From Man to Maneater

By Sumanth

Versatile storyteller Sumanth narrates a riveting and action packed tale of how a well settled family man transforms into a ruthless killerthe ManEater!

Vishvamitra, a married and successful IT professional, working in the US, returns to India in search of love and passionin search of that mysterious and elusive excitementthadka!

Through an extraordinary turn of events, Vishvamitra finds himself on the run, wanted for murder! Hot on his trail are the Indian Police, INTERPOL, and Prithviraj, a dynamic and determined CBI officer.

Vishvamitra has to confront a five-hundred-year-old Swamiji, a beautiful and passionate woman, a ruthless Russian oil baron, and a devious and power-hungry politician to unearth the truth the truth about why he was transformed into a savage criminal!

From a remote dark cave in Uttarakhand to the jungles of Chhattisgarh; from suburban New Jersey to cosmopolitan Mumbai and Delhithis contemporary thriller blends crime, passion, drama and sex into a fascinating potpourrithat promises fast-paced reading entertainmentwith a twist!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jul 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482874754

Sumanth

Sumanth’s penchant for storytelling began in his teens, when he entertained his younger brothers with fascinating, yet realistic, crime tales. This inclination morphed into a passion in his adult life, which has culminated in the publication of his first crime thriller, From Man to ManEater, in 2016. Pursuing a successful and accomplished career in Technology that spans over 20 years, Sumanth, an IT Architect by profession, decided to write, part-time, to intellectually stimulate himself, express his thoughts and gain new perspectives. Sumanth’s passion for living life to the full encourages him to travel around the world, meet interesting people, experience different cultures and broaden his cognitive horizons.

Book preview

I. UTTARAKHAND—SEPTEMBER 27, 2015

Rain, thunder, and lightning pounded the late evening as dusk fell.

Kandu sat huddled in his small tea hut, wrapped in a flimsy blanket. This area is known as the Kumaon region—a densely forested, and mountainous part of eastern Uttarakhand, far from populated cities, and towns. The tiny thatched hut contained a small stove, and a couple of benches. It was a sheer miracle how this hut stood up to such torrential rains. Heavy rain was also unusual, this late in the season.

Kandu lived in the small village of Ilium, where most of the inhabitants herded sheep. Malpa, the nearest town, was a good two hours by foot. There was no official road from Ilium to Malpa, only a small gravel road, barely wide enough to fit a 4×4 SUV. This road, like most other mountain roads in Uttarakhand, is passable from May to September.

Malpa lays in the eastern part of the state of Uttarakhand, in north India. Uttarakhand is often referred to as the Land of the Gods due to the many holy Hindu temples and pilgrimage centers found throughout the state. Holy shrines such as Badrinath, Haridwar, Rishikesh, and Kedarnath draw millions of pilgrims from India, and all parts of the world.

However, Malpa lay far, east from these shrines, near the Nepalese, and Tibetan borders. Kathgodam, the nearest large city, was a twelve-hour drive by road, by way of Ascot, and Nainital.

The village of Ilium sat at the foot of Kigali parbat or Kigali Mountain. The mountain is sacred to all inhabitants of the village—it is not very high by Himalayan standards, about 10,000 feet to the summit, and densely forested.

Kandu had been given clear instructions. He always was. He would travel to Malpa every Sunday morning. From the phone booth near the post office, he would call his contact, Ved Raj, at a designated number to receive specific instructions about the next Visitor.

Kandu had welcomed many visitors to his tea hut over the years—politicians, movie actors, businessmen, and other VIPs. All these visitors arrived at Malpa around 10 p.m. He would pick them up at the phone booth, and drive with them in their SUVs to Ilium.

Kandu’s tea hut was located at the end of the gravel road from Malpa—from here, the rest of the journey had to be undertaken by foot, up Kigali Mountain. He would first offer his visitors hot tea.

At the stroke of midnight, he would take them on the path up the mountain, leading the way with his lantern. The path ended near the entrance of a dark cave, and the hike took an hour. The hike was strenuous as it was uphill, and visitors were advised beforehand about the conditions.

Kandu did not ask the visitors any questions—his job was simply to bring them to the cave. After a couple of hours, they would come out, while he waited at the entrance. He would then bring the visitors back down to his hut, drive with them to Malpa, and drop them off at the phone booth, never to see them again. He was paid Rs.5000 for each visit to the cave, and tips were always welcome!

Kandu never questioned the visitors’ motives or reasons for their visit to the cave in this remote mountain area. He never entered the cave nor was he curious to find out what lay inside. Since he worshipped the mountain like everyone else in Ilium, he respected the sanctity of the Mountain God.

During the tourist season from May to September, Kandu usually received one visitor a week. Business was flourishing—he enjoyed a good season this year. The Mountain God had been kind to him, and his family. He now hoped for at least one more visitor before the winter closed in, making the roads impassable.

Kandu would never forget the last visitor of the season.

He vividly remembered his latest conversation with Ved Raj.

Kandu, Ved Raj’s voice was gruff.

"Sirji, boliye," replied Kandu, with respect.

You have an important visitor coming the night of September 27th.

"Theek Hai, sirji, no problem," Kandu smiled inwardly, knowing important visitors meant more baksheesh or tips.

"Suno Kandu," Ved Raj’s voice softened a bit.

"Ji, sirji?"

"Sambhalna," Ved Raj cautioned.

"No problem, sirji, I will take care," mustered Kandu.

There was a beep at the other end, and the line went dead.

Ved Raj had visited Ilium three years ago, and had come across Kandu in his tea hut. He had proposed this arrangement of sending visitors to Kandu. He had told Kandu, You will make money, and at the same time, will be serving God.

At first, Kandu was apprehensive. He did not know if he was doing right or wrong. Would he anger the Mountain God by bringing people into the cave? Would he be cursed for life? Kandu, like all other inhabitants of Ilium, was God-fearing—the last thing on his mind was blasphemy.

However, after a period of time, Kandu observed these visitors. They looked like they were in trouble or pain. Judging by their expressions, they seemed far more relaxed after they returned from the cave. He believed this to be the blessing of the Mountain God, and merely thought of himself as a messenger.

Today, however, Kandu felt different. In all these years, Ved Raj had never cautioned him. He wondered why. Who was this visitor? Where did he come from? Surely, he couldn’t be more important than powerful politicians or famous movie actors? Well, he would find out soon enough…

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It was now 7 p.m. as darkness fell. It was time for Kandu to pick up this important visitor. He picked up his lantern, wrapped his blanket tight around him, and started to walk the gravel road to Malpa.

The journey took much longer because of the rain, and slush. The wind was howling—lightning streaked across the sky. Kandu heard the rumble of thunder and the distant growls of hyenas and wolves in the dark forest around him. Kandu was a tough and hardy mountain man, but he still shivered involuntarily at the surroundings.

Something just did not seem right today. Would the SUV make it back to Ilium from Malpa with all this rain, and slush?

Even if Kandu and the Visitor did make it to Ilium, how would they hike up the mountain path to the entrance of the cave? That would be even harder to navigate, under these circumstances. The cave itself was on the far side of Kigali Mountain. To get to the entrance of the cave from the path, one had to walk on a rocky ledge for 300 feet. The ledge was wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side, but today was different. The continuous rain made rocks wet, and slippery.

To make matters worse, Kandu had witnessed massive mudslides on Kigali Mountain during heavy rains. Large banks of mud came loose, and rolled down the mountain with fury, burying even large trees. His entire hut and tea stall had been wiped out during one such mudslide, two years ago—luckily, he and his family were away at that time, and he rebuilt his hut. Anyone walking up the mountain path during this time would be instantly crushed to death.

It would be a disaster!

Surely, Kandu thought, this was a clear message. He did not want to incur the wrath of Kigali Bhagavan, the Mountain God. After losing his hut in the earlier mudslide, Kandu had not taken any visitors up to the cave for many months. Every morning, he would go to the entrance of the cave, say his prayers, and beg forgiveness. Since then, they were no mudslides.

Today, Kandu felt for sure, he did not want any visitors.

As the conditions around him worsened, Kandu had made up his mind. He would explain to the visitor that there would be no visit to the cave tonight. If the weather improved, they could go tomorrow night.

He eventually reached the phone booth at Malpa around 9:45 p.m. There were a couple of paan shops and tea stalls open, to service travelers on the main road from Ascot, Nainital, and Kathgodam.

Kandu waited. Promptly, in a couple of minutes, he made out the silhouette of two black Audi SUVs, pulling up to the phone booth.

The doors of the first SUV opened.

Two big and burly men stepped out. Kandu was surprised—one of them was a foreigner, a white man. He was tall, about six feet two inches, bald and heavy set, with a huge chest and rippling muscles. He looked like a heavyweight wrestler. The other man, though not as muscular and hefty as the foreigner, was Indian, but still looked tough and strong.

The Indian approached the phone booth. I am looking for Kandu.

"Yes, sirji, I am Kandu," replied Kandu, walking toward the SUV.

Good, you’re on time, he said. You will now lead us to the cave.

Kandu hesitated. "Sirji . . ." he started slowly.

What is the problem? asked the Indian.

"Sirji, today we cannot visit the cave," muttered Kandu.

The foreigner quickly joined the conversation. What the hell do you mean we can’t visit the cave?

Kandu could not pick out the accent, but guessed it was British. After all, to his limited knowledge, all white men came from England and ruled India till Independence in 1947.

Ved Raj told us there would be no problem, the Indian persisted.

"Ji, sirji that is correct. But because of the weather, it is not possible today. Sirji, we will go tomorrow night." Kandu managed, even with these two big men crowding around him.

We have to go tonight, insisted the Indian. Just take us to the cave and we will pay you Rs. 10,000.

But Kandu was God-fearing and not greedy. He stood his ground. "No, sirji, it is not about money, he tried to explain. The Mountain God does not want any visitors today."

This is fucking bullshit, roared the foreigner and held Kandu’s collar with both his hands. What do you mean the Mountain God does not want visitors?

People were now looking their way, wondering what was going on.

"Sirji . . . Kandu stammered It is not a good shakun to visit today—please sirji, we go tomorrow night."

I have had enough of this crap, hissed the foreigner. "Listen, fella, you had better take us to the cave tonight or I’ll blow your freaking brains out."

Kandu felt a cold, hard piece of metal pressed against his head.

He stared in horror, sideways, at the barrel of a semiautomatic pistol in the foreigner’s hands.

"No sirji, please…" begged Kandu, closing his eyes.

Alan. A commanding voice came from behind. Let him go.

The door of the second SUV opened and the Visitor walked up to the phone booth.

At once, the foreigner released Kandu’s collar and put his gun away.

Kandu looked intensely at the Visitor. He was Indian and looked to be around six feet tall.

Kandu could tell he was fit and athletic, with strong arms and wide shoulders. The Visitor spoke with authority, but with a calmness that made Kandu feel at ease. His gaze was intense.

"Bolo yaar, kya baat hai," he asked, softly.

Kandu relaxed at hearing the Visitor’s tone.

"Sirji, I have been trying to tell your people. We cannot go to the cave tonight. The Mountain God will get angry," explained Kandu.

What is your name? asked the Visitor.

"Sirji, Kandu."

We will be all right, Kandu. I have travelled a long way to visit the cave, so please take me there.

"But, sirji, the weather is not good. There is heavy rain and the threat of mudslides." Kandu tried his best to explain all the natural calamities possible.

Do not worry, Kandu. Nothing will happen to us, explained the Visitor.

Kandu looked into the Visitor’s eyes. There was something trustworthy about this man. He spoke well, addressed him as yaar, as a friend. Besides, Kandu had promised Ved Raj and did not want to let him down.

"Okay, sirji, let us go," said Kandu.

Alan, Arif, please take Kandu with you in your car. I will follow you.

Yes, sir, they replied in unison.

Both cars headed toward the gravel road to Ilium.

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II

The Visitor gazed out of the window of the SUV. The rain had now slowed down to a drizzle, though there were occasional flashes of lightning.

The Visitor reflected on the frenetic last two days. He and his entourage had flown into Delhi. It was then an easy five-hour drive on the national highway to Kathgodam. Overnight, they had stayed over in Kathgodam, before heading out early this morning toward Malpa.

The drive, through picturesque Nainital, was beautiful. They passed through ranges of snowcapped mountains, beautiful lakes, and valleys, which offered stunning and breathtaking views. Today, though, the Visitor had no time to stop and admire the natural beauty of Uttarakhand. He had to reach Malpa by 10 p.m.

The Visitor had crossed Ascot, about 100 Km from Malpa, when both cars were stopped at a police security checkpoint. As they were near the Tibetan border, all vehicles were inspected—though the Visitor was confident the police would never find the hidden compartment under the backseat which contained all their guns and ammunition.

A young police officer had asked to see Alan’s passport, as he was of foreign origin. Alan produced his passport and Indian visa. The Visitor and Arif were both of Indian origin and did not have to produce any documentation.

The police officer then walked up to the Visitor’s SUV and opened the door. At seeing the Visitor, he smiled at once, about to say something, then held it back. His expression lasted for a fraction of a second, but the Visitor was very perceptive.

What is the reason for your visit to Malpa? he asked curtly, looking around into the SUV. The Visitor could make out the letters IPS on the shoulder strap of the police officer’s uniform and made a mental note of it.

We are naturalists and hikers who want to explore Malpa and the nearby mountains and caves, explained the Visitor. They had rehearsed their alibi well in advance, and he sounded very convincing.

The police officer and two constables looked around the vehicles, seemed satisfied, and waved them forward.

The road had now narrowed down. The Visitor wondered how such a tiny road could serve two-way traffic! There was no guardrail except for a small parapet wall. The drop on one side was uncompromising! If the car strayed a couple of feet too wide, it would be curtains! And to top it all, huge trucks crossed at regular intervals, blaring their horns and playing loud music.

Yet, in India, as is said, no matter how difficult the circumstances seem, things usually work out. It is indeed remarkable. They somehow squeezed through the traffic and made it to Malpa on time at 10 p.m.

The Visitor looked to the front and saw the tense face of Shriram, his trusted driver, in the rearview mirror, concentrating on the gravel road.

Shriram, everything okay?

Yes, sir, we should be arriving in Ilium shortly.

The Visitor smiled. He enjoyed having trustworthy and competent people working for him. The Visitor was not sure why he trusted Shriram on his first meeting. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was his name.

Shriram – the name of Lord Rama himself!

The Visitor strongly believed in a higher force that controlled the destiny of the universe, but he wasn’t sure it was God. But yet, he liked the name Shriram. People say if you chant Shriram continuously, it brings peace and solace to your mind.

The Visitor now shifted his thoughts to Alan. He was surprised at Alan’s behavior with Kandu at the phone booth. He knew Alan was hot tempered, but maybe it was the tiredness of the long twelve-hour road journey that snapped his nerves. Maybe it was time to give Alan some time off. He knew Alan had a girlfriend, Martha, who lived in Delray Beach, Florida.

Alan Coates was anything but a heavyweight wrestler. He was an explosives expert from Fort Worth, Texas. Though Alan was loud-spoken and brash, he was a thorough professional and the quality of his work was impeccable.

Arif Khan, the Visitor’s other bodyguard, was Alan’s opposite. He was quiet, mild-tempered, and possessed a great sense of wit and humor, but was a ruthless and trained killer. He grew up in Dharavi in Mumbai, Asia’s largest slum. His widowed mother, Razia, sewed clothes. Their small room in a rented chawl in Dharavi leaked heavily during Mumbai’s relentless monsoons—Arif and Razia huddled in one corner to stay dry. Arif, with little education, was forced into a life of crime as he was strong, fit, and agile.

Arif worked his way up the chain gangs on Dockyard Road and Sewri near Mumbai harbor. When he was 16, he started running errands for Mafia chiefs; at 21, he turned into a full-time sharpshooter. Many people of the underworld then started to give him the supari or contract when they wanted someone killed.

The Visitor had hired Arif as his personal bodyguard and paid him well. Now, Arif was able to buy his mother a comfortable apartment in Mumbai’s eastern suburb of Thane and she did not have to sew clothes anymore.

The Visitor never judged people. He knew Arif was a murderer. Arif had wontedly killed people in exchange for money. Did that make Arif a bad man? Well, the people whom Arif killed had probably killed others, which is why someone wanted them dead and gave Arif the supari. It was an endless and meaningless circle—who was the Visitor to analyze and pass judgment? The Visitor wanted a strongman and Arif was the best fit, that’s all.

Sir, we have reached Ilium, announced Shriram.

The Visitor stepped down and looked around. The headlights of the Audi glared at dense foliage as there was no path ahead. They had come to the end of the road. Through the trees, he could make out the outline of a small hut.

"Welcome to Ilium and to Kigali Parbat, sirji," greeted Kandu, warmly.

Ilium was a small hamlet with huts scattered around the gravel road.

Shriram, wait here till we return, ordered the Visitor. He followed Kandu, who held the lantern to illuminate the short path to his tea hut.

"Sirji, please sit down. I will make tea," smiled Kandu, lighting the stove.

Ten minutes later, they welcomed hot tea and drank it quickly.

The rain had started pouring again, since they had reached Ilium.

Heavy bolts of lightning hammered the dark forest and loud thunder exploded all around.

The Visitor looked up at the imposing mountain in the dead of the night with an extremely high sense of anticipation.

"Sirji, said Kandu calling out. We have to go now."

All of them started the slow hike up the mountain.

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III

Kandu led the way up the narrow mountain path, holding up his lantern. The Visitor followed behind, while Alan and Arif, all in single file, brought up the rear. Alan and Arif were both armed to the teeth. The Visitor himself carried his Walther PPK automatic pistol in his coat jacket.

It continued to pour—visibility, however, was decent, courtesy of Alan and Arif’s powerful flashlights. The path was full of slush and they were soaking wet. Each foot they put forward disappeared entirely into the slush and they had to dig it out to put the next foot forward. Yet they trudged on, Kandu bravely leading the way as only he could do.

It had now been almost an hour as they slowly labored uphill.

Then suddenly, it happened.

A loud clap of lightning struck halfway up the mountain accompanied by raging thunder. They felt the earth shake under their legs.

Kandu instinctively shouted, "Sirji, please turn back. I beg you. Let us not go any further." As if on cue, before anyone could answer, they heard a distant rumbling sound that seemed to get louder and louder with every passing second.

Kandu yelled, "Sirji, the lightning strike has caused a rockslide. Please hide behind the tree." He caught hold of the Visitor and dragged him behind the trunk of a large tree to the left of the path.

Whoosh! —the loud sound of rocks came crashing down on them. Some were small, some were large, and they gained momentum as they rolled down the mountain bearing destruction.

Alan quickly followed Kandu and the Visitor, but Arif moved to the right of the path and found shelter behind a large tree.

The rock shower unleashed its full fury on Kigali Mountain.

The rocks were like missiles, some very large, some as small as pellets, and they came screaming through the darkness. Kandu, Alan, and the Visitor huddled together, taking shelter behind the tree trunk.

A large rock rolled down the path they were walking on a few minutes ago, and went rumbling down the mountain. If they were still on the path, they would have been crushed to death!

A large rock crashed into the upper branch of the tree—right where it joined the tree trunk. The entire branch broke loose—fell onto a lower branch and did not fall further down. However, the rock fell slightly faster and hurtled toward them.

"Watch out, sirji," yelled Kandu and pushed the Visitor and Alan out of the way—he fell to one side as the rock dropped at the point they were standing. Luckily, no one was hurt.

Damn, cursed Alan, as rocks the size of pellets grazed his arms—at the speed they were travelling, it still hurt.

Hide your faces in your arms, the Visitor ordered.

Rocks continued to pour down the mountain with fury.

Arif was not so lucky.

Craccckkk—they heard a large rock crash into the tree behind which Arif was taking shelter. The rock crashed squarely into the upper portion of the large tree trunk. The force and the momentum of the rock caused the huge tree to be uprooted instantly, on impact. The rock continued tearing down the mountain.

The Visitor and Alan shouted simultaneously, Arif, watch out.

Arif reacted quickly—he lunged forward with his body away from the tree as soon as the rock crashed into it. However, to his dismay, his foot was entwined in the tree’s roots, which had risen awkwardly into the air, along with the uprooted tree trunk. He screamed as sharp roots tore through his jeans and cut into his calf muscle – the pain was unbearable.

My legs are stuck, Arif yelled. He struggled furiously, trying to break his leg free, but the roots cut deeper into his flesh. The tree trunk poised precariously for a second, then slowly continued to fall.

The Visitor shouted, Move, Arif, try and move away.

The rock shower lasted only forty-five seconds—yet it seemed like eternity.

Arif pulled at his leg with all his strength. It was no use. The harder he pulled, the worse the roots cut into him. He yelled in horror, God, help me, as the huge tree trunk came crashing down on him.

Kandu, Alan, and the Visitor heard the loud thud of the giant tree crashing down. Then there was silence. The rock shower had finished.

The lightning and thunder suddenly stopped and the rain mellowed down to a drizzle, as if the Heavens ordered a break to Mother Nature’s fury.

The Visitor, Alan, and Kandu rushed to the spot where the tree had fallen.

Arif, yelled Alan. Where the hell are you, man? Are you okay?

"Arif sirji, shouted Kandu. Aap theek hai kya?"

Both Alan and Kandu began frantically walking around the fallen trunk, shouting Arif’s name and hoping to find him lying somewhere in the nearby bushes.

The Visitor didn’t need a second look; he knew Arif was dead. He knew Arif was buried beneath the giant fallen tree trunk. He went up to Alan and Kandu, placed a restraining hand on each of their shoulders and said, It’s no use. He is no longer with us. He is dead.

Kandu stared in horror, not knowing what to say. He was almost in tears.

Alan closed his eyes in prayer. May his soul rest in peace.

The Visitor looked at the trunk with remorse. He was no stranger to death. But yet, he felt a strange emptiness. Arif was more than his bodyguard; he was a friend and had saved his life. Arif had taken many lives as a sharpshooter and now Mother Nature had taken his life.

The Visitor thought of Razia, Arif’s mother, waiting for her son to return. He had met Razia once, on a visit to Mumbai. She had talked about how happy she would be if Arif married, settled down, and had children. She had hoped Arif would take her on the Hajj, the Holy Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca, at least once in her lifetime. Now she would never see her son again and never get to hold a grandchild in her arms.

The Visitor strongly believed in karma and the circle of life and death. Was this karma then? Was this payback for all the crimes Arif committed? Who decides whether one should live or die? Is it God? Is it a higher force that has no name, form, or shape? What happens after death? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel of eternal darkness? Is that light called Nirvana, or Moksha? If so, how does one attain this state of eternal bliss? Penance, meditation, or renunciation of worldly pleasures?

The Buddha had achieved salvation, but that was thousands of years ago.

The Visitor desperately needed answers and he knew today was the day he would get them. His resolve strengthened. He needed to reach the cave at any cost and was not going to give up. Arif’s death would not go in vain.

He looked at Kandu and said firmly, Kandu, we have to continue. We must get to the cave. There is no going back now.

Kandu nodded grimly, "Ji, sirji." He held his lantern up and continued to walk up the path with the Visitor and Alan following. No one spoke; everyone was absorbed in their own thoughts.

Rocks fragments were strewn everywhere from the rock shower, and progress was painfully slow. Sometimes, they had to climb over fallen trees. They finally reached the end of the path from where they had to walk on the rocky ledge to reach the entrance of the cave.

The hike, which normally should have taken one hour, took almost three hours. It was now 02:55 a.m.

Alan shone his flashlight on the rocky ledge, which was about 300 feet long. The ledge itself was wide enough to hold two people side by side, but there were rock fragments everywhere.

Alan could not view the entrance of the cave from where they were standing, as the last 100 feet of the ledge curved inwards, toward the cave, which was on the far side of the mountain. The last 100 feet on the ledge also provided no ground cover. The drop was precipitous—a good 2,000 feet to the rocks on the ground. If one slipped and fell, it would be fatal.

Alan said, Sir, we have to be very careful. I will lead the way.

He removed a rope he carried with him and tied it around his waist. He then passed the rope to the Visitor, who gripped it with both hands. The Visitor nodded, I’m ready. Let’s go. He passed the end of the rope to Kandu.

Kandu really had no choice. His hut was probably destroyed in the rock shower. He certainly would not be able to bring any more visitors back to this mountain. A dead body meant a police investigation, reporters, and the press. The sanctity of the cave would be lost and his livelihood gone with it. He took the end of the rope. "Sirji, I am ready."

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Alan stepped slowly onto the rocky ledge, taking one slow step at a time, shining his flashlight. The Visitor followed closely behind, tightly gripping the rope and Kandu brought up the rear.

The rain once again picked up, making progress even slower. Alan lost his footing and gasped, "Crap," as he put his leg on a slippery rock. Luckily, the Visitor held him from behind, and he regained his balance. All three of them looked up at the sky.

It looked like Mother Nature’s’ break was over and the fury was returning, this time stronger. Huge flashes of lightning streaked the sky and the bang of thunder sounded like freight trains all colliding with one another. The rain came down hard, bringing visibility to near zero.

They had crossed 150 feet of the ledge when they heard the disturbing rumbling sound once again. Kandu smelt it in seconds.

"Sirji, mudslide, Kandu yelled, frantically. We need to get to the entrance of the cave before the mudslide hits us. There is no other option."

The earth shifted uncontrollably under them and trembled. Rocks moved sideways, throwing all three of them off balance. Luckily, they all threw themselves against the rock face and held on tightly. They heard a loud gush of shifting and moving mud—symbolizing the mudslide, moving slowly down the mountain.

"Sirji, jaldi. Run," yelled a terrified Kandu.

The three of them strode quickly for the next fifty feet toward the curve on the ledge, from where they could finally see the entrance of the cave. The rumbling gush got louder. Alan yelled, Sir, we have to make a run for it or we will be crushed by the mud.

The Visitor replied, Okay, let’s go for it.

Alan stepped up his pace, but his immediate next step was on a slippery rock. He yelled loudly, "Goddamnit"—as he lost his balance, fell down, and rolled helplessly toward the drop.

The Visitor, who had razor-quick reflexes, dropped the rope in a split second, to avoid being dragged by Alan. That quick moment of thinking saved his life.

Alan’s legs flew over the drop, and he let out a huge shout, but his strong arms held on to one of the rocks. His legs, however, were hanging over the ledge in thin air. Kandu, however, was slower to react. He did not let the rope go. When Alan fell down, he dragged Kandu with him.

Kandu screamed, "Sirji." He was now thrown over the drop, hanging on to dear life with both hands to the rope that was tied around Alan’s waist.

The Visitor at once lay down and held Alan’s hands with both of his to try and pull him up. The Visitor was strong; however, Alan was a big man to be pulled up. To make matters worse, Kandu was hanging off Alan and kicking his legs wildly. "Sirji, please pull us up."

The Visitor shouted as he pulled Alan with all his strength, Come on buddy, and don’t give up on me now. Pull your goddamn fat ass up on the ledge. He was enraged at the thought of losing Alan, as if Arif’s death wasn’t enough for one night. Alan could easily have swung his legs over the ledge if he was alone, but with Kandu’s weight weighing him down, it was impossible.

Kandu continued wailing, "Please, sirji, mujhe bacha lo."

The Visitor grunted loudly, as he pulled on Alan’s arms - progress was painfully slow.

Alan cursed at Kandu, Don’t swing yourself, man, be still.

It was hopeless. There simply was not enough time.

Alan looked up and said calmly, Sir, go into the cave and save yourself. You only have a few seconds. The Visitor looked up the mountain and could make out the dark outline of a huge mass of earth almost upon them.

The Visitor had no choice. He would gladly have given his life to save a friend, but he was also practical. He got up, strode quickly on the ledge for the last couple of feet, and ran into the entrance and shelter of the cave.

With a loud gush, tons of mud poured down on the narrow ledge and continued down the mountain.

The Visitor only had time to hear the screams of both Alan and Kandu as they fell to their deaths. The entire entrance of the cave was covered by thick mud in a matter of seconds.

Then, once again, there was only silence.

The Visitor sat down on a rock for a minute to collect his thoughts. He was in despair now. He had lost his two loyal henchmen, who were also his friends, in a matter of one night and he could do nothing to save them.

Once again, the Visitor thought of Martha, Alan’s girlfriend, waiting in Delray Beach, for him to return. They too had talked about getting married, raising a family, and retiring, sipping margaritas, as they watched sunsets on the beach.

Life was horribly unfair at times. Was he guilty for their deaths? Should he be punished? The Visitor thought sadly about Kandu. He had taken an instant liking to the guide. Had it only been five hours since he had first met Kandu at the phone booth in Malpa? He felt he had known Kandu for years.

Kandu, smiling, always saying "Sirji" with respect, and ultimately, fulfilling his end of the bargain.

The Visitor got up. He had to complete what he came for. Besides, there was nowhere else to go. There was no way out of the cave, as the entrance was completely covered with mud.

The cave was dimly lit, with straw torches hanging off the walls, flickering gently. A stairway made of rock led down from the entrance to what looked like the Great Hall. It was a large open area with a small dark passage leading further and deeper into the cave.

The Visitor slowly walked down the rock-stairs into the Great Hall. At the far end of the hall, he could make out a figure in meditation. He walked slowly toward the figure.

The man was a sage, a sadhu. His eyes were closed and he was chanting hymns and shlokas in Sanskrit. As soon as the Visitor approached him, he opened his eyes.

The sage asked the Visitor, Who are you?

The Visitor looked into the eyes of the sage with conviction and replied slowly, My parents named me Vishvamitra, but I am now known as the ManEater.

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IV. DELHI, SEPTEMBER 20, 2015—ONE WEEK EARLIER

CBI headquarters, a modern, state-of-the-art, eleven-story building in New Delhi, houses all branches of the agency. It was a bright sunny September morning. Outside the main gate of the office, chaiwalas were busy selling tea and morning snacks to employees on their way into work. Business was brisk.

CBI Senior Superintendent of Police, Prithviraj Chavan, stopped at his favorite chaiwalla, Raju, and asked for his special masala tea.

"Good Morning, Sabji. Here is your special tea," wished Raju.

"Raju, kya haal hai?"

"Sabji, bas, theek thak, chirped back Raju excitedly. Today is the big cricket match." Everyone was talking about the One Day International cricket series between India and South Africa.

Yes, I know, Prithviraj said, his thoughts elsewhere. He knew today was not going to be a routine day at the office.

Prithviraj Chavan hailed from a rich industrial family in Dehradun, the capital of