pocket. It contained a white-coloured liquid.
“It is a heavy dose of cocaine,” he said. “Even while dying, you will enjoy the rush.”
Afroz was lying on the ground. His face was blank, but eyes were open and directed towards Raman.
“Accept death, my friend,” the assassin scoffed. “Poets say it’s graceful.”
He bent down and picked up Afroz’s left hand. “You are left handed, aren’t you? You will now inject yourself with some cocaine,” he whispered.
He affixed the syringe between Afroz’s index and middle fingers, and dragged it towards his right arm, inserting the needle into his vein. The young man offered no resistance, as if his bones had turned into loose rubber. Raman now pushed the piston gradually till no more cocaine was left in the syringe. Go to sleep. Forever.
He now pulled out a handkerchief from his pants. It contained a packet of cocaine, a couple of crumpled bus tickets and a few needles dabbed in cocaine. He pierced Afroz’s vein once with each needle and then placed the needles in his breast pocket. Holding the cocaine packet using the handkerchief, he went into the kitchen and looked for a jar containing lentils. Dal. Taking care not to leave any fingerprints, he opened the jar and embedded the cocaine packet within the dal.
Now he took out the bus ticket and the cocaine dabbed needles and dropped them in the kitchen dustbin. He took out a manila envelope from his jacket and placed it in the bedroom cupboard. The only thing that remained now was wiping his footprints and fingerprints, if any.
Raman now relaxed, because he had covered all his bases. Two days ago, his accomplice had dropped a Barrett M107 rifle in a pond a few kilometers from here. The man had ensured that he was seen by a few people. That was also a part of the game. Perfect closure to this episode. Can I retire now?
10
P rakash lay on the operating table, unable to move. Bathed in the disconcerting glow of the surgical lights, he felt suffocated, as if a wet towel had been wrapped around his face. He tried to shout, but couldn’t. No. Please, don’t. He wanted to plead to the people in masks working on him with scalpels and forceps. Stop!
The men didn’t stop.
Prakash gave up resisting. He couldn’t do anything other than staring at the men’s faces. He concentrated on the face of one man, who appeared to be their leader. An old man, with scholarly eyes behind thick lenses, who kept talking to his colleagues in hushed tones. His hands moved with the precision of a sculptor. Crimson red fingers. Spreading open skin. Cutting into flesh.
In a second, the surgeon’s facial expression changed. He knitted his brows, as if he found something creepy lying amid the naked blood vessels and organs. A momentary shadow of disbelief crossed his narrowed eyes. In seconds, it transformed into shock and then sheer terror.
“What the hell is this?” the old man cried, his hands extricating something from Prakash’s open chest. It looked like a brick of white clay wrapped in duct tape, with a mesh of wires joining its two ends. His colleagues were aghast. They sprang away from the place like houseflies.
“Don’t go. Don’t go,” the surgeon screamed with helplessness, his hands trembling. “At least, tell me how to handle this!”
But, there was no one left to help him, other than a dying soul on his operating table.
Prakash had given up on himself. He felt a numbness sweeping over his body, his consciousness drifting away. Before his eyes shut, he heard a familiar sound.
Click!
There was a huge explosion. A ball of fire kept spreading till it engulfed him. Then there was silence. Deathly silence.
Prakash was jolted awake. With dazed eyes, he sat shell-shocked for a few moments. His ears were ringing. He touched himself to make sure he was still alive. His body was shaking, with goose bumps all over.
An announcement by the flight attendant made him realize he was sitting in an airplane. ‘Please
“It is a heavy dose of cocaine,” he said. “Even while dying, you will enjoy the rush.”
Afroz was lying on the ground. His face was blank, but eyes were open and directed towards Raman.
“Accept death, my friend,” the assassin scoffed. “Poets say it’s graceful.”
He bent down and picked up Afroz’s left hand. “You are left handed, aren’t you? You will now inject yourself with some cocaine,” he whispered.
He affixed the syringe between Afroz’s index and middle fingers, and dragged it towards his right arm, inserting the needle into his vein. The young man offered no resistance, as if his bones had turned into loose rubber. Raman now pushed the piston gradually till no more cocaine was left in the syringe. Go to sleep. Forever.
He now pulled out a handkerchief from his pants. It contained a packet of cocaine, a couple of crumpled bus tickets and a few needles dabbed in cocaine. He pierced Afroz’s vein once with each needle and then placed the needles in his breast pocket. Holding the cocaine packet using the handkerchief, he went into the kitchen and looked for a jar containing lentils. Dal. Taking care not to leave any fingerprints, he opened the jar and embedded the cocaine packet within the dal.
Now he took out the bus ticket and the cocaine dabbed needles and dropped them in the kitchen dustbin. He took out a manila envelope from his jacket and placed it in the bedroom cupboard. The only thing that remained now was wiping his footprints and fingerprints, if any.
Raman now relaxed, because he had covered all his bases. Two days ago, his accomplice had dropped a Barrett M107 rifle in a pond a few kilometers from here. The man had ensured that he was seen by a few people. That was also a part of the game. Perfect closure to this episode. Can I retire now?
10
P rakash lay on the operating table, unable to move. Bathed in the disconcerting glow of the surgical lights, he felt suffocated, as if a wet towel had been wrapped around his face. He tried to shout, but couldn’t. No. Please, don’t. He wanted to plead to the people in masks working on him with scalpels and forceps. Stop!
The men didn’t stop.
Prakash gave up resisting. He couldn’t do anything other than staring at the men’s faces. He concentrated on the face of one man, who appeared to be their leader. An old man, with scholarly eyes behind thick lenses, who kept talking to his colleagues in hushed tones. His hands moved with the precision of a sculptor. Crimson red fingers. Spreading open skin. Cutting into flesh.
In a second, the surgeon’s facial expression changed. He knitted his brows, as if he found something creepy lying amid the naked blood vessels and organs. A momentary shadow of disbelief crossed his narrowed eyes. In seconds, it transformed into shock and then sheer terror.
“What the hell is this?” the old man cried, his hands extricating something from Prakash’s open chest. It looked like a brick of white clay wrapped in duct tape, with a mesh of wires joining its two ends. His colleagues were aghast. They sprang away from the place like houseflies.
“Don’t go. Don’t go,” the surgeon screamed with helplessness, his hands trembling. “At least, tell me how to handle this!”
But, there was no one left to help him, other than a dying soul on his operating table.
Prakash had given up on himself. He felt a numbness sweeping over his body, his consciousness drifting away. Before his eyes shut, he heard a familiar sound.
Click!
There was a huge explosion. A ball of fire kept spreading till it engulfed him. Then there was silence. Deathly silence.
Prakash was jolted awake. With dazed eyes, he sat shell-shocked for a few moments. His ears were ringing. He touched himself to make sure he was still alive. His body was shaking, with goose bumps all over.
An announcement by the flight attendant made him realize he was sitting in an airplane. ‘Please