Framed

By Surender Mohan Pathak

Translated from the bestselling Hindi novel, Hazaar Haath
A man with many faces and numerous names, Sardar Surender Singh Sohal a.k.a Vimal was a convict fit to be recaptured and hanged. Now, after many years, he has decided to abandon his past and settle down as a family man. But his nemesis Mayaram Bawa comes back from the grave to destroy him, his sole ambition being to go down in history as someone who tamed the invincible Vimal. From the bestselling forty-novel strong 'Vimal Series' by the king of crime fiction, Surender Mohan Pathak, comes Framed, a page-turner you won't be able to resist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Jan 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9789352643110

Surender Mohan Pathak

Surender Mohan Pathak is considered the undisputed king of Hindi crime fiction. He has nearly 300 bestselling novels to his credit. He started his writing career with Hindi translations of Ian Flemings' James Bond novels and the works of James Hadley Chase. Some of his most popular works are Meena Murder Case, Paisath Lakh ki Dakaiti, Jauhar Jwala, Hazaar Haath, Jo Lare Deen Ke Het and Goa Galatta.

Book preview

Awhite Maruti van stood parked under a tree on the side of a road in Model Town. All four windows of the van were tinted and closed. The man in the driver’s seat was about thirty years old. He had plain features and a muscular build. On his beak-like nose rested a pair of black goggles, freely available for fifty bucks on the pavements of Chandni Chowk. His long hair was fashionably styled, like a film star’s, and his sideburns reached beyond his earlobes. He was wearing worn-out black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and a black leather jacket.

He turned around to look at the man seated behind him.

The man reposing in the back seat was not a passenger but a companion of the young man. Although he looked fifty-five, he was actually only forty-seven years old. He had a thick, well maintained beard and moustache. His hair was a deep black, which might have been the result of a good dye. His features were sharp and his complexion fair, like that of people from the mountains, but he had a morose face. His eyes held a distinct cunningness, a sign that he had not yet surrendered to defeat and disappointment. He was a jailbird who had been in five times. His five jail sentences of varied periods and his last unsuccessful caper had broken him considerably, but he was a born thief who couldn’t give up his manipulative, scheming ways.

He had planned his latest con after his last escapade had gone haywire some two years ago and he was sure that this time, he had a very safe game in hand. He was in complete command of circumstances and was going to remain so till the end.

He was wearing a pair of woollen pants, checked shirt, tweed coat and a muffler. A pair of crutches lay next to him on which he was completely dependent. Two years ago, his legs had been broken so badly that he was lucky he could walk with crutches. Although the compound fractures had healed, his legs were still in such poor shape that they could easily break again if he was reckless. However, he could stand on his two feet without the support of crutches and could take a few steps at a time.

His reliance on crutches was the reason why he was sprawled in the back seat instead of being seated with his companion in the front.

A single-storey dwelling across the road bearing the municipal number D-9 was his goal.

The cripple slid open the window facing the bungalow. There was no sign of any activity within. A black Ambassador bearing the registration number DIA 7799 was parked in the portico and outside the house by the boundary wall stood another car, a 1986-model blue Fiat with the registration number DID 2448. The two cars and the house itself were once the property of a retired professor, Shiv Narayan Piplonia, but now the property was in the possession of his favoured one, whom he had declared his successor before being killed by some goons.

‘Is this the place?’ the younger man asked.

‘Yes,’ the cripple confirmed.

‘So, what now?’

‘I’ll go.’

‘Will you go alone, ustad ji?’

‘What else! You want me to take a platoon with me? What for? For the woman inside? The one who was once a puppet in my hands? And who else? A two-month-old baby. Arre, I’m not so helpless that I can’t feed my canary with my own hands.’

‘So I don’t have to worry?’

‘No, not at all, but you can do one thing if you want to be a good subordinate.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It will take me about fifteen minutes once I’m inside. After that, you can come in to ascertain my welfare.’

‘Okay.’

The cripple slid the window shut and stepped out of the van. He leant on his crutches and headed for the house.

The youth, left behind in the van, leant back and closed the rear door that had been left wide open by the cripple and settled himself for the wait.

The cripple crossed the road which was deserted at that time of the afternoon, pushed open the bungalow’s iron gate, stepped into the front yard, crossed it, reached the verandah and rang the doorbell.

z

The sudden ringing of the doorbell briefly disturbed the peaceful sleep of the two-month-old Suraj lying in his cradle, but he soon was again engulfed by a deep sleep.

‘My son!’ she mumbled lovingly, ‘my Suraj! Suraj Singh Sohal, son of Sardar Surender Singh Sohal!’

She looked at the clock on the wall.

It was not yet time for Suman to return, but she sometimes came home early. After the horrible tragedy in Gole Market, which had claimed the lives of both her mother Swarn Lata and her younger sister Radha, Suman had lived with Neelam in the quiet bungalow in Model Town. She was employed as trunk operator with Mahanagar Telephone Nigam Limited and the timings of her shift changed frequently.

The doorbell rang again.

She went to open the door.

As her eyes fell on the visitor, her blood froze. Her eyes widened, jaw fell, she stared speechlessly at the visitor as if hit by a thunderbolt.

‘Hello,’ the visitor said with a sweet, forced smile.

‘You!’ Neelam managed to speak the one word with great effort.

‘Thank god! Thank god that Neelam bibi recognizes her estranged hubby.’

She stared at him—his eyes full of cunning, a fake smile on his lips, adjusting his crutches as he tried to stand up straight. He was the last person in the world she imagined she would see standing before her. It was as if a corpse had risen from the grave, a ghost had made its sudden appearance.

‘Have you died while standing?’ the cripple hissed. ‘Now, get the hell out of my way.’

Neelam complied with total shock and surrender.

z

Suman asked the auto driver to stop in front of the bungalow, glanced at the meter and handed him a fifty-rupee note.

The driver, too, checked the meter and then started counting out the change.

Suman casually glanced at the white Maruti van parked under a tree across the road. The van had dark windows due to which she couldn’t look inside.

The auto driver gave her the change.

Suman picked up her bag, stepped out of the auto and headed for the iron gate of the bungalow.

Just then a man balancing himself on crutches stepped out of the front door. A content look on his face, he tottered towards the gate.

She glanced behind the man and saw a very distressed looking Neelam standing on the threshold.

Suman pushed the gate open and stepped inside.

By that time the cripple was at the gate. He threw a look of gratitude at Suman, as if it was for him that she had opened the gate.

Suman gave him a casual glance, then looked away.

The man crossed the road. The rear door of the white Maruti van opened the moment he reached it.

It was then that Suman caught a glimpse of the man with long sideburns sitting in the driver’s seat.

With much effort, the cripple climbed into the van and pulled the sliding door shut. instantly, the van took off, made a turn ahead and vanished.

Standing by the gate, the shocked Suman composed herself and walked quickly towards the bungalow’s front door where Neelam was still standing. When she was close, Neelam said with effort, ‘You have come home early today!’

‘Yes,’ Suman said, ‘I took a chance and signed out early. Who was the guy?’

‘What guy?’

‘Arre, the man with crutches who just left!’

‘He . . . he was no one.’

‘What do you mean, no one?’

‘I mean . . . He was someone known to Kaul Sahib who just dropped in to see him.’

‘I’ve never seen him here before.’

‘Well, it’s just a coincidence.’

‘He had a strange look; terrifying, I must say.’

‘No, not at all, nothing like that.’

‘I think he terrified you.’

‘No, my dear, there’s nothing like that.’

‘Then why are you so disturbed? Why do you look as if you have seen a ghost?’

‘Now, don’t talk nonsense.’

‘But . . .’

‘He was just a visitor. Some people just look dishevelled, even dreadful. Moreover he was a handicapped person, a cripple, dependent upon his crutches. The personal tragedies of such people always reflect upon their faces.’

‘But . . .’

‘Now, drop it and come in.’

Though still unconvinced, Suman stepped into the house.

z

The next day, the white Maruti van was back in the same spot in Model Town, two hours earlier than the previous day.

Managing his crutches, the cripple stepped out of the van.

‘Ustad ji, be careful,’ his companion and escort warned him. ‘This could be a trap.’

‘What trap?’ The cripple raised his eyebrows.

‘There may be someone in there with the woman, waiting to give you an unwanted welcome. You say she’s the wife of a dreaded gangster, so . . .’

‘Thanks . . . thanks for taking me for a dreaded gangster.’

‘I wasn’t talking about you . . . Ustad ji, try to follow what I mean . . .’

‘I’ve followed already. Now, yesterday’s directions stand today as well. If I don’t return in fifteen minutes, you’re free to do whatever you think fit.’

‘Fifteen minutes, you say?

The cripple brooded for a few moments and then said, ‘Five minutes.’

‘Okay.’

But the cripple was back in four minutes flat. He was grinning from ear to ear. His face was lit like a thousand-watt bulb.

The youth realized instantly that the boss had returned victorious.

‘Two lakh rupees! What was one-fourth of that?’

His eyes shining, just like his ustad’s, the young man began dreaming of his share.

z

The following week there was another, similar visit to Model Town.

But the amount escalated to three lakh rupees—collected successfully.

‘Now, next week it will be four lakhs,’ the crippled ustad ji thought with a feeling of contentment. ‘This is called getting a toehold and then getting the whole lot.’

Nice! Nice!

z

Yet another week passed.

Neelam was sad, disturbed and distressed.

She had feared that the demand would escalate, but she had never imagined it would become a weekly affair.

The man was coming again the following day, with his godforsaken crutches, to wail about his disabled state and refer to old relationships, apparently pleading for monetary help but actually threatening the forced recovery.

But she didn’t have four lakh rupees.

She had casually asked Suman about her current financial state and was told that she had only thirty thousand rupees in her bank account, which she had offered to Neelam without hesitation.

But in her present dilemma, thirty thousand rupees were of no consequence.

So the big question was, from where could she get four lakh rupees?

From Vimal?

No! She could not let Vimal get even a whiff of what was going on. How could she tell him everything? And without hearing the full story, how could Vimal comprehend the gravity of the situation?

No, not Vimal. Not Vimal on any account.

Then she thought of Yogesh Pandey.

Yogesh Pandey was a senior officer with the Anti-Terrorist Squad, a division of the Central Bureau of Investigation. He was taking care of them in the absence of Vimal. But he was a police officer, and a very experienced one at that. He would most likely guess the real game and then for her own safety and for the sake of his friendship with Vimal, he could take a step that might not suit Neelam at all. Her intent was to keep the barking dog at bay for as long as she could.

Who else?

She thought of Mubarak Ali.

He was a heavily bearded, bald-headed, god fearing Muslim who battled shoulder to shoulder with her during the rescue of Vimal from Gajre in Mumbai. He had then returned to Delhi with her.

Could he lend her four lakh rupees?

She hoped to god that he could. He was Vimal’s ally from Mumbai. He was in Delhi to escape the clutches of the Mumbai police, who had declared him an absconder. In Delhi, he had drastically changed his appearance and had assumed a different identity. Now he was posing as a taxi driver and that by far ensured his safety in Delhi.

Mubarak Ali was dedicated to Vimal. His recent act was proof enough of this. He, along with his two nephews Ali and Wali and a team of local daredevils popularly referred to as ‘dhobis’, had landed in Mumbai to help his mentor Vimal, in spite of the fact that had Mubarak Ali been arrested in Mumbai, he would have been put behind bars for life. He was a wanted criminal, a fugitive, who had escaped from the Mumbai police headquarters right under the nose of the police commissioner. He was a murderer and a dacoit who, if apprehended, could even be hanged.

The phone rang suddenly.

Neelam answered it.

‘Hello,’ she said into the mouthpiece.

‘It’s me.’

‘Who?’

‘Who else, my dear! Presently there’s only one person who is significant in your life.’

‘What do you want?’

‘As if you don’t know.’

‘Why have you called?’

‘Just to remind you that I’m coming tomorrow.’

‘No! Don’t . . . don’t come tomorrow.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t have the money yet.’

‘What rubbish are you talking?

‘I couldn’t manage . . .’

‘You’re lying. I don’t believe that the concubine of Sardar Surender Singh Sohal the Great is short of moolah.’

‘Mind your language, damn you!’

‘Did I say something wrong?’

‘You . . . you called me a . . . a bad name.’

‘What else are you if not a concubine? You have a husband; you have another. What else should I call you? A kept woman! The shameless mother of a bastard son!’

‘Hold your vulgar tongue, you rascal!’

‘The truth is always bitter.’

‘Shut your filthy mouth.’

‘Okay, if you say so. Anything to please you. Now, what’s it going to be?’

‘I need time to fulfil your demand.’

‘What’ll you do?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘You’ll write a letter to Sohal? Or will you give him a call? Or will you personally go to him in Mumbai?’

‘It’s none of your business, damn you!’

‘Okay, okay, don’t fly off the handle. But do keep one thing in mind.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t try to disappear. I’m not having you watched, so you can vanish if you so desire. But I’ll find you again, the way I found you earlier. It took me a long time to trace you, but this time I’ll find you real soon, sooner than you expect. I will trace you to the other end of this world. And that’s a promise.’

‘Is this a warning?’

‘What else? A lullaby?’

‘You confront me, pleading for help! You wail that you are a handicapped, crippled person. With tears in your eyes, you refer to past relationships!’

‘My love,’ his tone changed. ‘What else can I do? Whenever I see you, I become sentimental. I start reminiscing about those hundreds of nights that we spent in each other’s arms. You double-crossed me on one such night—our last night together—but still I forget all your misdeeds when I confront you. I forget that you and you alone are the sole cause of all my recent troubles.’

‘You are a dirty rascal, a thankless person.’

‘Is that so?’

‘If you are alive today, it’s because of me. Vimal wanted to kill you; he spared your life because I asked him to. It was on my say so that instead of taking your life, he spared you with a few broken limbs damn you!’

‘I never knew. I am thankful to you if that’s the case.’

‘To hell with you and your thanks.’

‘But, my love, how can you think that what you did was a favour? It is the pious duty of every Indian woman to safeguard the life of her beloved husband.’

‘Shut your mouth, you rotten scoundrel!’

‘Okay, okay! All I said was don’t try to take a powder.’

‘I don’t intend to.’

‘Good! Now let’s talk about the money.’

‘I need time to arrange it.’

‘How much time?’

‘One week.’

‘Have you gone mad? Are you trying to make a fool of me? Do whatever you have to do in two or three days or else . . .’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘I will call again.’

‘I’ll call you. Give me your phone number.’

‘I don’t have a phone, so it is I who will have to do the calling.’

‘Okay.’

‘Goodbye till then.’

The line went dead.

Neelam put the receiver back on the cradle and holding her head, she sat down by the phone. She closed her eyes; her lips moved in silent prayer, ‘O, Goddess Durga, give me strength so that I can chop off the head of this demon.’

She then remembered the gun that Vimal had left in a bureau drawer when he abruptly left for Mumbai in response to the letter written by Tukaram. It was a .38 calibre revolver, fully loaded, and for which there were extra bullets in the house.

I’ll kill him. I’ll empty the gun in his unholy body.

But not right now. For now, the dog is barking from a distance with discretion, and stops barking when fed a bone. I’ll take this step when he comes close and threatens to bite.

She thought of Mubarak Ali again.

She didn’t know where he was living in Delhi. Somebody had told her—was it Vimal or Mubarak Ali himself—but she had clear forgotten. Although she did remember that Mubarak Ali drove a taxi in Delhi and that the taxi stand of the Ambassador Hotel in Sujan Singh Park was his regular station.

She made up her mind to go find him.

Mubarak Ali, on board the Sahara Airlines morning flight to Mumbai, arrived at Sahar Airport.

He was wearing his favourite outfit—a brown sherwani, a red fez and Peshawari slippers—and looked like a respectable, well-to-do man. Before heading to the airport in Delhi, he had gotten his beard trimmed. His bald head was hidden under the fez. Looking at him, none of his fellow passengers would have guessed that he was an illiterate rowdy, a ruthless gangster, a wanted criminal and a declared absconder.

He entered the arrivals hall, made a beeline for a public telephone and dialled Vimal’s mobile number, which Vimal himself had given him at their last meeting in Mumbai.

As expected, the call was answered at once.

‘Accept my salaam, baap,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This is Mubarak Ali. I just landed in Mumbai. I’m calling from the airport.’

‘Arre!’ He heard the surprised voice of Vimal, ‘What happened? Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, it is . . . and it is not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll tell you when we’re face to face. This is why I’m here in Mumbai. Where are you?’

‘At the hotel.’

‘I want to see you at once.’

‘No problem.’

‘I hope nobody stops me at the hotel, or questions me as to why I want to meet the big boss!’

‘Mubarak Ali, when was it that I became a boss, and that too, a big boss, for you?’

‘So, there’s no hitch in my coming there?’

‘None at all. Dongre will receive you in the lobby and escort you straight to me.’

‘Will he know who I am?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, I’m coming.’

‘All right, I’ll wait for you.’

Mubarak Ali exited the phone booth, left the arrivals hall and got into a taxi.

‘To Hotel Sea View,’ he instructed.

‘The hotel is shut,’ the taxi driver replied.

‘But your mouth is open.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Shut your mouth. Or a fly will get in.’

The taxi driver was indignant, but he did shut his mouth.

‘Good! How do the firangs express it? A word to the wise—keep your mouth shut till we reach the hotel.’

The taxi driver nodded and drove away.

A brooding Mubarak Ali sat in the back seat.

The hotel had once been the headquarters of the invincible Raj Bahadur Bakhia, aka ‘Black Mountain’, an underworld don and supremo of the organization known as ‘Company’. Bakhia was killed by Vimal, after which the control of ‘Company’

passed on to Iqbal Singh, one of Bakhia’s immediate subordinates. The war between ‘Company’ and Vimal continued during his rein as well, the end result of which was that Iqbal Singh escaped to Nepal where he was later assassinated by ‘Company’s’ henchmen. Control passed to the next in command, Vyas Shankar Gajre. Gajre chose to close down the hotel on the excuse of renovation while the bloodbath between ‘Company’ and Vimal continued. In the final, conclusive war, Gajre and all his top executives were killed and ‘Company’ was completely eliminated. But the hotel remained closed. The difference now was that the hotel was actually undergoing extensive renovations and when it reopens, it would be a hotel only and not the headquarters of a criminal organization in the guise of a hotel.

The taxi arrived at the Sea View.

Mubarak Ali entered and found Dongre waiting for him in the lobby.

During the reign of Iqbal Singh and Gajre, Shyam Dongre was the commander of the Company’s henchmen and was a ruthless assassin, but now he was security chief of the hotel and didn’t want to remember his past, when killing and maiming on the orders of the big bosses of ‘Company’ was his daily routine.

Mubarak Ali recognized him immediately. When he raised his right hand to wish him, Dongre approached and embraced him. Then he escorted Mubarak Ali to the side lift.

Vimal was present in a fourth floor suite, which was once the office of Bakhia, then of Iqbal Singh and finally, of Gajre.

Vimal stood up to greet him, warmly shook his hand and offered him a chair.

‘Want to eat something?’ Vimal asked.

‘No, thanks,’ Mubarak Ali replied, ‘I ate in the plane . . . now, how do firangs say it . . . my beeraik . . . beeraik . . . what you take in the morning.’

‘Breakfast,’ Vimal said, smiling.

‘The same.’

‘Some tea? Coffee? Cold drink?’

‘No, nothing . . . I mean, not yet . . . maybe later.’

‘As you wish. Now tell me, what’s the matter?’

Mubarak Ali casually looked towards Dongre and suggestively kept mum.

Dongre, taking the hint, excused himself.

‘It’s a family matter, baap,’ Mubarak Ali said in a low tone, ‘and for your ears only. That’s why I didn’t write a letter, didn’t call from Delhi, didn’t send a messenger to you. I came myself as fast as I could.’

‘Whose family matter is it?’

‘As if you don’t know without my telling.’

‘Meaning it is my family matter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please explain.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that but first I have something else to say.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Baap, you’ve done a lot for me. Today, whatever I am, as the firangs say, worthy of, it is due to you. On your say so, Tukaram and Wagle helped me escape from Mumbai police headquarters, from right under the nose of the police commissioner himself. Had that not been the case, I would still be cooling my heels in prison. If I am monetarily worth anything here in Mumbai or there in Delhi, it is due to you and you alone. If even this day you give an equal status to a small-time goon like me, then, as the firangs say, it is thanks to your large-heartedness.'

‘You are getting emotional.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, it is. The fact is that I haven’t done anything for you. If at all I have ever done my little bit for you, you have done a whole lot more for me. Have you forgotten that had you not helped me, I would never have been able to catch Badshah Abdul