The Blood on My Hands..

By Gaurav Dashputra & Siddhant Kaushik

“ RUNNING DOESN’T CHANGE ANYTHING... DYING DOES.”
Rehan lrani’s life is a mess. His line of work isn’t strictly legal and the
pressure is mounting. Getting into this assassination business wasn’t his
brightest idea. But then, beggars can’t be choosers, right? And the
Colonel’s offer had been poisonously sweet to refuse.
Hiding, lurking, killing in these damp lanes of Mumbai is now a way of
life. However hard it may rain, the stains on his hands just refuse to
wash. And now, this blood trail has led him to his past... A past that
doesn’t want to exist anymore and he has to be the one to pull the trigger.
Can he kill the person he loved so much? Can he stop a person who
wants to die when the cost might be his own life ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Srishti Publishers
• Release date: Sep 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9789382665236

Book preview

Also by Gaurav Dashputra

And then it rained. . . .

SRISHTI PUBLISHERS & DISTRIBUTORS

N-16, C. R. Park

New Delhi 110 019

[e-mail]

First published by

Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2014

Copyright © Gaurav Dashputra, Siddhant Kaushik, 2014

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.

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.

Typeset by Eshu Graphic

This is a story about the mystical journey called life and its only destination: death.

"What hands are here? Ha! They pluck out mine eyes!

Will all great Neptune’s oceans wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one, red!"

– Macbeth, Shakespeare.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We extend heartfelt thanks to our parents for all the support they have given us and for coping with us during our night-long phone calls and creative sessions, that we so frequently got involved in.

We would like to thank our immediate and extended family for their encouragement.

A sincere thanks to all our friends for their enthusiasm towards our venture and it is an absolute pleasure to have you guys by our side.

A big thank you to all our friends and followers on social networking sites, i.e. Facebook, Twitter, Quora, etc. Your undying love for us is something we take a lot of pride in.

We would also like to show gratitude to all the readers of And Then It Rained…. It is because of your love and support that we could garner the courage of venturing into these eddy waters again; metaphorically ;)

We are extremely grateful to Mr. Rahul Puri for taking time out of his extremely busy schedule and writing a heart-warming foreword for us. Thanks a lot sir for your kind words and support.

We have an enormous sense of gratitude towards Whistling Woods International and all the faculty members for their support in our venture and helping us with this book. A special thanks to Mr. Anjum Rajabali and Mr. Prabodh Parikh for sharpening our skills of storytelling through your most valuable lectures.

We would like to thank the publishers for their unwavering faith in us and forming a formidable author-publisher relationship.

Last but not the least, we would like to thank Mr. Sunill Kaushik and InkStudioz for designing a fantastic cover page.

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

PROLOGUE

PART I: A JOB UNDONE

7th June 2013: Bandra, Mumbai

8 th June 2013: Versova, Mumbai

8 th June 2013: Colaba, Mumbai

8 th June 2013: Bandra, Mumbai

8 th June 2013: Bandra, Mumbai

8 th June 2013: Fort, Mumbai

10 th June 2013: Airoli, New Bombay

March 2003: Matunga, Mumbai

10 th June 2013: Lower Parel, Mumbai

PART II: THOSE SEVEN DAYS

10 th June 2013

11 th June 2013

12 th June 2013

13 th June 2013

14 th June 2013

15 th June 2013

16 th June 2013

PART III: MY NAME IS REHAN IRANI

EPILOGUE: 4th July 2014

FOREWORD

It’s always nice to be asked to write the foreword of a book. Nicer when the book is written by one of your students. I have always been a fan of spy thrillers but when Gaurav asked me to write the foreword to his book, I honestly was unsure of whether I should or not. I don’t really know if I am qualified to write a foreword of a book. Yes, as mentioned, am a huge fan of the genre but am not a screenwriter or a novelist. Then I decided to read the material he sent and I started to believe that this book was right down my alley. The kind of book, film, content that I love and thrive on. I was quickly motivated to read more and more and when I finished, I was suddenly comfortable writing a foreword, a review, anything to help Gaurav and the book.

The Blood on My Hands is an electric read. The story pulsates from first page to last and in Rehan Irani, the author has written a character with so many interesting shades that, despite his profession, he is instantly relatable. I hope that I get to read more of Rehan because clearly this story should not be the last of him. Set in a world based on cold hard reality, the novel talks about love and retribution, but mixes it with action and drama, making for a story which has pace as well as a heart. Something that is rare. Gaurav has shown a lot of promise with this novel, which is his second to be published. I believe this is the first in series in which he intends to expand on the characters and I hope he does. Besides being a talented writer, he is also studying to be a filmmaker and I have no doubt that this experience will make his writing even more engaging and expressive. He already brings with him such an interesting range of experiences from studying medicine to now working on being a cinematographer. I wish him the very best and hope that he continues to write and churn out terrific novels like The Blood on My Hands.

— Rahul Puri

PROLOGUE

The slick road glistened under the headlights as a lone truck rumbled slowly to a stop in the middle of nowhere on the Old Goa Highway; the suspension almost weighed to its limits by the scrap iron that bulged out the sides of the carrier. A small figure got down on the passenger side, stepping gingerly as if the long haul had stiffened his muscles. Raindrops shone like gold as the figure crossed towards the driver’s side illuminated by the yellow wash revealing a boy, about five feet tall, wearing a black wind cheater, shorts and carrying a backpack. He looked like a typical school going kid, that is, until you noticed his lopsided silhouette and grim expression. One of his sleeves flapped aimlessly in the wind. His right arm had been amputated from the elbow and if not for the yellow light giving it color, his face would have appeared lifeless.

‘Thank you for the lift,’ he told the truck driver.

‘You sure you want to get down here boy? There isn’t anything around for miles. I can still drop you at the next village,’ the driver said. His conscience bit him for leaving a lad so young in the middle of a desolate highway. But the boy had paid him five grand to soothe the ache. The boy had approached him at one of his pit stops in the city with the proposition along with the sweetener for anonymity. He could live with it if it came down to that, no questions asked.

‘No, no, I am fine. My friends will be here any minute to pick me up,’ the boy said.

Why would anyone set this as a pick up spot? the driver thought. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay till then?’ he asked the boy.

‘Yes, I am sure. Thanks again,’ the boy said.

‘Okay then.’ The driver turned on the ignition and drove off.

The boy stood on the edge of the highway watching the truck as its red tail blazed a path through the rain vanishing in the distance. He looked both ways to make sure that the highway was deserted and realized the futility of such an action. It was, after all, almost 3 a.m. on a rainy night, miles away from the nearest village. Convinced that there wasn’t anyone watching him, he turned and started walking towards the woods that darkened the already grey landscape to the side of the highway. After about fifty metres he could see the blackness looming in front of him, so he put his backpack on the ground and opened it using his only hand. A pre-disposed righty, but the years had taught him well to use what he was left with. He removed a flashlight from the backpack and positioned it below his chin as he tried to zip the backpack shut. The flashlight slipped and fell down on the ground, which made it break open.

Shit…Shit…Shit. I hate living like this. Slinging the backpack around his stump, he picked up the flashlight and placed it in his mouth. He then picked up the batteries and inserted them in the flashlight, still holding it in his mouth. His thoughts wandered towards the self-pitying ‘if only I had my hand’ but he had walled himself against such fancies a long time ago and his resolution made him press on.

The boy switched the flashlight on, giving vivid detail to the inky blackness that was. Withered leaves lay scattered all over and the raindrops made a rattling noise as they fell on them while he trudged on crunching through the foliage. Turning around, he could not see the highway now. A slight sense of fear overtook him but he continued further into the woods.

He saw a small cliff in front of him on which stood a huge banyan tree, almost as old as the boulders surrounding it. He headed towards it, snaking a path through the thorny shrubbery, his breath getting shallower and faster with every step he took. The cliff turned out to be steeper than he had expected but somehow he managed to crawl to the top. Standing under the tree, he pointed the flashlight at it, as if studying its form. Shaking his head, he walked in a circle around the trunk, all the while observing carefully, brushing away the limp roots that hung all around.

This is it. He put the flashlight back into his backpack and stood at the edge of the cliff. He could see city lights shining dimly far away. He closed his eyes and placed the palm of his hand on his chest and mumbled something under his breath. Perhaps, muttered a prayer.

He then turned around and started climbing the tree. It was a fairly effortless climb for him considering he had just one arm. It seemed as if he had practiced it. Soon he was sitting on a branch pretty high up. Balancing carefully, he opened his backpack and pulled out a coil of rope which he slowly let slither to the ground holding one end tight. He tied this loose end to the branch and looked down.

About fifteen feet. He then pulled the rope up revealing that the other end had already been fashioned into a noose with the help of a slipknot. He slowly raised the noose with his hand and stared at it. The rain was masking the sweat that was trickling down his forehead.

He stood up carefully on the branch and saw lightning strike somewhere in the city far away. The sudden flash bringing the whole landscape into sharp relief. It was a gorgeous view and he wanted to take it all in. ‘Don’t do it. This is not the way.’ A voice echoed in his head. He closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. He then picked up the noose and pulled it over his head and around his neck.

‘There is no other way. This is the only way.’ He said, as if in meek submission to his own weakness and jumped off the branch.

A loud thud accompanied by a groan was heard as he smashed into the ground. The boy lay there motionless for a second.

‘Fuck! Shit! Fuck Shit!’ He knew his rope had turned out to be too long and now he could not move.

His pain was intense and he was writhing on the ground. The sound of his cries echoed through the woods. This wasn’t the fate he had chosen for himself. This wasn’t the death he wanted to die. But then, when had life given him what he wanted? His sad demise was to be a testament to his depressed life; and that somehow made him smile as he drifted into the same blackness as was around him.

Awakened by the ghoulish dream, Rehan found himself sitting up on his bed. Beads of sweat dribbled down his forehead slowly; his heart was thumping speedily in his chest and his breathing rapid. The rays of the sun crept inside the room through a gap in the curtains creating a Tyndall effect. Dreams had a way of freaking Rehan out. He thought that these freaky dreams came with his job but the details…the details and the elaborate way in which he pictured and remembered them distressed him. He longed for that one night when he would sleep and have no dreams.

Rehan looked at the woman lying down next to him. Even in her sleep she looked serene and completely beautiful. If given a choice, all he would do was lie down next to her and watch her sleep or talk or eat…he would just look at her and look after her. But it was already 8 a.m. and he had to go. The funeral was today. Even though he did not feel like going because he had no idea what he was going to say, but he had to go. That was the right thing to do. All his life he had made bad choices and wrong calls, but now he was going to change it all.