The Shrine of Death

By Divya Kumar

Prabha Sinha, an IT professional in Chennai, is plunged into a murky world of idol theft, murder, and betrayal after she gets a mysterious phone call one night from her old friend Sneha Pillai. As she races to find answers before the people she loves get hurt, she seeks the help of Jai Vadehra, a troubled young man with a tragic past, and the gorgeous DSP Gerard Ratnaraj of the Idol Wing, CID, whom she can't help but be drawn to. Their search takes them from Chennai's newsrooms and universities to the abandoned sepulchral shrine of a Chola queen in the heartland of Tamil Nadu, and nothing, and no one, is as they seem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Apr 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9789387457560

Book preview

Author

Prologue

October 10th, 2012

She shrank back into the dark alcove at the entrance of the flat, her heart pounding. Inside, she could still hear him, talking on the phone.

As quietly as she could, she pulled out her cell phone, and hit record, hoping it would pick up his muted words. Hoping to catch a name. Hoping to catch him.

She’d had her suspicions, and now she had proof. The meeting he’d just set up at the hotel. And the fact that he was using the other phone. The one with the unlisted SIM. The one he said was only for the two of them.

But the name, when it came, took her by surprise. She wrinkled her brows in confusion. Not another lover, then. That name … where had she heard it before? It swam on the edges of her memory, just out of reach.

As the call ended, she clicked the recorder off, and silently slipped out of the door. Not another lover, but someone he wanted to keep hidden, something he didn’t want known. That name. She knew it was important. She just had to figure out why.

She smiled to herself, a little secret smile, and opened the door again, this time clattering in noisily.

Hello, darling, she said as the man she’d been watching came to the door. Missed me?

One

October 31st, 2012

Prabha Sinha sat down at her laptop, and checked her email. Again. Nothing new had landed in her inbox in the six minutes since she’d checked last. She drummed her fingers on the table, and checked the time on the bottom-right of the screen: 6.14 p.m.

She sat back with a huff in the silent apartment. This was a completely alien situation for her. The last four years had gone by in a daze of 12-hour workdays and high-pressure projects, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d found herself at a loose end on a weekday – or a weekend, for that matter.

You’d think I’d enjoy it more, she thought, as she got up to make herself yet another cup of chai. It was now three days since she’d quit her IT job in an uncharacteristically impulsive move, and the truth was that she was going stir-crazy.

She glanced at the pile of books she’d brought from the library the previous day. That had been the ‘I’m going to read all those books I’ve been wanting to read’ part of her ‘Fun Things To Do After Quitting’ plan. But all she’d managed to do was skim through the first chapter of each haphazardly, unable to relax. So, she’d signed up for yoga and relaxation classes. But those didn’t start until the day after tomorrow. And nature had totally ruined her ‘Healthy Walks in the Outdoors’ part of the plan with the on-again, off-again winter rains.

So, she’d ended up doing precisely what she’d told herself she wouldn’t – she’d jumped the gun, and applied for the job her friend Maya had told her about at Sofist Technologies. Her flatmate Charu was right, she thought with a sigh, as she sipped her tea. She just was a worker ant at heart, a person who needed schedules and targets and structure to her life and her career. Which is why she’d been drawn to IT in the first place, much to the horror of her utterly bohemian family.

They’d been uniformly flabbergasted when she’d opted for computer science after school. Her Tam-Bram mother was a doctor of alternative medicine and healing, her father a Bengali anthropologist/travel writer who was never in one place long, and her brother a pony-tailed musician of the death metal variety, and not one of them could understand her desire for the stability of a solid degree and regular pay check. But as she’d told her mother, she was quite happy to be the boring one. Every family needs one, ma.

So, she shortened her name from Prabhalika to the more no-nonsense Prabha, went to office every day in her pleasant pastel salwar-kameezs and kurtas, and remained the despair of her family at the ripe old age of 28.

At least I don’t have to worry about them being upset I quit, she thought, draining her cup. The long shadows of the evening were creeping across the room. She switched on some lights, and then plopped on the old couch with its cheerful red and yellow cushions, moodily contemplating the long evening stretching ahead of her. She missed her flatmates … She missed Sonu’s cooking, and Charu’s easy company. Charu was visiting family in Kerala, and Sonu had just got back with her boyfriend and fellow ad exec Ronit after yet another one of their dramatic breakups, so neither girl was expected to be home for a couple of days at least.

She’d thought having the place to herself would be wonderfully peaceful – no constant phone-chatting in the background, no fighting over the TV – but instead found she hated the silence, hated being alone. She was vaguely considering what to do for dinner – Maggi noodles? – when her cell phone rang. The number flashing on the screen wasn’t one she recognised, and she was tempted to ignore the call. It’s probably just a client who doesn’t realise I’ve quit, she thought. Or a wrong number. Then as it kept ringing, she changed her mind, and reached for the phone.

In the years to come, she would often think back to that moment, to that split-second decision. It would set in motion a chain of events that would drag her into a world of murder, deceit and betrayal, putting her very life in danger. But no sixth sense warned her as she picked up the phone that evening; she felt no trickle of unease, no shiver of intuition down her spine.

That would come later.

Hello? she said, cradling the phone against her shoulder. All she heard in response was the crackle of a bad connection.

Hello? she said again, louder. This time she heard a voice saying, Prabha …? Not a wrong number, then. Yes, this is Prabha. Who’s this?

Prabha … it’s me. The line was suddenly clearer, and Prabha felt a jolt in her insides as she recognised the husky voice. A voice she hadn’t heard for nearly four years.

Sneha? she said, sitting up straighter. How … how are you?

The reply was obscured by static again, and Prabha frowned, pressing her phone closer to her ear. The other woman was still talking. Sneha, hold on … I can’t hear you properly.

… road … on the way from … Prabha struggled to make out bits and pieces of what Sneha was saying. Her voice sounded agitated, or was it excited? … needed … talk to you …

Then, the call was abruptly dropped, and Prabha stared at her phone in a mix of frustration and confusion. Sneha needed to talk to her? Is that what she’d said? Why now? Why after all this time?

She called the number back and waited, hanging up when all she got was the number you are dialling is not reachable message. For a few seconds, she just sat there, clutching the phone, feeling unsettled. Sneha … God, it had been so long. The memories crowded her head, memories of her college days in Chennai, the days when she and Sneha had been inseparable.

She still remembered the first time she saw her, at the new-student orientation. Even then, at 18, Sneha Pillai had been a formidable young woman, tall and statuesque, with those beautiful dark eyes that could flash scorn (and frequently did), and an acerbic tongue (and temper to match). She was also, as Prabha discovered in the days to come, intelligent, charming, and a whole lot of fun when she wanted to be.

The two of them didn’t have much in common, right from the start. But it was being different that drew them together – the fact that their life experiences had been so unlike that of all the other Chennai born-and-bred girls at their college. Prabha because of the crazy, wandering existence she’d lead until then, traipsing around the world with her parents, never staying long enough in one place to set down roots. And Sneha because she came from the far-away temple town of Chidambaram, brought up by her ultra-strict, traditional uncle and aunt, whom she’d had to fight, and virtually sever off ties with in order to come to study in the big city.

Sneha, like Prabha, didn’t have school friends – or any friends, for that matter – in Chennai, and with many chips on her shoulder, she would have ensured it stayed that way. But Prabha had determinedly battled past the ‘Stay Away!’ signs she erected around herself, and they’d become the ‘Lone Rangers,’ as they called themselves. They’d bunked classes together, drunk Coke under the banyan tree near the canteen, gossiping about their classmates, and talked about their dreams. Those too had been vastly different. Prabha had wanted stability and roots, Sneha had wanted wealth, fame, and if possible, world domination.

Their unlikely friendship had lasted through their post-graduate studies – Prabha doing her MSc. Computer Science, Sneha doing M.A. History. It had never been an easy relationship, but it had been intense – as everything with Sneha was. Prabha knew Sneha resented what she saw as her casual ‘privilege’ – the loving parents, the comfortable amount of money she always had, the global exposure she took for granted. Prabha often found herself being apologetic about her life, and then feeling annoyed that she had. But she’d always been there for her friend, as Sneha raged against the world’s unfairness, or cried over her family’s indifference. She knew her life hadn’t been easy, that she’d never been treated the same as her cousins, that her uncle and aunt had expected subservience, and that she’d rebelled against it all her life, at great cost. In the early days, Sneha had called Prabha her rock, the one person she could always count on …

Prabha snapped back to the present as her phone rang again. She grabbed it, hoping it was Sneha, suddenly wanting to hear her old friend’s voice again. But it wasn’t. It was Anirudh.

Ani. Hearing his cheerful voice at the other end was like a splash of cold water on her face, a reminder of why her friendship with Sneha had ended on such an angry, bitter note. Why they hadn’t spoken in four years.

"… hey, meet me tomorrow? At 3? Please man, it’s really, really important," her cousin was saying. She glanced at the time. He was obviously on break at his BPO job.

A matter of life and death? she enquired, politely. It always was, with Anirudh.

I knew you’d understand. His grinned travelled down the wire, and Prabha found herself smiling in response.

Fine, I’ll be there. But Ani, be on time.

Always, man.

Prabha rolled her eyes as she hung up. He was incorrigible, but he was family. And Sneha had broken the cardinal rule when she’d hurt him like that. You just didn’t mess with family.

Prabha looked at her watch in annoyance. Three p.m., he’d said. It was now half past and there was no sign of him. She looked around the crowded coffee shop, packed with kids dressed in varying degrees of self-conscious hip-ness, and sighed. She hated the place, with its over-loud music which belonged in a club and not in a coffee shop, and its ubiquitous TV screens playing either cricket or MTV. But Anirudh had insisted; it was close to home, and could she please, please be there at 3.

Why she even expected him to be on time, she didn’t know. He had never in his life been on time for anything, and she was never ever late, so she’d wasted several accumulated hours of her life waiting for her cousin since her return to Chennai.

3.35 p.m. Prabha dialled his number and waited, tapping her foot.

I’m here, I’m here, right outside, Anirudh said, sounding out of breath.

You have five minutes, then I’m leaving, she said, and hung up.

Granted he worked all night and never woke up before two, and granted she didn’t actually have anywhere else to be today (a fact that, irrationally, only made her more annoyed), but this sort of chronic late-latifness had to be punished, she thought, taking another gulp of the watery coffee.

Made it with two minutes to spare, a cheerful voice said, and Prabha looked up to see her 23-year-old cousin, in his oh-so-cool shirt and dangerously low-slung jeans standing there, grinning at her. Another coffee?

No, thanks, she said primly, refusing to be charmed.

He lowered his buff frame into the chair and ran a hand through his perfectly gelled hair, as at least two pretty young things in the neighbouring tables shamelessly ogled him. Prabha smiled in spite of herself.

What’s so funny? he said.

You. You’re funny. Or rather, the effect you have on girls is, she said, amused. Don’t look now, but you’re being majorly checked out.

I know. Yellow t-shirt, curly hair behind me, and smart-girl glasses, nose-ring to the left, he said, sounding smug. Already saw. Not my type.

Oh god, you’re awful, she said, surreptitiously checking. He was right, of course. She hadn’t even noticed the nose-ring, and she’d been facing the girl for the last quarter hour. Okay, tell. What’s the earth-shattering emergency?

Anirudh cleared his throat. I need money.

Prabha stared at him in disbelief. You’ve got to be kidding me.

He had the grace to look shame-faced. I know, I know, I already owe you that five grand and all, but I promise, I’ll give it all back to you by next month.

Ani …

Please Prabs, come on, he said. Appa’s refusing to budge on this.

"You’re working now, you do realise that, don’t you? You’re earning a salary," Prabha said impatiently.

Anirudh sat back in the chair and puffed out his cheeks. Nose Ring Girl gave him another sideways glance. I need it, Prabs.

What for?

For … okay, first you have to promise not to tell Amma, he said.

She rolled her eyes. Fine. What?

A bike, a seriously cool one. Just need another ten grand for the down payment. He looked at her and then hastily amended the request when he saw the look on her face. Okay, okay … five grand? I can hit up someone else for the rest. Please?

Chithappa will kill me if he finds out. She thought of her uncle, a spare, balding man whose considerable patience Anirudh was always testing, and her cuddly but mercurial aunt Radha. Prabha was deeply fond of both of them, having lived with them during her college years, and hated going behind their backs. Something, obviously, Anirudh had no issues with.

He’ll never find out. Promise.

Enough with the promising, she said. He was wearing her down, as he always did. She sighed. When?

Now? he said hopefully.

She sighed again, and pulled out her cheque book. This is it, okay? No more loans. Or I’m going to start charging interest.

You’re the best, you know that? he said, a big grin splitting his face. "Thanks da."

Yeah, yeah, whatever, she said, smiling back, unable to resist as always. She pushed the cheque across the table. Just be careful.

Always, he said, pocketing the cheque. So what’ve you been upto? Chillin’?

Yes … I mean, no, Prabha said, shaking her head. I’m trying, but it’s hard, you know?

Hard? Seriously? he said disbelievingly. Joblessness is wasted on you, man. If I could quit my job, and just chill … Ahhhh!

You started working less than a year ago, Prabha reminded him. Until then, I believe just chillin’ was all you did.

Hey, hey, hey, he said, looking hurt. I was studying, ok? I was doing my engineering, like any good, self-respecting Tam-Bram boy.

You studied for like four months out of those four years, Prabha said, starting to grin. A month before each year’s finals.

Ani grinned back. True. He cocked his head at her. You ok? For real?

Prabha rubbed a hand over her eyes. Yeah. I’m just … She hesitated. I got a call from Sneha yesterday.

She watched as Anirudh’s face tightened. Sneha was pretty much a taboo subject between them. What did she say? he asked, looking away.

Prabha bit her lip. She shouldn’t have brought this up. That’s the thing, she said. It was a terrible connection, and I couldn’t hear her properly. I assumed she was on the road, and would call back, but when I tried her later in the night, I just kept getting the ‘switched off’ message. Same thing this morning.

Anirudh shrugged. Probably travelling and doesn’t have her phone charger with her. What’s the big deal?

Prabha shook her head. I can’t get it out of my head, for some reason. She sounded pretty worked up. And it must have been important … why else would she call after all these years, and say she needed to talk to me?

Another dismissive shrug. Probably needs your help with something. Which means she’ll call back. She can take care of herself, man. I don’t see what you’re worrying about. Prabha hated the cynical note in his voice as much as she hated the truth in what he was saying.

She forced a smile. You’re right. Forget it.

You’re just obsessing about it ’cos you’ve got nothing else to think about, Ani said. His face softened into a teasing grin. Go get yourself one of those diabolical-level Sudoku books you love.

Oh ha-ha. A pause. I did. And finished it.

He laughed. You, dear cuz, are nuts.

Yeah, yeah. She checked her watch. Don’t you need to leave? Your office van will be here soon.

Yeah, he said, stretching and yawning. But I think I might buy Nose Ring Girl a cup of coffee first.

She snuck a quick look at the girl again. I thought she wasn’t your type.

Changed my mind, he said with a wink.

You’re awful.

Minutes later, cradling her second cup of coffee (fourth for the day), she watched as he swaggered over to Nose Ring Girl, who smiled at him coyly. It had taken him a while, but he’d certainly gotten over Sneha. Maybe a little too well. In the years since, he’d gone out with countless girls, but had always made sure not to get too close. She’d held out hopes for Vinnie, the smart young thing he worked with, but it seemed like with Ani, it was definitely a case of once-burned, twice-shy.

At 19, he’d worn his heart on his sleeve. He’d been crazy about Sneha, and as a much worldlier 24-year-old, she’d been perfectly aware of it. Prabha knew how her friend was with men – use and dispose was pretty much her policy – and she’d asked Sneha to let Ani down easy. But Sneha, coming off of a bad break-up, had chosen to encourage Anirudh’s advances instead. She’d strung him along, let him wine her and dine her, anything to impress her, using his devotion as a balm to her wounded pride. He’s been well and truly in love. And then, she’d dumped him overnight for the son of a wealthy businessman.

Prabha had been furious, and when she’d confronted her friend, Sneha had laughed on her face. I don’t have a mummy or daddy to make everything right for me, remember? she’d sneered. I need to make my own way, and I do what it takes. Little Anirudh will live, don’t worry.

That’s when Prabha had decided she’d had enough. Enough of the negativity, the selfishness. Somewhere along the line, their friendship had turned toxic, and she couldn’t even remember why they’d been so close in the first place. She’d walked away then, and they hadn’t talked since. Until last night.

Late that evening, Prabha tried the number again and again. Nothing. Restless, she went on Facebook – they weren’t friends, naturally, and everything on Sneha’s profile was private. But it did say that she worked at Chakra Art Gallery. Prabha frowned. Wasn’t that just a couple of streets away from her flat?

The profile picture showed Sneha standing against the backdrop of a famous temple in her hometown. Still beautiful, Prabha thought, and obviously still passionate about South India’s ancient temples. Sneha had always had absolute clarity when it came to academics. She wanted to study South Indian art history, specifically the Chola period. Prabha had always admired her passion for the subject. She’d herself never had such focus. Her choice of subject had been purely pragmatic. But for Sneha, growing up surrounded by Chidambaram’s magnificent temples, there had never been a question of what she wanted to spend her life doing.

She’d been applying for her Ph.D. when the whole thing with Anirudh happened. Had she finished it? What was she doing now? One way to find out, thought Prabha. She’d drop in at Chakra tomorrow on the way to yoga class. Then once she knew everything was fine with Sneha, she’d go to class, do some asanas, and like Ani had said, stop obsessing about a dropped phone call.

Prabha was already waiting outside in her car when the swanky gallery opened the next morning. It was precisely the second time in her entire life that she’d been to an art gallery. The only other time was when she’d accompanied Charu, a features journalist who wrote on art, to the opening of some la-di-da show. She’d never felt more awfully out of place, in her simple cotton salwar and her unstyled hair, surrounded by society women in their raw-silk and Kanjeevaram best. The pretentious art chatter had gone clean over her head, and she’d spent most of the evening standing in one corner of the room, waiting for Charu to finish. Ironically, the person she’d found easiest to talk to was the artist himself, an unassuming old gentleman with uncombed Einstein hair, kind eyes and a rambling sense of humour. It wasn’t until they got home that she’d found out that he was one of the city’s most celebrated artists.

Prabha walked into the cool gallery, with its gleaming white walls. A show was probably being put up. Paintings were propped up against the walls, and boxes with what looked like sculptures in them lay about in various stages of disarray. An argument was in progress somewhere in the next room, and Prabha stopped by the doorway, wondering what to do.

… and that Jai had to disappear as usual, a woman was saying loudly in a nasal voice. Where’s he gone off to now?

She missed the muffled reply to the question. Again! Might as well stay there for all the good he does around here. And now with Sneha also gone —

Prabha’s ears perked up. Sneha was gone? And who was this Jai who was also missing?

Can I help you? The nasal voice said, and Prabha jumped, realising belatedly that she’d ventured a little

too close.

Um … yes, she said, gathering her thoughts. I was looking for Sneha Pillai. I’m an old friend of hers and …

The lady, in her late 40s, tall and thin in a flowing kaftan, cut her off. Then you’ve come to the wrong place. Sneha doesn’t work here anymore.

Do you know where she works now? Prabha said quickly, I’ve been trying to get in touch with her, but I can’t reach her on her cell.

You know as much as I do, the woman said, anger twisting her thin lips. All I got was a bloody letter in the mail; she hasn’t even done me the courtesy of a phone call.

Oh, Prabha said, her heart sinking. This was not good. When was this?

A couple of days ago. The woman, whom Prabha recognised as the gallery owner and Page 3 regular Anita Heble, swept a glance over her with heavily-kohled eyes, and Prabha squirmed, wishing she wasn’t in her purple and pink yoga pants and t-shirt. Is there anything else?

Could I get any other contact information for her? It would be really helpful …

I can’t help you with that, Anita said curtly. Latha, she said to the mousy girl standing nearby, please show this lady out.

The girl, who appeared to be an assistant of some sort, gave Prabha an apologetic smile. As Anita tapped off in a swish of silk, she said softly, Ma’am is a little tense about our show opening tomorrow.

Prabha suspected that ma’am was always this ‘tense’. She smiled at her. I understand, she said, following her to the door. I just want to contact my old friend. Do you have any idea where she might be?

Latha shook her head. No, we were all really surprised when she left so suddenly. She paused at the door, and added doubtfully, Jai might know something.

Who’s Jai?

He’s the other assistant here. He should be back in a day or two … Give me your number, I’ll get in touch with you.

Thanks so much, Prabha said. Latha noted it down, and as Anita’s raised voice was heard inside, cast a scared look over her shoulder and scurried off.

Prabha walked out slowly into the bright sunshine to her trusty little white i10. So Sneha had left her job suddenly, no explanations. It had to have been around the time she called Prabha. And she hadn’t been reachable since.

Something is wrong, she thought, getting behind the wheel, and staring out at the tree-covered lane. No matter what Ani says, I know in my gut that something is wrong.

TWO

The bus rattled over yet another pothole, and Jai Vadehra snapped out of his uneasy doze. He looked out of the window at the blurry countryside, the paddy fields and stunted tree shrubs lining the roadside. Farmers, their heads turbaned against the heat to come worked on the fields; villagers walked alongside the road, the women carrying brightly coloured plastic pots of water. This was what 70 per cent of India looked like, he thought, this is how they lived and made their livelihood, yet it was so alien to someone like him, who’d barely stepped out of a big city his whole life.

He closed his eyes again as the bus rattled to a stop, hoping not too many people would get on. He liked to take this early morning bus, leaving the tiny hill-station at the unearthly hour of 4 a.m. because it was usually quite empty. But it was now past seven, and it was starting to fill. He kept his eyes determinedly closed as the morning peace was ruptured; the floorboards shaking, sounds of shuffling, rustling, as people clambered on. Soon the air around him was filled with snippets of conversation, bits of it floating to his ears.

And then it came, the familiar crush of alien emotion. A frisson of anger; that must be coming from the man arguing viciously with someone behind him. Irritation, anxiety, fear, even spots of happiness, beamed to him like he was a receiving satellite. His eyes fluttered open unwillingly and the hot, sweating mass of humanity all around him swum into focus. He felt the mix of emotions like a churning within him in the pit of his stomach, like he always did, the strongest a sense of loss so vivid that for a moment, it felt like his own. But no; with the ease of long, painful, tired practice, his eyes zeroed in on the source. An old lady, clad in a thin cotton sari so faded from wash after wash that you couldn’t tell what colour it had been originally. Wiry hair, liberally sprinkled with grey, pulled back into a loose bun. A face rumpled with wrinkles, with no emotion visible on it. Stoic to the end, Jai thought, not letting anyone know how broken she was inside. He had known many women like that, too many, whom life had let down again and again, but who still kept going for the sake of their families, their children. His own