Because, Love...: Twisted Doubles Part II

By Joanie Pariera

"Because, Love..." is Book Two of "Twisted Doubles" now a series. 

Without giving too much away, Book One begins with the female protagonist trapped in a shanty town somewhere in a Mumbai Chawl. She wakes up to discover that sh

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joanie Pariera
• Release date: Dec 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781792383793

Joanie Pariera

This is Joanie Pariera’s first book. She studied comedy writing at NYU and she lives in New York with her family.

Book preview

Chapter 1

For most of my high school days, I had a stalker. His name was Nikolai, ASI Nikolai, now deceased. He was attached to the Maharashtra state’s Criminal Investigation Department for over twenty years. He wasn’t always an assistant sub inspector. When they found him, he was in a ditch, covered in ticks and road tar, incoherent and mumbling something about KGB. Since there were no other Russians around, they assumed he was KGB and that he had come here tailing an Indian thug. They put him in the five-star section of the government hospital, you know the ward with the air conditioning. When he came to, he announced that he had amnesia and that he couldn’t even recall his name. They gave him his wallet with his photo I.D. It said Tamunik Nikolai, and other stuff in Russian. An Indian doctor who’d graduated out of a medical school in Moscow translated. You were a security person, guarding the Kremlin?" he asked. Nikolai laughed like a maniac, before he tried to kill himself by emptying the contents of a tiny pouch into his mouth, some powdery white substance he pulled out of his head like magic. They saved him. After his quick recovery they judged his skills. They deemed him fit to serve as a police person. Since he had no credentials they could verify, he was stuck as a low-level inspector. He also changed his name, became Jason Blue. It helped him keep in touch with his background he said. I never called him Inspector Blue. He was always ASI Nikolai. In my head, and whenever I addressed him in person as he followed me around.

I distinctly remember the first encounter. I had been funding my activities through a little business operation I was engaged in with my friends Hattie and Puran. Hattie was a girlfriend who later ran off to Spain to engage more thoroughly in her passion – dancing. Puran was never as lucky as I was. He endured several stints in jail before just dying. At the time, the three of us sold churan a cocktail of tobacco and other narcotics that no one under eighteen was even supposed to know about. Our clientele – the rest of our schoolmates. Our revenue – well over ten thousand rupees per month. The amount was split between the three of us quite evenly after we’d paid the one thousand rupees due to a certain colleague of Inspector Nikolai’s. That first time, I was standing on top of the bridge, my usual haunt. It was late evening, and the sun was just sinking into the Arabian sea.

‘Drug peddlers shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy such a view," he said, coming up to me from behind.

I knew his voice well. Well, not his exactly but the voice of law enforcement in general. Get lost, I said just as he cuffed me, choked me with a stronghold around my neck, and manhandled me into a waiting jeep. Two hours later, I was back on that bridge, and you know why. By the end of the day, I knew everything there was to know about that man. I found Hattie latter, badly beaten up, grinning like she’d won the lottery. They let me go when they found out I was only seventeen. They are after you though Michael. You and Puran. They think you are the bad guys manipulating poor old helpless me. Puran went underground immediately. He remained out of sight even after we’d graduated a year later - Hattie with honors, while I was barely given the nod. We took turns meeting him at his various hideouts. When he got caught, he said it wasn’t our fault, the poor guy. He went in for five years, while the two of us were subjects of a newspaper article titled ‘kids reformed by the local charity’. The Jhunjhunwalla Center for Adolescent Rehabilitation never guessed that we carried on behind their backs. All they looked at was the grades. That was their bottom line. When mine improved, and dramatically, they never questioned how. They just took credit for it.

I felt so alone after senior secondary. Puran was in jail, and Hattie just vanished right after she’d shred her ‘High honors’ report card to pieces, spat on it, and stomped on it. She was only angry when it came to anything forced down by the establishment. The note she had left me was seen just by one person – my uncle who’d adopted me after I’d been orphaned when only sixteen. My uncle was an alcoholic and he beat me regularly, at least once a day. I soon learned that whiskey was the only thing that would keep him at bay. I worked hard to keep him at bay. But that day, when he taunted me about Hattie’s note, I got mad. I destroyed his entire supply. He beat me for a day and a half. Inspector Nikolai was back, and this time he came for my uncle. As he hauled my uncle away, I knew for the first time what it meant to be pitied. The ASI had pity for me in his eyes, just a hint of it. He did stop the stalking. I never saw him again.

With my uncle out of the way, life got better. Immensely better. Since I’d just turned eighteen, I was now my own man. I celebrated both milestones by taking up with my uncle’s old girlfriend. She just hung around after he left, and one day she came into my room, and seduced me with just a look. Looking back later, I realized that was rape. I think she’s dead now too, as dead as my uncle. She was ancient then already. My uncle was fifty. She used to call him a kid. After a year of what I then assumed was great sex, I got bored and left. The world outside beckoned. I found work as a waiter in a restaurant. That is when I learnt about Umang Karla.

Umang Karla. He was being introduced to the social circles in Bombay after he’d returned from London, having graduated with honors from some super cool school there. Umang Karla. I knew him because I’d met him. I knew him because now, somehow, he had my face when before he’d been this odd looking poor little rich boy with a nasty gash on his upper lip.

It’s called ‘cleft lip’، the older Mr. Karla explained to me when he caught me staring. We were traveling together on a train, co-passengers on the journey that began in Hyderabad and ended in Coimbatore. At the time, my uncle was a janitor at a hospital in Coimbatore. I had never been on a train before and here I was, sixteen and alone, orphaned after my parents had died in an accident. I had no one else in the world other than my dad’s younger brother. My father, ironically, had been a railway guard in Hyderabad until his dying day.

You look miserable, Mr. Karla, the dad, said to me.

You look familiar, I said, and registered his surprise.

Who do you think I am?

I didn’t need to think too hard, even in my dazed state. Mr. Karla, the industrialist from Hyderabad?

Sshhh, he went, looking all around. No one seemed to care. No one else had placed him. This was, after all, a second-class compartment.

Is that your son? I asked, unbelieving, even though the resemblance was remarkable. That put him on the defensive. He was embarrassed, I realized, and that made me feel better about myself. Imagine having all that money and feeling embarrassed about some aspect of your life, so much so that you feel the need to hide it in ridiculous ways?

You have a nice face. You should thank the makers every day, he said.

My makers are dead, I said, being dense.

Oh. Mr. Karla didn’t say much after that. He kept staring at me though, and I took it in the right spirit. He was teaching me a lesson for being obnoxious, for staring at a deformity.

He looks a bit like me, I said a while later, trying to make him feel better. It felt eerie when he replied, not moving a single muscle on his face, I noticed.

It was two years later when the unveiling happened. Somewhere between Coimbatore and back to his cushy life in Hyderabad or London, Mr. Karla had stolen my face for his deformed son. I was only just finding out. Mr. Chandalal, the author of the letter you are asking about, the owner of the restaurant and my first boss employer, also made the connection. He said this was my opportunity. He wrote that letter to Mr. Karla demanding an audience and an explanation. When Mr. Chandalal died mysteriously just two weeks later, my life’s path was set. There was only one thing I could focus on, do. You understand, don’t you?"

Is that when you travelled to Hyderabad?

I met Mr. Karla right after. He was in his study in his home in Hyderabad. I had scaled the walls around his palatial bungalow after drugging his only security guard. I was waiting for him in his bedroom. When he didn’t show up even past midnight, I walked into his study and found him there. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. That day came as another eye-opener. First, he insisted he had nothing to do with Mr. Chandalal’s death. He showed me a copy of the letter he’d mailed which was yet to make its way to Bombay. In it he had replied, explaining that a large sum of money had been given to my uncle who had already made the discovery just six months back. I was, no doubt, shocked. I called him a liar, and took off, but not before threatening him with all kinds of stuff. This was about me. How dare you make deals with an alcoholic?"

He had nothing to say to that, but he didn’t react in any adverse way either, making it very hard for me to continue being nasty. I felt wronged, but I couldn’t stay angry. That happened later. The anger came back when the taunting began. Even when I confronted my uncle in jail and got the whole story about some doctor in Coimbatore who’d done the deed, altering Umang’s face working off a photograph of mine which I barely remember posing for as we all got off the train, I only felt numb. No anger. If he took the money, he took the money. What could I do? But then my colleagues at the restaurant started reacting to Mr. Chandalal’s passing in a strange way. Scared out of their wits they began labeling me ‘the imposter’. Until then I had only been called ‘handsome’, sometimes ‘sexy’, sometimes a ‘hero’. Hattie used to say I should become an actor. Puran would often tease me. He was sure that if we ever fought it would be because his girlfriend had ‘of course’ fallen for me. And now, I was an imposter. I was never vain, but I did feel like the whole thing was unfair. I began writing to Mr. Karla myself when it got unbearable. I told my colleagues I’d written to him. I told them after two weeks, See I am still alive. I did believe Mr. Karla. I don’t think he killed Mr. Chandalal. Mr. Chandalal was probably poisoned by his younger brother, who got the restaurant and kicked his widow out onto the street. But the taunts only grew.

And Mr. Karla finally responded. A bigger squad showed up. Not the police. Some men in suits. They took me to this bar. I don’t want to talk about what happened there, what they did to me. I will just say this - they made my uncle seem like Santa Claus.

I know what Mr. Karla is saying about this now. He cannot remember. What do you want me to do? I remember. I can tell you what each person in that bar looked like. Get your sketch artists or whatever. They’ll be working for a month."

The man stopped reading, setting his computer to idle. The special officer from CBI, India’s premier law enforcement agency, had a thousand pages of testimony to go through and very little time to do it in. The Andhra Pradesh state’s crime branch had done their job, but the Central Bureau of Investigation had jurisdiction now.

He’d strained his back, crouching over the monitor for hours. He rose and stretched his legs; his hamstrings felt pinched, taut. The floor he was sitting on, currently empty, was somewhere in a building in Hyderabad. For the next few weeks, he and his colleagues were guests of the state police. The peon had locked up and left promptly at five. It was past eight now. From his cubicle, he had a view of the sea of desks, and yet he did not see her coming.

She approached through a passage that separated the desks from the cubicles. She was in a sari now, her work-clothes gone; she’d gone home and returned with –

A drink. Refreshments. Because I care, she thumped down a can of juice on his desk. How’s that roach kingdom you’ve been allocated? Hotel Marvelous, three star and counting?

I was just leaving.

She verified that claim, peeking at the monitor. ‘Still on. You were just taking a break."

He eyed her offering. What is that thing? I have never heard of this brand. Have you heard of Frooti, Maaza, Fanta…

This is more than one fruit in the same can. NOVEL! She sounded so patronizing. He was too beat to care.

He picked up the can. It was something. But then he read the label. Coconut Water and Mango… he felt his bile rise. Coconut AND mango? Whoever came up with this idea? That’s two, hundred-percent fruits, fighting for the same space inside a tiny can. EXPLOSION!

She laughed her throaty laugh. He picked up the mouse and hit the play button. She took the cue and left. He watched her as she swayed out of sight. Someday…

Someday Special Officer Gabbar Singh… Someday…

His name was not Gabbar Singh, she just called him that. Gabbar Singh was a great meme following a villain in a movie. He picked his own for Tara. Get lost Basanti… he said, then regretted it immediately. He got roped into her games again, just like that!

She was back again. He sighed. Gabbar Singh. You know I hate that!

Gopinath is such a boring name.

CBI Sub-Inspector Gopinath Chowdhry. CBI Sub-Inspector Tara Singh. Now elevated to ‘Special Officers’ heading a committee overseeing an inquiry. He liked that they were on this mission together. He wanted to tell her Tara was a lovely name, but the words always stuck in his throat.

Chapter 2

The gates of hell opened wide, creaking, and Mehul just stared, frozen in her spot, her files like magnets stuck to her huge belly, hard as steel. Her hands had gone stiff, her heart beat like a someone heavier than her was jumping on it like it was a trampoline. She stood there and the man in the uniform just watched. He waited, holding onto the gate, his arm running through the gap in the iron grille, as he picked his pocket with his other hand and pinched out a bit of tobacco placing it carefully on his tongue. He watched casually as he chewed, his leisurely activity finding the perfect in at the start of what had to be a very busy workday. Around her, people were rushing through, on their feet, in vehicles. Someone pushed her.

Hey, lady? Do you mind?

Wh…ere… is … the… the… meeting room? Too soft. No one could hear her. The security guard came to her aid. Madam just go straight. Follow these people. They are all going to meet their clients.

Mehul Goonta charged ahead, spurred by the postmortem of her own fear. She chanted Vahe Guru, under her breath, as she panted her way uphill. This was her first day and she was here to meet a dangerous murderer.

It was all her fault. She had done her work too well. If she had kept her mouth shut, her boss would not have picked her to do the introductions. They did this on purpose didn’t they? They sent in a rookie when they knew the case was a dead end. She kept chanting as she walked. Beads of perspiration ran down her face and back.

Mehul had pleaded with them, Let me talk to the girl. Let me talk to Kanika. But no, they wouldn’t listen. She was perfect for the job they reasoned. He was a murderer with principles. He would behave himself. She wasn’t so sure. But then again, from the back of her mind, came this other thought – of course they were right. He would behave. She had been the one who’d found the proof of that. And now she was here.

When she got to the second gate, she was breathless, and when she got to the third, she was so thoroughly drenched in sweat she felt filthy. Thankfully, the fan was on at full speed beyond the first enclosure. She went into the room that had just one desk and exactly two chairs. Mehul plopped down, weary and disheartened. What happened to you after you lost your first case? Normally, whenever she felt low, she would look out the window at a tree and talk to the birds in her quiet voice. This room had no windows.

They brought him out in chains. Mehul’s first thought was Oh my God! she wanted to run. Then he smiled. Hello? My lawyer?

She felt like she should courtesy. He sounded so royal, and so polite. Not at all scary. Yes... Oh, that came out right! I’m Mehul Goonta. I am just the legal aid. The lawyer, Mrs. Gargi, is very busy today. We are still going over your case. I am just here to bring you up to speed. She wiped the sweat off her brow and felt pleased. She had had no problems, no hitches she had to stumble over. Great!

Amana… yes. He looked at her, assessing her now. Did he seem disappointed? He sat down. How fresh are you? he asked, right off the bat.

I don’t know… I graduate at the end of the month.

Good. Let us get on with it. The chains clanked all around him and it was obvious he was still getting used to them.

First let me tell you that Mrs. Gargi, Amana, has filed a motion to disqualify your confession. It was obtained under duress without a lawyer present…

No. Next?

Excuse me, did you say no?

No one can put me under any kind of pressure. She knows that. I confessed willingly. I don’t want that taken back.

Mr. Sinha…

He chuckled at that. Just call me Michael. Forget my legal name.

She nodded, relieved to have that out of the way. Michael, if I may, I have gone through your confession in detail, and it is full of lies. Any lawyer can pick them out. If you want the world to know how evil the Karlas are you must tell the truth. Where did she get the guts?!

He stared at her, hard. Lies? Restrained. As though no degree of anger was apt for this moment.

And omissions.

Omissions in their favor. They aren’t going to bother with that. Next?

So you agree that you mislead them? Made it seem as though you are more evil than you really are?

He breathed slowly, exhaling. Mehul was familiar with this expression. She had seen it in people who often felt forced into being patient. Especially with her, around her.

Let me give you an example, she intervened for his benefit. He sank back in his chair, folded his arms on his lap and waited.

You say here, and I quote – Mehul scanned her notes and decided to go down the list chronologically. The first item was… she looked up at Michael coloring up a bit. er… she began, then charged ahead, and one day she came into my room, and seduced me with just a look. Looking back later, I realized that was rape Mehul put her file down. We spoke to Fanny. She says she tied you up and forced herself on you.

Michael reacted strongly. He rose and beat his chains around him, swinging his arms wildly. Damn it, woman!

Mehul shrank back, grabbing her files. Her belly wobbled, and she felt close to helpless tears. Michael had receded to the far wall. Mehul stayed put, counting slowly in her head through his heavy breathing.

A while later he came back to the table, calmer, although his eyes spewed venom.

I paid you good money!! Just do as I say and leave all that nonsense where it belongs. In the trash. The woman is dying anyway, isn’t she?

Ye… yes. Mehul gripped the edges of the table and tried to focus on the whirring fan.

He came back closer then, and stood looming over her, trying to peek at her files.

I can call the security in anytime, you know that?

Why? Why did she confess?

I don’t know, Mehul relaxed. I think it’s because she is dying?

Did she say anything else? He sounded like a pleading child now. Mehul’s tears found her cheeks. Michael just stared at a wall. He hadn’t looked her in the eye since she’s mentioned Fanny.

She says to tell you she’s sorry.

He laughed then, a low rumble, a sorry hysterical crescendo that echoed loudly and brought the security guard in anyway.

Madam, are you okay? He asked, before rushing further in and securing the chains to the leg of the table. Mehul looked up at the intruder and her eyes said it all, Is that going to help at all?

Madam, the other rooms are...

Michael had his head bowed down.

That is unnecessary. In fact, unlock the chains.

I cannot do that.

Just set his legs free then

The security guard undid his latest deed, then left them alone.

I can go on. Shall we? Let’s discuss your name change… She felt so much better now, she had him!

"No! Just file the petition. I can do the whole thing again. I don’t care. I can tell them again. What you don’t get is I