Four Friends

By Rohit Pagare

Arjun Rahane was just like any other professional. Each day started with his office and ended cosily at home with family. To Arjun, it appeared, the routine would keep repeating throughout his life.
But then, one day, life suddenly took a turn.
Arjun was charged with murder, of his wife Falgun. Before he could recover from the loss, he was thrown in prison, in the jungle, amidst dacoits, robbers and gangsters an unimaginable truth.
Within a few days, Arjun became an untouchable. His relatives, friends and subordinates, all fled, leaving him alone. Other than his aged parents no one came forward to help. He felt crippled and lonely.
In the prison, Arjun soon found the punitive legislation on brides death was horrendously drafted against, police was lethargic, and media seemed enslaved with bias. With judiciary appearing more than willing to turn away, Arjun hopelessly stared into darkness it seemed an un-winnable battle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Mar 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482819595

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Rohit Pagare.

Cover Design: Chandan Crasta

ISBN:                  Hardcover                  978-1-4828-1961-8

                            Softcover                    978-1-4828-1960-1

                            Ebook                         978-1-4828-1959-5

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, organizations and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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To order additional copies of this book, contact

Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

[e-mail]

Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Before the Beginning

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In you… I trust

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In you… I still trust

Dedicated to

Dinkar Pagare and Leela Pagare

My fantastic father and brave mother

And

My immortal dear wife: Archna

Inspiration

Manika Mohini,

A brilliant mentor and a wonderful person

Special Thanks

Sh. Harender Singh,

Superintendent of Prison,

District Prison, Gurgaon

One of the most dynamic and vibrant personalities

I have ever come across. True leader… has capability to make history.

Prayer

I offer my deepest prayers to Lord Shiva.

The energy of Mahadeva made me feel the presence of the divine around me. The enveloping darkness could hardly sustain before the heavenly illumination of the Lord. Without His divine elegance, I would not have been able to move an inch.

I thank Lord Mahadeva! Lord Shiva!

Acknowledgments

The first excerpt of the novel was published in Hindi Newspaper Jansatta on October 14, 2012. It was titled, Mere Chaar Dost. The story was translated in Hindi by my mentor Manikaji. It was perhaps the best day of my new life. I sincerely thank the editor for granting space to publish the story written by a non-person.

Later, with Manikaji’s efforts, several more pieces from the novel and my poems got published in Hindi dailies and magazines like Pakhi, Sahityanest and Sambhavya. I personally thank the editors for showing their kindness.

Today I also thank my extra ordinary team: Astha, Uday, Smt Bimla Rani, Sharmila Sharma, Ashish Manghani, Shonee Kapoor, Sh. Parasram, Mahavir, Manbir, Mohan Singh, Dhanbir, Arun Sachdeva, Vir Ajay, Abhishek, Manoj, Amit Mishra, Rajkumar, Sanjay, Kamlesh Nahar, Sunil Bhandari, Mahavir Singh, Gaurav Jain, Arunabh Sen, Amit Shrivastava, Virender, Bablu, Hira and Azad Yadav.

At the same time, I thank the residents of Ila Cooperative Society, who looked after my parents during the ordeal. I will never forget their kindness. Had they not been the way they are, perhaps survival would have been difficult. I specially thank Mr Harish Joshi, Dr R.P. Singh, Dr P.S. Mathur, Dr V.P. Sharma, Mr S.K. Sinha, Late Dr Abhai Mansingh, Mrs Chandra, Dr Sharda Sharma, Dr V.K. Kawatra, Late Dr B.R. Thukral, Late Dr C.D. Sidhu and Dr Virender Sharma. Contributions also poured in from Late Sh V.N. Bharadwaj, Ms Kiran Chaturvedi, Ms Shanta Sharma, Dr S.R. Arora, Mr Rajender Aggarwal and Sh Tej Bahadur Jain.

Lastly, I thank Chandan Crasta, for creating a wonderful book cover design for this novel.

I shall ever remain indebted to them all.

Preface

On my parole visit home my mother said, ‘why only this story?’

I pulled her near and said, ‘Your love and papa’s discipline has trained me to learn. This story will help me share what I learnt.’

‘But what did you learn in prison?’

Looking into her deep beautiful eyes, I said, ‘I learnt experiencing adversity, and not merely suffer it. We know there are friends in victory, but I learnt one finds still closer friends in adversity. I was told adversity closes doors, but I learnt it is another name of opportunity. With your love, therefore, I ended up growing while I endured the prison term.’

‘But why are the references to Anti Dowry law?’

I smiled. ‘Mummy, this story will look incomplete without its reference. I learnt it’s the only law which carries a presumption of guilt. Anyone facing dowry charge on his wife’s death is presumed guilty upfront, therefore the battle was worth writing about.’

‘Are you against the Anti Dowry law?’ She asked with concern.

‘No, in fact I aspire for its fuller realisation. The law should not only safeguard new brides, but should secure all women, as they were either brides of the past or they will be in future. Additionally, not only the evil of dowry should be removed from society, but also the rampant misuse of dowry law, since law-abusers end up harassing women only.’

My mother smiled. She embraced me.

A mother remains a mother always, I joyously thought.

By the grace of my parents and Lord Shiva, dear readers I take you on this journey of Four Friends, with Arjun Rahane playing the protagonist, with friends Rehan Khan, Baldev Singh @ Ballu and George D’Souza.

Before the Beginning

‘Get into the Gipsy’, Joginder Singh ordered.

December sun had just spread its golden orange light over the tarmac. The bustling city of Gurgaon was slowly waking up to a foggy morning. However, DLF police station was still active. It was preparing to transfer Arjun in a jeep to the Gurgaon Prison.

Without uttering a word, Arjun Rahane embarked the police Gypsy. Following him two escort guards, one carrying a weapon and the other with a baton climbed the van, pushing him in a corner.

Discreetly Arjun glanced at Joginder Singh’s wrist watch, the investigating officer of the case. It was 7 am in the morning. During his two day remand, police had neither allowed him to comb or take a bath.

‘Move!’ Joginder ordered the driver.

As the Gypsy lurched forward exasperating thoughts entangled Arjun’s mind, what did Falgun hide? Why was he framed, who is behind Falgun’s assassination?

With siren blaring, the Gypsy steered towards National Highway.

I have to survive the night. Then Arjun promised himself, I shall be back.

The police van screeched to a halt before the main gate of General Hospital Gurgaon.

‘Move!’ Joginder yelled while flanking the jeep exit.

What more is left for me to sign? Arjun wondered as he laboriously pushed himself to comply with the order. Little did Arjun know that before transferring a person to the Prison, he has to undergo medical examination.

Joginder lead the escort inside the Hospital. In about half an hour, Arjun’s examination was over. Age 24, height 5 ft 10 inches, weight 80 kgs, medical condition normal, body type—athletic, wears spectacles, round face.

The escort moved out of the medical examination hall.

‘Left from here!’ Joginder said while pointing to the gallery attached to the central hall.

The escort lamely followed.

‘This is the place.’

Dr V K Bharadwaj, Doctor of Medicine, Master of Surgery, Anatomy.

Joginder saluted before the doctor the moment he entered. Pointing to Arjun he said, ‘He is the one.’

The doctor, seated in front, did not respond. He was busy scribbling. He was about 50 years in age, balding from the front, and wore old style round spectacles. He appeared tired.

An overworked doctor in a government hospital? Arjun felt surprised.

‘So, you are Arjun?’ The doctor pushed back his chair and moved closer to Arjun, studying him.

Arjun escaped eye contact and nodded.

‘Tell me the truth!’ He said while piercing directly in Arjun’s eyes, ‘Have you committed this crime?’

Arjun said nothing. He kept gazing at the cream tiled floor.

‘My medical experience tells me you couldn’t have done this,’ he said, adjusting his spectacles.

Arjun staggered. He knows the truth? How did he unearth? Arjun recollected Joginder’s irritated responses in the police station over phone at someone—Yes, Yes . . . he is the offender, he has admitted, and why do you say it is not possible. Arjun guessed it must have been this doctor before him, on the other side of Joginder’s phone line.

Arjun desperately wanted to bow at the Doctor’s feet, but he held himself. Revelation of truth may be fatal now. Dowry complaint by J K Katiyar, his father in law involved his parents as well. His parents were hostages.

Meanwhile the doctor asserted, ‘Tell me the truth. Who are you trying to save?’

Silence…

‘Why don’t you speak?’ The doctor said forcefully.

Arjun kept quiet.

‘I repeat: Have you really committed this crime?’ The doctor’s voice now grew loud. It echoed against the white tiled walls.

Arjun felt Joginder’s grip getting tighter and tighter. Tears began rolling down. With a heave, Arjun again nodded.

‘Should I believe, you have murdered your wife?’

How could he? Never before in his life had Arjun felt so vulnerable. He felt dizzy. But again, he said nothing.

‘Sir, may we leave?’ Joginder jumped.

The doctor waved his hand in disgust, ‘You may. I’ve work pending. I can’t waste time on him.’

Joginder pulled Arjun to the door. And just as they were exiting, the doctor called out, ‘Arjun, don’t think you can deceive me. I know you have not committed this offense. It’s unfortunate that you are not defending… not speaking.’

Arjun touched the doctor’s feet. I will take your help someday.

Once back in the Gypsy, Joginder ordered to the driver, ‘To the prison, and fast.’

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Meanwhile, thousands of kilometers away in the cremation ground at Rajkot Gujarat, there spread a dreadful silence. J K Katiyar, Falgun’s father stood stunned. Just like others his mind too was numb.

He recollected how he brought his daughter Falgun’s body from Gurgaon to Rajkot, for cremation. Though living in Noida for a long time, he reverted to his hometown for the last rites. She was dear to everyone here.

‘Our condolenses,’ a mourner said softly.

Jivan, Katiyar’s son bowed.

J K Katiyar was however torn. Falgun was not only his daughter she was a bringer of prosperity. Suddenly a thought cropped up, did he do anything wrong?

‘Condolenses.’

J K Katiyar folded his hands. His heart ridiculed, but his mind justified. His heart made him look at the pyre, but his mind made him fall back on the promise of the prediction by his astrologer, Kartik Hari. Katiyar felt a rush of blood in his head.

‘In case you need us, let us know,’ said a mourner.

Jivan dejectedly nodded. Falgun was his only sister.

As Katiyar gazed at the pyre, he recollected how he chose Arjun Rahane for his daughter. Born to a college professor Dinanath, Arjun had an academic bent of mind. From Rajkot Dinanath shifted base to Delhi, and later Arjun, with his professional success established base in Gurgaon.

‘Papa, are you all right?’ Jivan asked with concern. He had seen a strange blankness on his father’s face. Though, within him also were rising a strange thoughts, did he do anything wrong?

‘I am fine!’ Katiyar assured.

Jivan nodded.

Katiyar took a deep breath. He remembered how he filed dowry demand complaint in Gurgaon against Arjun, his father Dinananth and mother Saraswati upon Falgun’s death. His mind patted, it was a correct move. While filing he had mistakenly left out Manish, Arjun’s younger brother. Katiyar today repented the oversight.

‘It’s very sad moment,’ another mourner said.

Katiyar did not answer, he was drawn in the debate of love vs logic; heart vs mind. Finally his mind stomped out… the prey is entangled in a web . . . and he will succumb soon . . . thus the prediction gets realized.

Jivan held his father.

At a distance the priest was completing the chantings. Morning haze still loomed above.

However, Katiyar felt short of breath about Falgun’s loss. He thought destiny is decided by God, it is above life and death. But then Katiyar became doubtful. Can he attain the prediction without Falgun?

Must be possible, somehow . . . Katiyar now dug deeper.

Just then… his mind churned out a shimmering pathway. Looking ahead, Katiyar could see it terminate at the threshold of his aspired destination… the prediction. He felt elated.

How did he miss? Katiyar thought. He immediately removed a cell phone from his white kurta and called a relative Shashi, a journalist, in Gurgaon.

‘Hello Katiyarji,’ Shashi said.

Turning away from the priest, Katiyar softly whispered the story.

‘What are you saying?’ she said in shock, ‘Falgun died? Oh! Oh, God, no! . . . Yes, I will handle… You don’t worry!’

Thus assured, Katiyar disconnected. But the prediction demanded more. Katiyar again dialed.

‘Hello’ Katiyar said.

A husky voice answered, ‘Hello!’

Moments later, the voice assured, ‘Your work will be done.’

Katiyar clicked the phone shut and turned to the pyre again. Arjun, I have to achieve my destiny . . . and the path terminates on you!

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Unaware of Katiyar’s venom, the police jeep carrying Arjun was approaching the township of Badshahpur. Umpteen types of vehicles, from sedans to hand pulled carts moved on the road. Its rural roots were vehemently intruded by neighbouring Gurgaon.

Arjun’s mind however, stood in a timeless zone. Just a fortnight ago, he recollected, how he bought roses for Falgun from here only. As the police gypsy moved ahead, Arjun saw the same florist, the same roses, but alas! Falgun was no more.

‘Watch out!’ Suddenly Joginder shrieked.

It brought back Arjun.

And before the driver could slam brakes, their Gypsy jumped over an unmarked speed breaker. The jeep thumped down… creaking.

Joginder cursed.

The engine whirred nastily, slowing down, but then it labouriously gathered momentum and resumed its journey.

After crossing Badshahpur, the driver turned left. Joginder looked on. He was trying to grasp the route, as he was going to this prison for the first time.

The jeep now sped over a narrow village road quickly passing by hutments and small shops, nearing the prison.

Feeling lost, Arjun’s mind travelled back… to his school.

‘Buck up, Arjun! Buck up!’ Dinanath and Saraswati cheered, as Arjun started the 100 meter sprint on Sports Day. Challenge, hope, elation, ecstasy, swept the moment, when he crossed the finish line first. Their son, or, a villager’s son, as his father always put it, defeated city kids in the race—A dream came true!

Just then, the siren over the Gypsy blared, bringing Arjun back to the present. Village carts gave way.

Arjun now stared intently through the windscreen, and at a distance, looming through the misty haze he saw a chain of hills.

The driver pressed the gas again.

Aravallis! Arjun recollected drawing the chain of hills in school, on the physical map of India. From Gujarat in Western India, mountains branched off into neighbouring Pakistan and finally ended its 800 kms sprawl on the border of Delhi, India’s capital.

Suddenly, Arjun felt like the Aravallis, as he too started from Gujarat and he too was about to disappear in the dust of Gurgaon on the outskirts of Delhi.

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About 50 kilometers away, in a small house at Sikandarpur Village, near Gurgaon, the door bell pierced the morning silence.

‘Who’s there?’ Tika Ram said drowsily. Pushing himself to the door, he asked again, ‘Whose there?’

Silence

The bell rang again.

It was odd. He reached the door and peeped through the hinges. He saw nothing. A strange fear gripped him.

The bell shrieked again.

Gulping, Tika Ram, removed the iron bolt, and pulled open the creaky door. Finding no one, he let out a deep sigh. Impudent village kids, he thought irritatingly.

And just as he turned back, along with the gust of winter chill, appeared a masculine hand hauling him from his collar. He found his five and half feet frame dangling in mid air. As he attemped to yell, he stopped short. He could not mistake the sensation on his skull. It was a gun.

‘Leave me,’ Tika Ram muffled a prayer for mercy. He could fleetingly see moving shadows behind him. His mind was numb, but he could make out, they were many. Tika Ram pleaded again. ‘Leave me.’

‘That we will’ said the husky voice.

‘Put me down.’

Other than footsteps, nothing was being heard.

Tika Ram faintly heard the clank of neighbour’s door. He hoped for rescue. As his collar bone was getting crushed, he prayed again, ‘Leave me’

‘Provided you do what we say.’ The voice roared.

Tika Ram was flung inside the room. His body struck against the charpoy, and he slid down groaning. Blood started trickling from his face. His mind was still fixated on the neighbours… expecting. But no one came. They must have fled, he thought. It was over.

With blood soaked mouth Tika Ram crawled to their feet. He could not dare to look up.

‘Do what we say.’

‘I will do… I will do… whatever you say.’

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Arjun’s Gypsy was zipping towards Aravallis, ever accelerating. At a distance just ahead, through the sheets of mist was a signage, in blue and red—Modern Jail Complex, District Jail, Gurgaon.

Screeching before the main gate, the jeep halted.

Arjun saw sentries, with rifles outside the large gate. It was a 303 rifle, Arjun was pleasantly surprised. The rifle was used last time in India’s 1965 war with China. What is it doing here? Rifle must pre-date the guard by atleast 25 years. Arjun sighed prison department is deprived . . . what must be the plight of inmates? What lay inside—India of 1960s?

‘Move’ Joginder yelled at Arjun.

The escort took position.

Before Arjun disembarked, he vacantly thought, death is perhaps the most perplexing mystery of mankind. But, living like dead in the prison, may be the most excruciating experiences of all.

‘Move!’ another escort yelled.

Reluctantly, Arjun pushed himself to the large door.

Years of his life turned like a kaleidoscope. Images appeared and receded, flashing and dimming.

50 feet . . . For a moment, he was in school, sitting in the middle row, discussing a chapter on science, and then he was playing cricket during the games period. He was captain.

20 feet . . . The reel of life played his experiences of college, when he played guitar before a gathering of teachers and students.

10 feet . . . His office, subordinates, his first salary, material successes, purchase of a new house, new car, his marriage, His dear Falgun.

5 feet . . . He saw a raging storm… fire, shrieks… Then he saw demons, dancing the rhythm of death and destruction.

The small gate shot open. And bending his head, along with the guard, Arjun stepped inside.

Darkness…

Behind Arjun, the small door was slammed shut. Fear surged through his veins. He groped for support but held somehow.

A cave, Arjun thought. As his eyes adjusted, he saw images of people. He frantically inhaled to confirm if inmates breathed the same air. He felt assured. Discreetly, he shook his hands, jerked his legs and palm. Intact! Then he felt his body all over. He was re-assured. And finally, grief struck him hard. What must be happening at home?

With unusually high ceiling and enclosing walls, the cave appeared like a godown. Only occasional opening of the door brought whiffs of fresh air. In prison parlance this cave is called as Dyodi.

At the corner of the Dyodi, two guards stood behind a wooden podium and shuffled papers. From Arjun’s left to the right, ran a gallery bisecting the cave. The gallery had offices on both its sides.

Joginder Singh asked, ‘Where to?’

‘Office ASUT’ the guard showed the way through the gallery.

Arjun and the guards entered. It was a small room, cluttered with large registers. Uniformed men worked with people wearing white kurta payjamas.

‘Hello!’ a uniformed guard wished Arjun.

Hello??! Arjun felt disgusted. In the last few days, he had confronted human degradation falling to its lowest ebb. He found male constables discussing his wife’s naked dead body—a wretched truth.

‘Stand there, next to the wall.’ The constable directed.

Clicking the camera the constable said, ‘Now your face is captured in the prison registers.’

‘Would this be erased, when I am released?’ Arjun asked stammering.

‘No, the record is permanent.’

Arjun felt jolted. He recollected how he kept distance from rowdy gangs in school and college to focus on his dream of excellence. And today, he became a part of worst societal discards.

‘Should we leave?’ Joginder interrupted.

‘Yes, you may! He is in our custody!’ the prison constable replied.

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Meanwhile in Rajkot, the priest handed over the burning torch to Katiyar. It was time of cremation. The mourners stepped closer.

Jivan stood motionless. He felt repentant.

Holding the funeral torch, along with the priest, Katiyar circled the pyre. His recalled how Jivan was once attacked by his juniors who tried to burn him alive? And today… he himself would cremate his daughter. Is this God’s way of punishing him for lessons not learnt? His mind blacked out.

The priest motioned Katiyar to torch the pyre.

With trembling hands, Katiyar bent but could not bring himself to reach the pyre. The priest now came next to Katiyar. Holding his hand, the priest softly pushed the torch into the woodstack.

Katiyar’s eyes were fixed as the flames slowly lapped the wood.

At first, only smoke bellowed out, and within minutes, flames leapt up. A few moments later, the blaze began rising to reach the iron sheeted roof of the crematorium. Katiyar stood transfixed. The flames singed his face as if attempting to reach him. Katiyar staggered back. Are they anguished?

As per Hindu scriptures, Falgun… now traversed on her final journey. Her soul would find a new body. She would be reborn.

Hundreds of kilometres away in Gurgaon prison, the constable announced: ‘UT number 8323.’ Arjun… was no more. He was reborn as a number.

Falgun and Arjun both now travelled to a new world.

2

‘I want to meet the editor.’ Shashi Mehta said authoritatively while she flashed her journalist Identity Card. She had reached the Gurgaon office of Hindi Newspaper, Dainik Awaz.

The receptionist directed her inside.

Shashi Mehta was a senior journalist, and this much modicum of respect she commanded always. Though she was not active due to her obesity, but she still carried her fierce self.

While sipping coffee Shashi narrated the story.

The editor, Prabhat Kumar was a sober man. He was risk averse and adhered to media ethics. He said thoughtfully, ‘Show me the evidence for extra marital affair and harassment.’

‘I have no documents to prove.’ Shashi said dismissively.

Prabhat was surprised. ‘Without evidence, we are sorry, we cannot help you. You are very well aware of ethics.’

‘A woman is dead. Her husband is arrested.’ She paused. ‘And you are talking of ethics.’

‘If he is arrested, what else is required? Had police not been doing their job, then, perhaps you had a point.’

Shashi finally came in her elements. ‘The world is dominated by males. Everywhere a woman gets a raw deal. A woman is dead, and newspapers are refusing to publish the story.’

‘Obviously, we do not propose to publish rumours. Your story is unsubstantiated. You say the boy had an affair, but you do not have evidence. You say, he demanded dowry, but again, you have nothing to prove it.’

Shashi fired. ‘I am the evidence myself. She was a family member.’

‘This is rubbish. All the more reason we would not publish. You are an interested party.’

‘So, a journalist should not have relatives?’

Prabhat sobered. ‘My apologies. But publishing a false story exposes us to libels. We play safe.’

Shashi jerked her head. ‘Libels!?’ Then she thundered. ‘Who will file a case? The boy is in prison and his parents have shut themselves in their house. Friends have run away. So, who will file a complaint of defamation? No one has time to secure respect whey they are running here and there to survive.’

‘Your thoughts, due to agitation, are trudging the criminal line.’ Prabhat said then he added. ‘And what advantage do you get lady?’ Prabhat reiterated.

Though the remarks unsettled her yet she regained her elements. ‘I want the boy and his family to be hated by everyone. They should be hanged.’

‘Settling personal vendetta through media is unethical in itself.’

‘But the girl is dead.’

‘It’s unfortunate.’ Then Prabhat added while tapping his computer, ‘Just to inform you, we have information that the girl’s family wanted to grab the boy’s house property. Katiyars have deposed falsely in several courts. Their hands are not clean.’

Shashi held for a while. ‘The courts are silent on the issue, it means, the girl’s family has done no wrong.’

Prabhat did not answer. He kept tapping his computer.

He is adamant, Shashi thought. Pushed to the wall, she clicked open her mobile and silently