The Benefit Season

  ‘The Benefit Season’ by Nidhi Singh Copyright May, 2014

  The Benefit Season

  By

  Nidhi Singh

  Copyright Nidhi Singh 2014

  Disclaimer: This is a work of imagination. Any resemblance to any event or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Nidhi SIngh at Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 Sally Nidhi Singh

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1 Tughlaqabad Shooting Ranges

  Chapter 2 Lele and Lily

  Chapter 3 Man at Work

  Chapter 4 Aarti arrives on the scene

  Chapter 5 Twelfth Man

  Chapter 6 The Benefits

  Chapter 7 The Runnings

  Chapter 8 Diu

  Part 2

  Chapter 9 The Vanishings

  Chapter 10 The Spy Who Came In From Nowhere

  Chapter 11 Escape to Captivity

  Chapter 12 The Shiny Monologue at Neemrana

  Chapter 13 A Tiger by the Tail at Sariska

  Chapter 14 What a good shot!

  The Epilogue

  Prologue

  (3rd Jan 2014)

  At 8:32 PM, on a cool, rain-kissed evening in Mumbai, Mrs. Monal Nagrath- society lady and wife to Vishal Nagrath, CEO, Phoenix Sports- vanished in the middle of her third anniversary party, without so much as a teary taking of leave, or a weary taking of stock of the fast vanishing refreshments that her servants were quietly helping themselves to in the kitchen.

  At roughly the same time, 876 miles away in Delhi, Arjun Pasricha, vanished from the ceremonies of his betrothal to childhood sweetheart, Aarti Khosla, without so much as a moist eye, or a tug at the old-fashioned conscience.

  On the face of it, it seemed strange.

  But if you’d happened to scratch the surface, it wouldn’t have been so hard to imagine that such a thing was bound to happen.

  ϖ

  Part 1

  (In Arjun’s Voice)

  Chapter 1

  Tughlaqabad Shooting Ranges

  (Six months earlier - July 2013)

  Clouds dark with promise hang over the white and grey of the ramparts of the crumbling Adilabad fort, which provides a forlorn backdrop to the orange clay pigeons that are flung across, and burst into smoke when hit. Aarti expertly swings the pump-action shotgun on a dainty hip, her eye unwavering from the target, scoring a perfect 25, every time.

  Her father, foul-mouthed, foul-tempered, retired Brigadier Khosla, isn’t such a crack shot and barely manages to crack an 11, as he follows her on the semicircular firing stations at the Trap and Skeet Range, trying to keep up with the high and the low birds, and nixing his doubles.

  I sit in the coolness of the AC lounge sipping my Schweppes Tonic Water, watching them finish their skeet shooting rounds out there in the boiling firmament of Delhi, where clouds come and go during the monsoons without shedding as much as a dribble. Being an armed forces kid, I can shoot too, but would probably look very clumsy in front of the ace shooter Aarti. Which would give another cause to the old man to gripe about the choices his daughter makes in her friends, meaning me. And he’d never stopped rubbing it in that I was of poor stock, since my father had only risen as far as a lowly Lt. Col. in the army’s steep pyramid.

  My forte instead was in the track and field events, from which the rigors of studies had weaned me away during the Boards- once and for all. Then my recently widowed mom only allowed me a short 5-mile run in the evenings, followed by the cherished swim at the station pool, where I had the chance to be in the company of Aarti. We would race each other in the pool and then chat outside in the parking lot, with a leg swung over our bicycles, till it became dark and the sentries became impatient, wanting to lock the gates and go home.

  I cannot remember a day when we were not in each other’s company; going to the same school, the same college and then the same Faculty of Management Studies at DU for our MBA. Now we were going to the same place, Mumbai, for work after finishing college. With my sports background I had landed a job with Phoenix, a Sports Management Company, while she with her number crunching skills, had found her moorings at Standard Chartered Bank.

  I stand up as Aarti and Khosla drop the empty cartridges in a box on the range, and walk in, guns still held up. Aarti hugs me close, grinning widely as usual, unmindful of her sullen father who nods briskly as I wish him a pleasant afternoon, before to her I say a pleasant ‘howdy’!

  ‘So what are you having, eh? What’s that?’ Khosla says- referring to my drink, as if he’d caught me slipping in the contraband. He raises my glass to his nose and wrinkles his face in disgust. ‘That’s meant to knock people out- not revive them. A shot of gin in that will save your life’.

  His booming voice carries across the lounge, sparsely populated at this time of the year when there hardly are any competitions scheduled. The serious athletes would start coming in during the fall. Right now, just a few members of the rifle association are around, enjoying a meal and drink after having finished their shooting during the cooler morning hours.

  Hearing the thunder, a waiter rises like a shadow behind the VP of the Rifle Association, and stands like a question mark, half bent at the waist, his head bowed.

  ‘So what will you have’, Khosla turns to his daughter.

  ‘Gin and tonic’, she says, grinning.

  ‘Thank you so much’, Khosla says. Turning to the waiter he orders, ‘lime water for the lady here- sweet. And for this…this…this…’ he fumbles, waving towards me, not able to bring himself to call me a gentleman.

  ‘I will have another tonic water, thank you’, I butt in, easing the old man’s agony somewhat.

  ‘And I will have the frothiest- in a jug. Make that two - one after the other, not together- get it? And lunch after’, he says. ‘What’s for lunch by the way?’

  ‘The usual, sir’.

  ‘Why does usual sound suspiciously like vegetarian to me? Is this a Tuesday? Tuesday sounds like usual to me! The standard lame excuse whenever I ask for something to choke these arteries or wet these whiskers with’! Khosla laments, peering over the frayed menu card.

  ‘ Have you got meat on the table, man; debris of anything that once chewed cud and parted the hoof; anything other than green leafy plants? Come on, tell me!’ He says, tugging at the waiter’s sleeve.

  The waiter patiently replies; ’sir, we have chicken, as well as mutton, as well as any’.

  ‘Well, go on then, git’!

  ‘Why don’t you drag your lazy person to the shooting range once in a while, eh?’ Khosla says, training his guns on me now. ‘Afraid to get a tan?’ he laughs.

  ‘He’s not a mornings person, papa’, Aarti says, leaping to my defense. ‘ He runs when the sun is down and the shadows are up’.

  ‘Running is no sport. Where’s the contact… the hand-eye coordination? And what’s this silly job you’ve landed- sports management- what’s that?’

  ‘I guess it’s about managing sports events and sports stars- their endorsements, contracts, accounts etc.’

  ‘The only stars in sport in our country are cricketers, whether Indian or foreign. And you never know who’s playing on whose side. One minute he’s whipping sixes and the next, he waves a hanky and gets his feet caught up in his stumps. You stay away from them poster boys and city lights - mind it’, he says, banging the mug on the wooden table, spilling some of his frothy. ‘Want some’, he asks me generously.

  ‘Thank you sir, but no; I’m travelling’.

  ‘Travelling, he says- bah! Nothing like the old spirits to ease a weary traveller on his way’!

  Aarti keeps jabbing me under the table with her foot, biting her straw
and smiling, enjoying my discomfort.

  ‘Stop it’, I say, when the foot raises my trouser edge till my knee.

  ‘Ah. What was that?’ Khosla says.

  ‘Nothing, sir’.

  ‘Nothing? And nothing, am I to believe, are your plans young man?’

  His directness throws me off balance. I would have thought the old man would raise the topic of our marriage a little more delicately.’ Sir… I need time to think this over. Err…I want to stand on my feet before… later, perhaps’.

  A dark cloud passes over Aarti’s pretty features as I fumble for words.

  ‘What are you saying? All I’m asking is where you are going to stay! You need time to think what over- chump?’

  ‘Oh, that… The company guestroom’, I reply, embarrassingly, avoiding Aarti’s disappointed looks.

  I am leaving the same day for Mumbai, while Aarti is fetching up a couple of weeks later, as per our differing joining schedules. She is going to drop me at the station today. The lunch is a farewell from the sullen old man.

  We round up the flesh and bones at lunch, and bid goodbye to the old man who sulks that his daughter should drive in the rotten traffic for someone as inconsequential as I.

  ‘Don’t go on the platform, drop him by the roadside’, he advises his daughter and pulls away.

  ϖ

  ‘Here we are…’ she says, as we drive into the station and park in the shade. She looks at me searchingly.

  ‘What’, I ask.

  ‘ So what are your plans, young man’, she says gruffly, in her father’s tone. ’ No plans, huh?’

  I run my fingers through her soft tresses tumbling about the high, ivory cheekbones and determined chin, and say nothing.

  ‘You took a lot of time back there, Arjun. What did you think he was talking about?’

  ‘ I don’t know Aarti! I never expected it from him. I…I thought he was talking about us. I never thought of us that way’.

  ‘Then which way did you think of us, young man’?

  I remain quiet. She suddenly breaks into a giggle, easing off when she sees that I am upset about having probably hurt her. ‘Don’t worry Arjun, I will always wait’.

  ‘I’ll wait too- don’t be late in reaching Mumbai. I’ll call’, I say, hugging her.

  I haul my bags off the rear seat and blow her a kiss. She smiles, puts on the sunglasses, flicks a tear off their rim and drives off, leaving a small lump in my throat. I don’t know how I am going to cope with being away from her for so long- a complete month!

  As the train pulls away from the station I think of what she’d said. I suddenly realize I can’t afford to take chances with us; leaving things in a limbo just because some things were left unsaid. True, I wasn’t sure of what to say to the old man, but I am pretty certain of what I have to do and what I want. I had never confessed my love, or she hers, but we always knew it was always there- rock solid and eternal.

  A foreign tourist sitting across from my bunk excitedly clicks pictures of our bold men and women squatting on the railway lines, baring all and answering to the pressing call of nature. When she stops I know it is safe to open the curtains and look outside.

  I call Aarti up when I get the tower’s reception.

  ‘Where are you?’ she squeals.

  ‘Just getting out of Delhi- entering Faridabad’.

  ‘So far! I miss you already!’

  We’d just had lunch that afternoon at Faridabad, but I don’t care to remind her; ‘listen, I have something to ask of you’, I say instead.

  ‘What? Ask.’ I could see her tilting her long neck with curiosity.

  ‘It’s not something you ask on a phone’.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘It’s something you ask on one knee’.

  There is silence on the other end for a while. Then the stars twinkle again and all is well with the world. ‘Well, I’ll be waiting for the question then, Arjun’, she says shyly.

  ‘And I for the answer, girl’!

  There is nothing more to be said after that really, as we hang up and dream of how it would be, as we take things to the next level: from always inseparable to hitched forever.

  ϖ

  Chapter 2

  Lele and Lily

  This being my first visit to the city, I am not prepared for what hits me when I step out on the Mumbai platform. Everyone is in a tearing hurry and I, in everyone’s way. Pretty women in saris casually shove their elbows in my face to get past, while Dabbawalas spawn all over the station, crushing any and every toe that comes their way. The humidity, and stench of compost and dead fish is too much for me, and I am soon drenched in sweat, wishing I had chosen breathing cottons over the smothering synthetics that stick to me like a second skin.

  Luckily they’ve sent someone to fetch me; a jovial-looking man with pink jowls standing firm like a rock in the sea of surging humanity, holding a placard that answers unmistakably to my name. Over his arm is slung a garland of glum carnations, and in his fingers bends a withered rose; most of its petals lost to the jostling crowd.

  I walk up to my savior. ‘Hi, I’m the guy you’re looking for’.

  ‘Arjun!’ he says accusingly, bending backwards a little at the waist and jabbing the wilted rose at me.

  ‘Your man, yeah.’

  He looks at the name on the placard and then at my face, finding no resemblance. ‘Sanjay Lele,’ he shrugs. ‘ Here’, he says, offering me the choice of the garland and the single stem. ‘They say the florists get them from the graveyards, but you can’t be sure’.

  ‘Thanks’, I say; wincing as I unwind the dying garland from his arm, and pluck the wilted rose from his fingers; and place them like wreaths upon my bags.

  ‘Here let me help you with those’, he says, motioning to my luggage. Picking up the folded newspaper that I’d jammed in the straps, he turns and disappears into the crowds without glancing back.

  I stand there for a moment, gaping. Too proud to hire a coolie at this age, I shrug, and lugging my burden on my shoulders, I follow the man out of the station.

  He hadn’t reached far though: he was stuck at the gates, arguing with the weary TC about a platform ticket that he’d forgotten to buy. As I pass them I nudge Lele aside gently and waving my train ticket under the TCs nose, say some gibberish in Punjabi and drag the griping motor mouth out after me.

  ‘Hey, thanks for that’, he says later.

  Before he can begin to explain, I am already in the rear seat of the company car with my bags stacked next to the driver.

  ‘Actually, Monal ma’am sent me’. He remarks as we drive off, narrowly missing a pregnant holy cow, a rusty wheelchair carrying an abusive old Parsi, and a blind man selling fake Ray Bans.

  ‘ She is all into first impressions. I am supposed to give her a feedback’.

  ‘What do you do, other than conveying first impressions’, I ask, holding a hanky to my nose. We are driving by the sea now and the stench is so overpowering that I can almost see it, weighing down like a shroud upon the dingy slum-city.

  ‘We are in the same team- you, Lily and I. We answer to our team leader, Mrs. Monal. We have ten-odd teams in Operations, each handling a couple of accounts- from five to ten stars. We look after everything for our clients: from getting them new contracts to their investments; real estate, stocks, the paperwork, and anything else that they might ask for- anything. You know what I mean?’

  I nod. I’d heard of the whimsical icons- mostly cricketers. The rest were grounded people.

  ‘The marketing guys go after the rising stars, and poach the established ones from our competition. They rake in the business and normally rookies like you are made to sharpen their teeth in marketing before they are allowed to sit in the glass cabins and knock items off the clients’ wish lists. You must know someone big in the company already to make it to ops’, he says.

  ‘ I am as surprised as you are Lele- you can tell Monal ma’am that- at this direct assignment to the knee of the celebrity for a
promising shot at sucking up.’

  ‘Initially, you will stay with Lily and me at the company guestroom at Prabhadevi. It’s close to our company office at Worli. ‘

  ‘Not for long I hope. Plan to settle down on my own ASAP.’

  ‘A romantic interest, aha!’ Lele says, mentally filing the information away, no doubt as part of his “first impressions” brief.

  ϖ

  Meanwhile we reach the colony where I am going to stay, for a short while at least; till I bring my romantic affairs to a satisfactory conclusion, and slip the 22 carats of gold with 2 carats of the shiny stone around the third finger, and pitch tent with Aarti.

  It was funny- I had never looked at Aarti as my “ romantic interest”; she’d always been an indispensable part of my narrative; she completed me; without her I was like a shoe without lace… or a shoe without its pair…

  Our building, the Centurion Park, facing the sea, seems tired of having weathered the lashing coastal winds and rains for so long, like a bent old lady done in by the times. Mean looking dogs- the usual infestation of Indian habitat; chase our car as it reaches the gates, till a sharp stone flung by a guard finds its mark on the rump of one of them, leading to their hasty and noisy retreat. The lift isn’t working so we take the rickety stairs to the fourteenth floor; the idling lift operator condescending to help me with the bags, as we huff after the light-footed Lele.

  Lily, who answers the door, is cheeky, chirpy and chaste. She rubs her cheeks against mine and hugs me tightly as if she’s known me for long. Then she holds me at an arm’s length and says unabashedly, ‘my, you’re so devilishly handsome! You do work out, do you?’

  ‘You’re so mean- you didn’t help him with the bags!’ She turns to Lele, when she notices the sweat on my brow.

  ‘Look at him; does he look like he needs help with the bags’? Lele smiles and walks into the kitchen to apply his expert nose to the aromas wafting in, and stir with the ladle the culinary artifacts under construction. Before he can poke a finger into the curries and bring it to the watering mouth Lily sets upon his backside a curt frying pan and shoos him back out to the lobby where I stand, undecided of the general direction of my chambers.