The two kids sobbed at intervals. Their tears had dried. They were confused. Why were they going to be killed? Finally one of them gathered a little courage. He looked towards the other kid, who was about his age, “What’s your name?”
“Murtaza,” he whispered, “And yours?”
“Manish.”
In the other room the kidnapper looked at the glinting gun. ‘Aha. The blood of criminals flows through many an alley and rests on the head of two children.’
It was time. He picked up the phone and punched in the number.
Inspector Kamble, from Crime Branch, stared at the handset. Tired of looking at it, he turned his attention to the two pigs seated in front of him. He loathed them, given a choice he would have happily blown their brains to bits rather than logging 157 encounter deaths to earn popularity on the streets of Mumbai and notoriety in the by-lanes of crime.
The saffron chief, Bal Thakur, could see the utter contempt that the Inspector displayed. He tried hard, considering the enormity of the situation, but couldn’t stop his lips from forming in to an arrogant smile. Nothing felt better than holding a million masses in one’s palms. Aha! It is so true that power corrupts?
But right now he sat there not of his own accord, a terrorist had driven the media into a frenzy. What did he want? Who were the hostages he was holding?
Next to Bal sat the highly regarded cleric, Iqbal Mansoor. He was supposed to be picking up a huge donation from one of the industrialists in Allabhad today, but the morning news had completely altered his schedule. A psycho was holding hostages, whom he promised to kill if both him and Bal wouldn’t arrive at the Crime Branch office, in Colaba, by 2 in the afternoon. The blood-thirsty media had splashed it all over. Not staying back in Bombay would have proved suicidal. He looked over at Bal, then the inspector. He hated them both. His face twisted in agony. To be seated in this room was worse than other forms of police torture techniques he had heard of.
Kamble had just finished giving orders on the phone. The force was desperately trying to hunt down this crazy guy who had completely upset Bombay’s busy rhythm, but he had hardly left any scent. He looked like a pro. None of Kamble's informers had any idea about him or what the whole drama was leading up to.
The phone on Kamble’s desk rang, jolting all three from there mental meanderings. Kamble picked up the handset before the second ring could be completed.
“Switch on the TV,” the voice from the other end commanded.
“Who the hell are you to tell me….”
“Switch it on,” the chilly voice cut in.
Reluctantly he put the set on. A home video was playing on the news channel. He saw two scared seven year olds looking wide eyed at the camera. Both of them had two big nameplates hanging around their neck. One read Murtaza. The other had the letters Manish scribbled over it. The chilly voice coming through the TV set said, “If the two old fools sitting at the Crime Branch office don’t decide who should be killed and who should walk out alive, then they both die. They have time till sundown.” The newscaster’s voice exploded through the speakers with all the excitement that a scoop like this generates. Kamble hit the mute button and turned back to the fobs staring at the television open mouthed.
He spoke into the phone again, “So, what do you want, dick head?” For all the hostility he displayed his voice quavered like a dried autumn leaf that shivers that feels the waft of a chilly breeze. The first and last time it had trembled was when he had cornered a fleeing gang leader and asked him to drop his gun. He had a bullet wound on his shoulder and the ignominy of a runaway criminal from that episode.
“Pass the phone on to the saffron champion.” The voice had become chillier than when the conversation had begun.
The kidnapper toyed with the trigger. “Save the Hindu kid Bal. Anyways Murtaza will grow up to be a Hindu hating Muslim. One more less of them, Bal, that the Hindu community would have to worry about. What? They are innocent kids and should be left alone.” His gunshot laughter bounced of the walls and echoed through the tiny sound proof room. “Last time I checked there were many children who died during the riots. Kill them when they are young Bal. Let us not wait for them to grow into monsters.”
Iqbal’s hands trembled as he returned the receiver to Kamble. “Let me guess,” Kamble asked as he steadied Iqbal’s hands and took it, “He told you it made sense to save Murtaza.” Iqbal tried hard to nod his head, but it wouldn’t move.
“But they are innocent kids. What wrong did they do,” Bal kept muttering over and over again as he stared at the clip news channels played over and over again. He had engineered many a campaign that had struck fear into the heart of the city, but for the first time he saw what fear looked like. Fear didn’t cry. Fear didn’t scream. He felt that fear. All the power that he had amassed over the years destroyed by the act of a maniac.
Iqbal had turned men into monsters with his sermons. But now all the words he had uttered sounded hollow. How can I even think of the Hindu kid’s death? He is a poor, innocent kid! He turned slowly towards Bal, one look and he knew Bal wouldn’t ever ask him for Murtaza’s life. They both had been trapped in their own game of power. He had seen dead bodies, even dying, resigned eyes. But he had never seen eyes that were just about to see death. Those eyes scared him.
It was 3.15 pm when two ambulances drove right up to the crime branch office and whisked away Bal and Iqbal. The media had never seen drama like this. They knew the next few days would see their TRPs touch points never seen before. This event would be the launch pad of a few news peoples’ careers. It was time for conspiracy theories to jam up the airways.
The admittance of Bal and Iqbal to the city’s top hospitals were attributed anywhere from genuine health issues to a smartly planned escaped from taking any decision at all. Some news channels also saw a dangerous ploy by these two big heavy weights into instigating another round of riots.
But this is how events unfolded at 6:17 pm, sundown. Two shots rang loud, but got muffled in a sound proof room in the by-lanes of Borivali. The police discovered the children's bodies at 6.45 pm after the killer told them where to find them.
The next morning one gun went off at Bandra (E). Another gun shot was heard at Mohammed Ali Road around noon. A servant on hearing the shot rushed into his master’s room to find Bal laying lifeless on the floor. Gun in hand. Iqbal’s son found his father sprawled the same way at their home.
