R.I.P. In the Name of Love

By Nitya Prakash

Agent Kabir Garg works for a secret organization. TRAILBLAZER: A secret organization comprising world’s wealthiest men who altruistically devote their fortunes to aiding humanity. They strive for international peace; they fight famine, frustrate wars and combat evil. Using a world-wide network of bribed men in key positions, TRAILBLAZER obtains vital, up-to-date information about world affairs. Its power is immense and funds unlimited. Its carefully elected and well-paid agents operate legally to the ultimate benefit of mankind. And if one man in power endangers the lives of many, he may even ‘disappear’, if there is no other way to influence or bribe him. His mission is to find details about a secret scientific research on Anthrax disease. Anthrax is an acute infectious disease. It is a painful and horrific death. If an enemy had the formula for immunity to anthrax – they could become masters of the world. It is vital that the knowledge is made available to the world. Agent Garg disguises world and acts as a writer for this mission. TRAILBLAZER had sent him and TRAILBLAZER didn’t tolerate failures. It’s success or death! So, justifying his treachery in the name of humanity, Agent Kabir Garg enjoyed Mr. Desai(the villain working with the scientist)’s hospitality, nosed into his private affairs and spied on all his visitors. During this he gets close to Desai’s wife Geetanjali and lusts for her all the time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nitya Prakash
• Release date: Apr 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476460512

Nitya Prakash

Nitya Prakash is a versatile personality - a writer, a banker, a management expert, an investment consultant, software engineer, motivational speaker, media man, all rolled in one. He is the author of the much-hyped romantic novel 'Dear, I Hate You' and thriller fiction 'R.I.P. In the Name of Love'. He was born and brought up in the city of Nawabs - Lucknow, UP (India). He did his computer graduation from the University of Lucknow, Lucknow followed by an Executive Management Program from K.J.Somaiya Institute of Management & Research, Mumbai and also a Post Graduate Diploma in Banking Management from ICICI Manipal Academy, Bangalore. He is NSDL and AMFI certified, which enables him to work as an investment consultant. He is a ferocious reader and a prolific writer and has been regular in writing many youth awakening articles in TOI and many other reputed magazines. He is the Co-Founder of www.CreativeEcstasy.in, a popular online portal. For more information, please read here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitya_Prakash

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R.I.P. IN THE NAME OF LOVE

By Nitya Prakash

Published by Nitya Prakash at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Nitya Prakash

Dedicated to my Mother, my inspiration

&

My pet Passion, my life’s sweetest treasure

Acknowledgements

Just 90 seconds, before you read further…

All of us do something of our choice but not everyone is aware of the fact that commitment to see something through to completion is the essence of all our efforts. There are so many people who are responsible in ways big and small, for this book being a reality today. This is indeed a synergistic product of many minds. I couldn’t have done it without the unflinching support I received from all those people who have shared my life during these 24 years. To each one of you, I offer my humble and most heartfelt thanks. It wasn’t easy – balancing work, a family and the endless ‘to do’ list a creative mind always has. I’d like to mention some special people who helped make my second book happen.

Late Shri Kapil Dev Prasad, my father, for being with me. I know you are always watching me over.

Shrimati Kalawati Devi, my mother, for her unconditional love and inestimable uphold.

Suman Lata, my elder sister and my staunchest supporter at all times.

Mayank Awasthi, an ideal brother, friend and mentor. You inspire me to be a better writer, a stronger person and a greater human being.

Celia Roy Ma’am, my teacher and a wonderful editor. All this is because of your unflinching support and faith in me.

Priyanka Agrawal Ma’am, my teacher and guide, for appreciating my work and guiding me through with your fruitful suggestions.

Payal Pasha Di, Purnima Sudula Di & Priyanka Dey, my wonderful sisters, for cheering me up and being the torch in my life. You all have been my backbone to complete R.I.P.

Dr. Puneet Misra Sir, Group Captain HC Upreti, Shantharam Sir, Satish Hejmady Sir, Brigadier Pradeep Siwach Sir, Arora Ma’am, Kandhari Ma’am, Anjula Ma’am and all my respected teachers, the fact that you all are so proud of me gives a huge boost to my ego. Thanks a million!

Alok, Kapil, Sheetal, Shaily, Mohit, Debajyoti Sir, Satyajeet Sir, Gaurav, Ankur, Deependra, Vijay, Shalini, Neha, Deepti, Basil, Sheffalee, Pawandeep, Pooja, Shreya, my best friends, without you all this book would be nowhere.

Ashiwin Sanghi Sir, Madhu Trehan Ma’am, Julia Fiona Ma’am & Dr. Kumar Vishvas Sir, for being an inspiration and boosting my confidence with those encouraging emails. Thank you!

Mr. NK Verma, Chairman - Diamond Pocket Books, my publishers, for believing in me and giving final shape to this figment of imagination.

Above all, my heartfelt thanks to each one of my readers, who have made my first book, ‘Dear, I Hate You’ a bestseller. It is the encouragement and, I must add, the criticism offered by you that has made DIHY and R.I.P. possible. I must also confess that I continue to be amazed at the sheer magnitude, intensity and variety of reader responses my books, notes, Facebook pages and columns have received.

Finally, I would like to stress over here that this is a work of fiction. All Characters, countries, places and organizations described or mentioned in this book are fictitious or have been fictitiously used and any resemblance to any person, living or dead is unintentional.

I think you’ll like Agent Kabir Garg. You’ll understand why when you read it. So don’t wait and get into action. Happy Reading folks!

Chapter 1: It’s a Secret

I blame it on that day. A white mini-van skidded to halt in front of my neighbour’s house, its door slammed open, the newsboy leaped out like he had an early warning message to deliver instead of the local mid-week Indian Times, and as he sped up Desai’s drive I braced myself. He passed the camouflaged magic-eye, my electric clock sounded its loud, clicking whirr and I relaxed.

The boy stuffed the newspaper in the letterbox and raced back to the van. Again my clock whirred. The van door slammed and the whine of its engine diminished into the distance.

Mrs. Nair’s head appeared in the doorway, her grey hair perm to wire cool, cheeks flushed, and a betel-leaf dripping from her lips.

‘You sure that clock’s safe?’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs. Nair. That’s the noise electric clocks always make.’

‘Is it safe to plug in the vacuum?’

‘Quite safe.’

‘I mean... It won’t blow up... or anything?’

‘You carry on, Mrs. Nair. Not a thing to worry about.’

She nodded dubiously, breathed loudly to express her doubts and vigorously spitting the Betel-leaf. ‘Don’t want to be electrocuted,’ she grumbled and closed the door. The muffled whine of the vacuum cleaner stole in under the door and I went back to my desk at the window.

I had an excellent view of the Desai’s front porch. Muslin curtains were the forerunner of the modern see-through mirrors; they’re a bland white screen through which you can spy on your neighbour’s callers, value their groceries, calculate their credit rating and dissect their sex life.

Most of the houses in Vasant Vihar used muslin window drapes. It was a suburban hotbed of spies, with the Jain’s busily circulating rumours, of scandal and ferreting out each other’s private sins, but using muslin instead of iron for their curtaining.

Nevertheless, the Jains were small scale operators, practising social espionage on a parochial level. Compared with them I was the James Bond, Krissh and Ra-One rolled into one.

I was working on an international level!

But I couldn’t feel superior to the Jains. My present assignment could have been performed by any of them. It was simply... spying on my neighbour.

I’d been on the job seven weeks. That’s long time to spend watching your ‘subject’ set off for work in the morning and return home at night. Long enough to get good and bored. But the job provided excellent perks and the wheel of the espionage had been well-greased to make life easy for me. Trailblazer had offered Desai’s neighbour such a high price for his house he couldn’t refuse it. Workmen arrived as soon as the premises were vacated and under the guise of redecorating the house and repairing the boundary fence they’d installed magic eyes. So I didn’t need to spy for long hours to check who called on Desai. Every time he had a visitor my clocks whirred and clicked and I sprang to my curtained window.

The fiction for the neighbours was that I was a writer. That explained my working at home. It wasn’t entirely fiction, anyway. With Trailblazer paying for my rent and groceries as well as my laptop and paper, I was seizing my chances to write the novel I’d always wanted to write. Ingratiating myself with Desais hadn’t been difficult and the occasional evenings, I spent playing chess with him passed pleasantly enough. And his wife Gitanjali Desai, had turned out to be very pleasing side issues. The assignment was sinecure... so far!

The vacuum cleaner’s whine died, Mrs. Nair carried it upstairs to the bedroom and it began again. I fed paper into the typewriter and pounded the keys. This was a novel about West Bengal. I’d lived there and I speak Bengali. I like the people, their funny disposition, their tempestuous passions and their primitive philosophy which has its roots deep in the earth. Bengal provided a lusty, adventurous background for the story I had to tell. It might even become a bestseller and if Trailblazer subsidized me while I wrote it, I couldn’t complain.

My fingers flew over the keys.

I was far from Lucknow. I was watching Pawan. He had smooth-skin, tanned cheekbones that glistened with sweat; spaniel eyes, and thick, curly hair. A damp, black lock fell across his forehead as he threw back his head and drank from a leather wine bottle. A three-day stubble of beard darkened his jaw and as he swallowed his throat muscles throbbed rhythmically. On the far side of the mountain three men toiled steadily higher and higher, in single file, rifles slung over their worn and goat-skin jackets. They had been hired to kill Pawan, not knowing his death would spark off explosive passions, sending shock waves of violence rolling through the length of my novel.

I was so deeply immersed in my story that Mrs. Nair knocked many times before I heard her.

‘Come in,’ I called impatiently.

Her grey head peeked in, cheeks flushed and the inevitable betel-leaf dripping from her lips. ‘All done. I’m off.’

I was surprised. ‘So soon?’

‘Eleven o’clock,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve done my time.’

‘Already!’

‘I’ve done upstairs and downstairs and put out the laundry for the man tomorrow. Any shopping you want in the morning?’

‘No thanks, Mrs. Nair.’

‘I’ll do the fridge tomorrow. It’s all frosted up. See you in the morning.’

I heard the front door close and her steps going down the concrete drive. I took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my dressing gown, lit up and returned to the Pawan who was lying in the shelter of a boulder. His face was olive green with pain as he pressed his hands to his side to stem the hot blood that scalded his loins. He could just reach his rifle and as he drew it towards him, a bullet chipped fragments from the rock above his head and screamed away into the distance. He was...

There was...

It was the telephone, dragging me back to the prosaic reality of a tired laptop and the front room of a suburban villa. I swore softly as I got to my feet.

It must have been ringing a long time. It stopped before I reached it. I waited. After a few minutes it began to ring again.

I picked up the receiver.

‘Kabir?’ Her voice was tensed as though she was afraid we could be overheard.

‘What is it, Gitanjali?’

‘I saw Mrs. Nair leave. I must see you.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I said, ‘As usual.’

‘No. Now!’

‘Now?’

‘I must Kabir.’

The urgency in her voice made my heart beat faster. ‘But... how?’

‘I’ll come over.’

‘No!’

She’d scared me. My orders were to ingratiate myself with Desai and learn all I could about him. I’d jeopardize everything if he suspected my relationship with his wife. I pictured all the muslin curtains along the street trembling as the many Jain’s scented scandal.

‘I can’t help myself. I must see you, Kabir. I’m coming over.’

She was about to hang up. ‘Gitanjali!’ I yelled urgently. Then, when I was sure she was listening I said more calmly: ‘It’s too dangerous. Be patient until tomorrow. I’ll see you tonight, anyway.’

‘I’ll go crazy if I don’t see you.’ There was hysteria in her voice. ‘I’m coming over.’

‘Don’t be stupid Gitanjali. You’ll be seen.’

‘I’ll be careful.’ There was confidence in her voice. I’ll pretend to prune the roses in the back garden and slip through the gap in the fence. Nobody will see me. I promise. Leave your back door open so that I can slip inside.’

‘But...’

She’d hung up.

I replaced the receiver with foreboding. I wondered what had happened to make her take such a risk. I was tempted to ring her back. But I knew I’d get no answer. She was probably already out in her garden. She’d hung up quickly to silence my objections.

I went to the back door and unbolted it. Then I returned to my laptop, frowning unhappily. Gitanjali might have news which would mean the end of leisure and the beginning of action. Trailblazer was never concerned with the trivialities of life. I might soon be plunged up to my neck in trouble. Then what would happen to my novel?

I re-read the last paragraph I’d written. What would happen to Pawan, if I was abruptly whisked away and immersed in a swiftly moving sequence of events for Trailblazer that took me halfway around the world?

I couldn’t leave Pawan bleeding badly and with bullets hissing around him. I had to wrap him up quickly so I could put him away on a shelf for months if necessary.

I typed fast, finishing off Pawan, fighting his last battle beside him, sharing his last moments when his enemies made their final attack, their boots scraping and slithering on rock as they charged recklessly, poring a leaden hail over the boulder behind which Pawan sheltered. So many bullets slammed into his flesh that Pawan’s body twitched as though alive, although the blackness of oblivion had already engulfed him.

Firm pressure came down upon my eyes, closing them. I reached up, took her wrists and pulled her fingers away, ‘Gitanjali!’

‘I could have walked in and out again and you wouldn’t have known,’ she said reproachfully. ’You’d forgotten all about me.’

I arose and turned to her. ‘Gitanjali,’ I said huskily and broke off.

Every time