millions of fans, and no one knew where he lived and what he looked like. 

His cellphone rang. 

Hey handsome

It was Ramola.  He grinned and started chatting to her.  He gave her an abridged update

Yeah, Didi was fine and very annoyed both with the attack and also with the fuss Jijaji had created.  Meenal was fine …. Yeah he survived being with Meenal ….. he did not know when he would be back, may be in a couple of days …. And then he asked

Babe, have you read Shirish Desai’s books?

Yeah, went through six books one summer vacation.  They are tremendously addictive.  Then I stopped.

Why?

Gave me a headache!

You mean you read too many in one go?

Uncomfortable laugh ….

Yeah, I guess I did.  Started dreaming I was a desert belle in those romances.  Weird haanh?

Vipin swallowed, forced a laugh and said “Yeah wierd!”

Day 3, 7 p.m. Chandigarh, Chibber Residence

“Vipin, bete kahan ho?”

Vipin, deep in the movie Stigmata pressed the pause button and and came out.  Jijaji and Beeji were having tea in the small lobby designed for close friends and relatives.  He joined him and waited as the servant poured out the tea.

As soon as the servant left, he blurted out what Meenal had said, his conversation with Ramola and his strange feelings about the author of the book Alpana was reading.

AC quietly heard him out.  It was far fetched. The link between the Noida murders and the attack on his wife was tenuous, but he was a man of action.  He needed action.  He knew his brother in law was not an imaginative fellow.  When Vipin told him that the author was extremely secretive, he sprang into action.  Picking up the phone, he rang up the SP, asking for the police reports of the Noida murders.  He also called a servant to request Dr. Meenal to join them for tea.

Dr. Meenal was reluctant to give a straight reply and said firmly

“Mantriji, I met your wife once for about less than an hour.  No psychiatrist will give you a diagnosis in such a short time.  All I can say is that she appears to be normal, displays no symptom of anxiety, neurosis or any kind of mental imbalance.  The marks on her feet can be allergic reaction or insect bite”

“You told Vipin they were …… kya kehte hain usko?”

“Stigmata’ said Vipin

Meenal replied “That was just a speculative remark.  It was not a diagnosis.  I request you to let me meet Madam in my professional capacity.  Only then will I make a diagnosis”

“But you said” protested Vipin

“That was a reaction”, she said firmly, “not a diagnosis”.

Beeji was listening to all this with great interest.  She still remembered the lovely 17 year old child woman her son had fallen in love with at a baraat.  Amrit had not yet become a minister, and when they found out that she was an orphan, being brought up by relatives, Beeji had approached her relatives with a proposal.  Relieved that the girl was being married so early, her relatives agreed.  Alpana had placed just one demand, her brother, about ten years younger, would accompany her.  The girl had brought her Amrit good fortune and now Amrit was a State Minister.  She was concerned and made her decision.

“Puttar, I want to hold an akhand paath in the house, for Alpana’s welfare”

As you wish Beeji.  Just do not get any one to do jhaar-phoonkh.  Such things are not good.

Dr. Meenal nodded her head and said, “Prayer is good therapy” and finished her tea and excused herself.  Beeji got up and left, murmuring something about organizing the akhand paath.

Faxes were brought in and Amrit started reading them.  He flipped through a sheaf of papers and pushed them towards Vipin.  They were pertaining to the Noida murders.  Both the Joshis and Nagpal were fond of Shirish Desai’s novels. 

Jijaji, I would like to know more about this Desai

So would I, beta, so would I, said AC

He called in his secretary and instructed him

Call the publisher of Shirish Desai’s novels and tell them we want to meet Mr. Desai.  Treat this as urgent.

Jee Sahib

The SP rang up and invited himself over for dinner.  It was not unusual, and SP Kaushik was a familiar face.  Over drinks, Vipin expressed his interest in the Noida case.

Kyun bhai, doctary chodh kar police ka kaam karna hai?  Said SP with a laugh.

Nahin sir, Dr. Meenal was wondering if we could meet that pagal man, you know.  She is a practicing psychiatrist.

Taken by surprise, Meenal nearly spilled her drink and glared at Vipin.  Recovering herself, she smiled and nodded, mumbling something about researching such cases for a medical paper.

The SP was flattered by the attention, smiled and said “Kyun nahin?, magar usko Nimhans le gaye hain.  When you go to Delhi, just get the attending doctors to talk to me and it will be arranged.”

Day 3, 10 a.m. Noida Sector 48 Police Station

Reports had started coming in. Vikram and Vandana Joshi were retired school teachers. They lived a simple life, making ends meet through tuitions. They had two daughters who were married and settled abroad. They had no money, so theft was not a motive. The house was rented and the daughters paid an annual rent directly to the landlord. That ruled out any sort of property dispute. No one had seen them fight. Nothing seemed to make sense.

Sharma was pinning all his hopes on the medical reports of Vikram Joshi and Nagpal. The reports were brought in by Inspector Pandey at around 11 a.m. from the hospital. SHO Sharma snatched them up and started reading Nagpal’s report and looked up at Pandey scowling. Inspector Pandey was standing watching his boss apprehensively. He had collected the report from the hospital and knew what was in it. The doctors had explained both the report to him. He knew his boss would be very angry. He wished the Joshi murders had never taken place and he had never set eyes on this idiot Mohan Nagpal.

The report clearly said that Mohan Nagpal was a normal male, physically healthy, his blood samples and urine showed high residue of cannabis, his mental condition was confused …. and he could not have confessed the murder because he suffered from a condition called spasmic dysphonia.

“Yeh kya bala hai”

“Ji, doctors ka kehna hai, iski awaaz mein kami hai, ye theekh se bol nahin sakta, is liye he could not have confessed to any murder”

“Isne bola tha – tune bhi suna tha” shouted Sharma, “Joshi ka report dikha”

As per Joshi’s report, the man suffered from arthritis, and the doctor seemed to think that he could not have killed his wife with a jack-rod.

Sharma started walking up and down to control his temper. He had one dead woman, two confessions, and no motive. Medical reports cast doubts on one man’s confession and the other man’s ability to murder. Things were as clear as mud. The SP and DC were already pressurizing him, the media was freaking out. In a matter of time, politicians would also jump in.

He knew that this could lead to demotion and a transfer to some high-risk remote area. His future seemed bleak.

Day 3, 1 p.m. Panchkula, Chibber residence

“Puttar tussi aa gaye?” Vipin smiled as they stepped into the palatial home of his sister. It was Jijaji’s mother, affectionately known as Beeji by everyone. Pairi pahuna Beeji Jeenda reh puttar. Fikr na kar, your sister is alright, just scared and tired. I had called Babaji to protect her from the evil eye, but she got upset. You young people do not believe in all this …. Padhe Likhe shehri ho na.

Vipin smiled, sounded like Didi had thrown a tantrum. She did have strong ideas about sleazy corrupt godmen and superstition. He introduced Meenal to Beeji and rushed up to meet his sister.

Alpana was sitting on the bed, irritated, her bare feet covered with some strong smelling ointment. AC was sitting on an easy chair, talking gently. They both looked up as Vipin entered

“Hey Dee, pairi paona Jijaji”

Both of them smiled. Alpana gave a resigned shrug and complained gently

“So your Jijaji pulled you out of college too? Nothing is wrong with me. It may be some insect bite or rash dammit! Aap bhi na … you get worried so easily”.

“Arrey baba, okay. Guess what, Vipin has brought a friend with him” AC looked at Vipin who quickly picked up the unspoken cue.

“Its Ramola’s cousin, Dee. She had to come to Chandigarh, some medical conference or something, so we came together”

Before Alpana could react, AC announced that he was very hungry and it was really bad to keep a guest waiting for a meal and ushered Vipin out of the room. Once out of earshot, he smiled ruefully and whispered to Vipin “A man can fight the whole world, but becomes a coward in front of his wife”

After lunch, Vipin took Meenal to meet Alpana, briefing her on the need to keep it discreet. Meenal was taken aback. She had expected a spoilt, bored, attention-seeking younger wife of an older husband. The lady on the bed was extremely beautiful and in addition to that she was a strong minded, intelligent and down to earth person. Inevitably the conversation came down to the events of the night. Extremely embarrassed, Alpana related the events, beginning with her reading a thriller, to her vivid dream and then the cuts on her feet.

Meenal said, “Madam can I take a closer look at the cuts”

Alpana nodded. They were not cuts, they were dull red marks.

Alpana blurted out “They are probably rashes or some allergy.”

Meenal gently smiled and said “They probably are rashes or something. Can I borrow your book for the night?”

“Sure” Alpana smiled and handed her a copy of the latest bestseller written by Shirish Desai. She took the book, looked at Vipin and said, “I would like to prepare for my conference”.

Vipin also got up and they left the room.

“Well”, asked Vipin when they were in Meenal’s room

Meenal said “Vipin, those are not cuts. They look like stigmata. I want to read your sister’s book and then figure things out.”

Amrit Singh Chibber, also known as AC was a fighter.  The sixth child of a marginal farmer, he had fought his way into success.  As a young man, he had chosen wisely.  The options open to young poor men in Punjab were limited, they could either become criminals, terrorists or soldiers.  Army did not appeal to him as it did not pay well.  Moreover a regulated life did not suit him.  Criminals and terrorists had poor life expectancy.  He started working for an experienced politician and his mentor taught him well.  Today, not yet fifty, he was a minister with the state government.  He had everything, a fleet of cars, property, wealth and of course, his lovely young wife.

He adored his wife.  She was beautiful, young and educated, a pleasure to be with.  He was angry.  In his feudal mind, an attack on his wife was a personal attack and someone was going to pay for it.  After ensuring that Alpana was comfortable, sedated and asleep, and her personal maid was sleeping on the floor next to her bed, he went into his study and switched the TV on.  The commentator was retelling the sensational tale of the Noida double murder.  They were showing the bloody living room of the Joshi house, and then they showed clips of  the mad man Nagpal who confessed to the crime.  The other confession by the injured Joshi was also being shown.   

He switched to another news channel.  The same news was being replayed.  This news channel was enterprising.  It had invited some psychiatrist guest speaker who was giving a lot of technical jargon about how some demented men confessed to any and every crime.  He picked up his cellphone and rang up Alpana’s brother, Vipin who was a medical student in a prestigious college.

“Hello” said Vipin sleepily

“Beta kaise ho?”

“Jijaji, sab theekh toh hai?” said Vipin sitting up in his bed, all sleep gone.

AC related the incident and Vipin assured him that he would be there immediately.  AC said

“Beta, get a qualified doctor with you.  Don’t come alone” and put the phone down.

Vipin Chaddha, MBBS, pursuing his MD in cardiology, got up, very worried.  He was a doctor and he could not believe that some intruder would enter his sister’s heavily guarded home, cut her feet and vanish.  It was bizarre.  He feared for her mental health.  He switched on his laptop and sat down to read all he could about this and also network with some people in the field as he waited for day break when he could apply for leave and fly to Chandigarh.

6 am Day 3

Hey handsome what are you doing up this early    

Vipin smiled.  It was Ramola, his girl friend, a MBBS student.  He typed

Didi is not well, I’ve got to go to Chandigarh

Ramola replied

 :(    

Old Grinch is going to give you hell

I know but I have to ….

All the best

She was right, Grinch, the HOD would not like it, but Jijaji was a trustee and a member of the Board.  If necessary, he would pull strings and make it more comfortable.  He made a decision and rang her up

Hey girl, your Dad in town?

Ramola’s father was a leading psychiatrist and divided his time between U.K. and India, treating mental health patients.  Indians abroad preferred Indian shrinks, who could understand them.

Dad is in U.K.  Tell me …..

Got to discuss a case with a psychiatrist

My God, Vipin, what is going on?

I don’t know babe, I don’t know

Hmmm, I’ll talk to you when we meet.  Am messaging you Meenal’s number, she’s been assisting Dad 

Thanks babe

Meenal was Ramola’s cousin, non communicative and nerdy.  It took guts to talk to her, but Didi and Jijaji were the parents he never had.  He called her up.  It was 7 a.m.  By ten, he was enroute to Chandigarh along with Dr. Meenal Vashisht, a qualified psychiatrist, assistant to Dr. Ramswarup Chaudhary.

1 p.m. Police Station, Sector 48, Noida  Day 2

It had been an eventful morning, but SHO Sharma was deeply thankful that this was one murder in which his police station was mercifully spared media bashing.  He could see the vans of the news channels parked outside the thana, but they were keeping to themselves.

A crime had been committed, the murderer had surrendered.  All the police had to do was to tie up the loose ends and close the file.  He thanked providence and suppressed his gut feeling that something was dreadfully wrong in this case.  He felt uneasy about the gruesome nature of the murder and the innocent face of the murderer.  SHO Sharma was a pragmatic man, unless something came up, as far as he was concerned, the case was solved.   

 Inspector Pandey came in looking very disturbed

 Sahib, voh Arora murder case

 Bolo Pandey

Sahib Budhe ko hosh aa gaya hospital jaate jaate.  He told every one including the media that he killed his wife.

 Bhenchod!!!  Kahe se maara?

 “Jack-rod se” replied Pandey.  Jack-rod bhi mila hai ghar se, and we also found a wicket stick, both having human blood on them

Human blood? 

 Jee sahib, Nagpal ke hammer par koi janwar ka khoon hai

 Sharma lost his temper.  He almost ran to the lock-up.  Mohan Nagpal was sitting staring at the wall, totally unaffected by his surroundings.

“Abbey harami, mazak samajh rakha hai police ko?” he shouted at the boy.  “Film ki kahani likh raha hai saale?”

 “Sahib, media” said Pandey warningly

 Sharma controlled himself with great difficulty, turned and walked back to his office.  He looked at Pandey and barked “Report, I want a full report.  Is Nagpal ki poori janam kundli nikalo.  Budhe ki bhi.  Saala circus bana rakha hai”

Jee Sahib

Midnight, Panchkula

8 a.m. day 2, Police Station Sector 48 Noida

S.H.O. Sharma was sipping his morning cup of tea when he heard a lot of loud voices

“Abbey bhenchod, kahan ghusse ja raha hai?” came Inspector Pandey’s voice angrily

Sharma picked up his glass of tea and looked out into the main hall

A dusty and blood bespattered youth stood there in the centre of the hall.  He grimaced, put his hand into a polybag he was carrying and fished out a bloody hammer.  A paper-back thriller fell out of it.

There was a sudden silence as all the men withdrew out of arms reach.  The youth dropped the hammer on the floor and sat down next to it, speaking in a dull monotone

“I think I have killed someone and I don’t know what to do.  Please help me.  I think I have gone mad”.

 Sharma walked into the room and asked brusquely

“Kaun hai tu, kisko maara?”

“Mohan Nagpal. Pata nahin ………….”

Paagal to nahin ho gaya hai Saale? exclaimed Inspector Pandey

“Shayad”, muttered the boy

Iska report likho” ordered SHO Sharma, and stood there watching as the officers took an inventory of the youth’s meager possessions.  He carried no identification, just a book and a hammer and Rs.150/-.

“Bolna shuru kar”, he added.

Sharma was an experienced police officer.  Noida shared its border with Delhi, Haryana and UP.  He had seen gang wars, petty crimes, terrorism.  An astute judge of people, he knew that this boy was not a criminal.  He kept observing the youth as he recounted his tale.  It was a strange tale.  This Mohan knew no one in Noida, did not know how he got here, and did not know the person/people he thought he killed, was not even sure of the address where this crime had happened.  

He wearily asked Pandey “Any report of a murder”

“No Sahib”

“Take down this man’s name, address, phone no., and question him.  Keep him in the police station and send some boys to investigate.”

At 11 a.m. the domestic help who worked for the Aroras pushed open the slightly ajar door of 735 Sector 48 and found Mrs. Vandana Arora, age 58, dead in a pool of blood in the living room and a bloody unconscious Vikram Arora age 64, near the front door, his condition serious, not expected to survive.  They had been bludgeoned with some blunt object.  Mohan Nagpal was placed under arrest.  

I have always been fascinated by Iago and motiveless malignity.  Hence this story – I will keep adding to it.  Do give me feedback

NORTH INDIA:  SUMMER 2006    DAY 1

Noida

It was about 3 am in the night when Mohan Nagpal woke up as he stumbled against the swing in a strange villa.  This was crazy.  A 22 years old youth,  sane and healthy, leading a fairly boring middle class existence is not supposed to sleep-walk.  Confused, he looked down at his bare feet.  All sleep vanished.  He had blood stains all over his pajamas, and his feet, as though he had walked through a pool of blood.  He turned and saw that he was standing in the dimly lit marbled porch of a strange house, his bloody footprints coming towards him from somewhere inside.  There was no sound apart from the creaking of the swing and the thudding of his panicking heart.  With trembling hands he picked up the polybag that had fallen from his hands,  opened the gate and fled into the darkness, with a backward glance towards the gate whose lit letter-box proclaimed

VIKRAM ARORA

735 SECTOR 48

NOIDA, U.P.

He had never been to Sector 48 Noida in his life and never met Vikram Arora.  May be he was going mad.