Nothing Lasts Forever - No Secret Can Stay Buried Read online

  NOTHING LASTS FOREVER

  No secret can stay buried…

  Vish Dhamija

  Srishti

  Publishers & Distributors

  "If it was a movie it would keep you, biting your nails, at the edge of your seats."

  — The Times of India

  Srishti Publishers & Distributors

  N-16, C. R. Park

  New Delhi 110 019

  [email protected]

  First published by Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2010

  Copyright © Vish Dhamija, 2010

  This is a work of fiction and all characters, locations and incidents described in this book are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

  Vish Dhamija was born and raised in Ajmer, Rajasthan (in India), but his nomadic inclinations have made him encamp in Jaipur, New Delhi, Chennai, Jamnagar, Mumbai, Dubai, Tel-Aviv, Manchester and London, where he currently lives with his wife, Nidhi.

  He is alumnus of St. Anselm's Ajmer and Manchester Business School, UK and holds dual citizenship — British and Overseas Indian.

  For more info visit:

  www.vishdhamija.com

  Or find him on Facebook:

  www.facebook.com/VishDhamija.Author

  "I dedicate this book to my wife Nidhi for, so patiently, being a guinea pig for the plot and endless sub-plots in the story."

  — Vish Dhamija

  Acknowledgements

  Nothing Lasts Forever would have never seen daylight if it hadn't been for the numerous kind souls who helped me to write it and put it into the shape it is in today, so I express my deepest gratitude to Victoria, Trudy, Sudesh, Rana, Charlotte and Akansha.

  My sincere thanks to Lisa Simmonds, for the cover design.

  I am indebted to my mum and dad who taught me to read and, more importantly, to write.

  I thank my literary agent, Ritika Bajaj, and Srishti Publishers: their belief in the novel has enabled it to be published.

  Last, but not the least, I thank all of the readers who have picked up a copy of Nothing Lasts Forever. I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I have taken some liberties in using the names of certain institutions, public figures, cities and brands to provide authenticity to the backdrop. All characters, however, are my own creation and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is unintentional.

  — Vish Dhamija

  "All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible."

  — Thomas Edward Lawrence

  Part One

  'Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.'

  — Albert Einstein

  1

  The Hilton, Orchard Road

  Singapore, August 19, 1996

  03:57 hours

  The phone rang for some time before it woke Serena. Even a casual glance at the bedside clock couldn't miss that it was an unearthly four in the morning. She had arrived in Singapore on a short business trip the night before and partied with her colleagues in the Kaspia bar in the hotel lobby. Having long held that the Kaspia had one of the largest collections of vodkas in the world, she never missed an opportunity to entertain people there when in Singapore. The bar stocked a diverse assortment; its opulence was in fact too much to take in in a single night and even if one tried, one ended up indulging oneself wantonly.

  That night, by the time Serena had ultimately lost her duel with a bottle of Chopin and returned to her room, it was midnight.

  Who could be ringing at this hour?

  She yawned, struggling to switch on the side lamp to locate the receiver. The ringing stopped the moment she turned on the light.

  'Goddamn it.'

  It rang again.

  'Mrs Kumar?' a male voice on the other end enquired.

  'Yes.'

  'Mrs Kumar, I am Michael D'Cunha — Senior Inspector of Mumbai Police...'

  'Police?' Serena gasped. 'What is it about?'

  'Mrs Kumar, I have some bad news for you… there was an accident at your flat in India and your husband Raaj…'

  'What? What happened to Raaj?' She could sense the hesitation in the police officer's voice.

  'Mrs Kumar, I guess there's no easy way to say this. Your husband has passed away.'

  There was a knot in her stomach. The tears struggled to flow but an inexplicable numbness overtook her.

  'Mrs Kumar? Are you there?'

  ***

  'Good morning madam, how may I help you?' The receptionist sounded cheerful even at this hour.

  'I need a ticket for the next flight to Mumbai, please.' Serena was sobbing.

  'Is everything alright, madam?'

  'Please get me the first flight back to Mumbai.'

  'What class madam?'

  'Does not matter,' she said, in a clipped tone. Class was the last thing on her mind and for a moment the mention of it made her feel even more helpless.

  'The Singapore Airlines flight for Mumbai is at seven-thirty in the morning,' the receptionist browsed through the list, 'and they only have availability in Business and First class, but you will have to leave now if you want to be on this one, madam. Alternatively…'

  She cut him off. 'Book me on this one and confirm it. Could you call a cab and get my bill ready, please? I'll be down in fifteen minutes.'

  'Okay, madam.'

  ***

  Changi Airport

  Singapore

  06:00 hours

  Changi Airport always smelt the same. The clinical precision of the décor, the pervading aroma of perfume and the bustle belied the hour. It was lively even at six in the morning. With flights to over a hundred destinations, it was hardly surprising that every legitimate flying hour of the day was equally busy, especially if one included shoppers that stayed just a little bit longer before checking in or out.

  After going through Immigration, Serena picked up a cappuccino from a café, and, with no inclination to shop, went straight to the lounge at the boarding gate and sat down. As she looked at her watch, she was reminded of how Raaj had bought her the Omega on their recent trip to Switzerland, earlier in the year. It had a black dial with real diamonds around its platinum square case. She had insisted until the last minute that they save some money, but Raaj, as always, was extravagant. He never stopped himself when it came to what Serena wanted. She stared into the dial and the memory of the scene came back to her.

  'It's too expensive.'

  'But you like it,' Raaj explained.

  'We don't have to buy everything I like.'

  'You only live once, sweetheart.' He finished the argument, by which time he had concluded the deal and promptly placed the watch in Serena's hand.

  With her eyes brimming with tears, the only thing Serena did not see in the watch was the time. One memory led to another, until shortly after seven, her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the boarding announcement.

  Everyone was on board the flight by the time the airhostesses closed the doors at twenty past seven. Fortunately, the flight was on time. Serena was totally spent with the alcohol she had consumed the previous night, the lack of sleep, and then the news. It would be well past
noon in Mumbai before she got anywhere near home. She felt her body flag to a very obvious slumber even as the aircraft taxied the runway. Her fatigue prompted her to close her eyes but the thoughts of Raaj kept her disoriented.

  ***

  Sahar International Airport

  Mumbai

  10:20 hours

  The flight descended on the dot, but had to hover over the airport for an extra ten minutes to get a landing slot. Once it was cleared, the captain started his landing spiel: 'Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the Sahar International Airport at Mumbai. The temperature outside... time is... past ten. Please remain ... halt and the seat belt signs are switched off. If you... to contact our ground staff at the help desk... wish you a very pleasant stay in India... Singapore Airlines... hope to see you on board again soon.'

  The long announcement hardly registered with Serena. Bits and pieces of the voice faded away and she could sense herself becoming irritable with each passing moment. She got up as soon as the aircraft stopped rather than waiting for the seat belt sign to go off. Despite often showing her liking for Changi, she had at all times insisted that comparing Mumbai's Sahar International airport to Changi was not fair. Mumbai was never designed to be a traffic hub and that was evident in all aspects — the infrastructure, the staff, the services and the facilities.

  'You just flew out last night,' the duty officer at the passport control remarked, looking at her landing card.

  Serena nodded.

  'Was it a business trip?' he asked.

  'There's been an accident at home.' Serena was almost in tears, cutting the officer short.

  'I'm sorry to hear that. Hope all goes well.' He stamped the passport quickly and gestured to her to move on.

  Serena was out of the airport by half past eleven and hailed the first cab she saw.

  'Worli, please.'

  'Yes madam.'

  At any other time, Serena would have booked a better car through her office, but this time it was different, completely unplanned. She knew from experience that coming out of the airport was a nightmare. The narrow road had a unique blend of bullock carts and luxury cars that slowed the pace; add to that a million bicycles, pedestrians and trademark auto-rickshaws and you had a situation in which even the most adventurous foreigner would hardly dare to be at the wheel. Moreover, every possible space on the roadside was covered by hawkers who sold everything from cigarettes to bangles, and those who by stopping to buy and browse, took up whatever small and valuable driving space was left. This ancient cab, based on the same design as the Fiat 1100 of the sixties, was not even air-conditioned. The windows were open, and the noise, traffic fumes and smell of open drains made the journey anything but peaceful. On any other occasion, Serena would have complained throughout the journey, but she was overwhelmed with thoughts about the accident back home and nothing else bothered her.

  ***

  12:10 hours

  'Two hundred rupees madam,' the cabbie mentioned, taking out her small trolley from the boot.

  Serena took the money out of her purse and handing it over to the guy then rushed to the lift. As she came out of it onto the fourth floor, she saw a crowd in front of her cordoned-off apartment, which had been completely wrecked by fire. The white exterior wall was shades of grey and black; the door had been broken open and the little wooden nameplate was lying in a corner like a piece of half-burnt charcoal. There was a complete hush the moment that they all saw her. Kim, a long time friend of Raaj and Serena, moved forward and hugged her before they both broke down. A police officer stepped forward and took off his cap. 'Hello, Mrs Kumar, I am Michael D'Cunha. We spoke last night.'

  Serena looked up with tears in her eyes and nodded in acknowledgment. D'Cunha did not match the caricature of any Indian police officer she had seen in newspapers or magazines. Wearing the classic khaki uniform with polished tan shoes, he was neither bald nor had a potbelly; nor was he chewing tobacco. Given his lean frame, one could guess that he took regular exercises at the police academy fairly seriously. With a full mane of salt and pepper hair, he appeared to be in his forties. Although his exact age was hard to make out, the manner in which he conducted himself revealed a mellowness that comes with years.

  'I can understand you're upset at your loss, Mrs Kumar, but as part of the formalities, I need you to visit the morgue in Lilavati Hospital to identify Mr Kumar's body,' D'Cunha continued.

  'Identify?' Serena almost screamed, wiping away her tears.

  'It's a legal formality, madam. In the case of any unnatural death, we have to complete the investigation.'

  'Yes,' Kim joined the conversation. 'Though the partially charred body and face are recognisable, the police want you — as the wife and only family — to identify the body as his, before they take it for postmortem investigation.'

  'Confirm what? When can I see Raaj?' Serena asked, trying to move towards the police-sealed apartment.

  'Mrs Kumar, I am sorry but you cannot enter your apartment until the investigation is complete. For your information, there is nothing much left in the apartment anyway after the fire. In fact, it must have been burning for quite some time before the neighbours raised the alarm — considering the damage it did. The structural engineer has been in to confirm that it did not damage the mortar in the walls or we would have had to evacuate the whole building for safety reasons.' D'Cunha paused for a breath. 'The fire has stripped most of the walls in the master bedroom and in what looks like an office or a study, so we have sent for a forensic archaeologist from Delhi to visit the apartment to take DNA samples. In this situation, do you have any relatives or friends you can go and see to wash-up and then visit the morgue? I need you to come to the mortuary today so that we can complete the formalities quickly and send the body for postmortem. I can understand the state of shock that you might be in; you might want to rest…'

  'No. I want to see Raaj, now,' Serena pleaded.

  'Calm down honey,' Kim started, 'you are not seeing Raaj. It's an awfully burnt body... it will only make you…'

  'I want to see my Raaj, please.' Serena was getting hysterical.

  'Okay, Miss Kim, could you ask your driver to take you both to Lilavati Hospital in Bandra West please?' D'Cunha suggested.

  Serena sobbed throughout the journey to the hospital, intermittently muttering 'Raaj'. No amount of consoling from Kim helped.

  D'Cunha, travelling in his patrol vehicle, met them at the hospital reception. Compared to the government hospitals in India, Lilavati looked like a clean hotel, although Serena and Kim could detect the distinctive stench of formalin from the portico itself. The receptionist, taking down their details, directed them to the mortuary, which had another little nondescript reception area. The three of them signed a register and donned appropriate clothing — dreary white robes — before entering the room. The mortuary was not dissimilar to those that Serena had seen in movies — air-conditioned to an almost freezing degree with large, white, cold steel drawers in which the bodies, apparently, lay. D'Cunha, a few steps ahead, checked the number on his key, unlocked one of the drawers and pulled it out.

  'Mrs Kumar…' he said, glancing into the drawer first to confirm if it was the right one.

  Serena ran to him and peeked into the drawer, followed by Kim. The scream filled the room before Serena fell down.

  Kim glanced in the drawer, closed her eyes in revulsion and slammed it shut instantly. There was a melancholic silence — the kind death always brings. 'Are you okay?' Kim knelt down beside Serena to comfort her, while D'Cunha stood there looking at the two women.

  'Is it...?' He started.

  'It is my Raaj.' Serena confirmed tearfully.

  'This is one of the few things on him that survived.' After a few moments, when Serena got up and looked, to some extent, calm and collected, D'Cunha handed over the wedding ring found on Kumar's body.

  'Yes. This is our wedding band. I have the other one... we exchanged these on our wedding day, three years ago.' Serena offer
ed her finger for D'Cunha to see.

  'Could I take it from you for a couple of days please, Mrs Kumar?'

  'You can take it forever now.' Tears streamed down her face as she closed her eyes and took off her band of memories.

  'Thanks for your help in the identification of the body, Mrs Kumar. I will now send it to a pathologist for postmortem examination to verify the clinical identity and cause of death. The only picture of Mr Raaj Kumar we could find in the house is on his half-burnt passport. Would you have any more pictures of Mr Kumar on you?' D'Cunha pulled out Kumar's passport from his pocket and showed it to Serena.

  It was certainly damaged. Although some portions of the passport had yellowed and blackened, Kumar's picture was definitely recognisable: Serena needed only a momentary look to nod and say, 'yes.' She opened her bag, pulled out a picture of Kumar and herself from the wallet, and handed it over to D'Cunha.

  'I have some in my house, if you want?' Kim chipped in.

  'It will be great if you could bring them along the next time we meet.' He looked around to ensure he had not left anything unattended. 'You can leave whenever you want,' he finally offered.

  ***

  'Why God... why?' Serena kept sobbing, as they left in Kim's car.

  'I know. We always discussed that you were an ideal couple. You guys had everything going for you.'

  'I used to tell him not to drink so much and smoke those bloody cigarettes…' Serena banged her wrist on the car window.

  The driver took them to Kim's place in Versova. Kim was an up and coming model and was generally home unless she was on a shoot. Fortunately she had no appointments that day so she could take care of her friend. She had a three-bedroom apartment. Of course she did not require all the space, being single, but the size of the house also mirrored her position in society. An up and coming model living in paying guest accommodation would not reflect the persona she sought to project. Moreover, she needed the space for all the lavish parties she threw. She had bought it only a year ago and had been careful to select one of the best buildings in the locality. She knew she could not afford an apartment in South Mumbai and even if she did manage to scrape up enough cash for it, she would have had to live in a single bedroom or studio apartment in some dilapidated building, probably with a leaking roof. However this apartment, newly built, with Italian marble flooring in all the rooms, was a delight and she had done it up really well.