Free BLOOD RED SARI by Ashok K Banker Page A

aaya. Ab bol tu phataphat. Package kahaan hai. Gudiya ki jaan pyaari hai to bataa varnaa bye-bye bol abhi.’
    She was struck dumb for a moment, then recovered. ‘Who is this? Kaun ho tum? Main abhi issi waqt police ko phone kar rahi hoon. You won’t get away with this, you bastards!’
    He sounded unimpressed by her threats.
    ‘Package! Madam, package is where? Please tell fast-fast. Time is short.’
    ‘I don’t know what package you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘But if you hurt even a hair on that girl’s head—’
    The man on the phone said something to someone else in her office.
    Then he disconnected the line.
    The Qualis in front of her moved forward. The fight appeared to have escalated because she could see heads bobbing over the tops of Qualises, people clearly fighting, even some arms rising and falling, then the distinct sound of glass breaking and something heavy striking the metal body of a car. The car behind her honked long and hard for her to move forward. She glanced to the right: she was boxed in on that side. But on the left, there was a gap similar to the one in front of her, caused by the driver being distracted by the fight and forgetting to move forward in the queue. Horns were blaring everywhere now, adding to the chaos and confusion. The driver in the car beside hers had opened his door and was standing on the seat to get a better view. He was grinning and passing a running commentary to the other occupants of his car.
    Nachiketa put the paddle shift into gear and eased out of her line, cutting across the car to her left and swinging around. She cut around it and U-turned, then drove back the way she had come, earning several horn blasts as drivers reacted angrily to her lack of civic sense. But most were distracted by the fight and the confusion, and in the chaos, she was able to slip back and turn into the lane heading back towards Delhi. In another moment she was back in the flow, heading towards Delhi Gate. She thought she could be in her office in half an hour at this hour, maybe even less. Tears began spilling from her eyes as she accelerated, overtaking car after car in rapid succession. She wondered what people made of the ‘handicapped’ sign on her rear windshield when she overtook them: they probably thought it was a joke. Crippled drivers didn’t go racing on one of the world’s deadliest highways. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She had never done anything like this before and her heart was pounding.
    Then again, nobody had ever broken into her office, taken her assistant hostage and then called her to say in guttural Punjabi: ‘ Lovely girl, this one. We had a great time. Now you speak quickly. Tell us where the package is. If you want to see this girl alive again, speak fast or say your goodbyes. ’
    She made it in twenty-two minutes.

4.3
    IT WAS LATE BY the time Sheila dropped the last photocopy on the dishevelled pile beside her. Her habit of neatness made her gather up the pages and slip them back into the envelope. Then she stared at the thick envelope, stupefied. Her stomach had stopped complaining about half an hour ago though she had forced herself to stop reading and order some takeout from the Chinese restaurant around the corner. She had the tendency to get acidity if she missed a meal. That, and the fact that she had barely eaten all day, had worked out harder than usual, and she had burnt as many calories from stressing as from physical activity. But right now, food and calories were the last things on her mind. She was just too stunned by the contents of the yellow manila envelope.
    She sat back, leaning her head against the wall. It was difficult to rest her head because the inside of the wall was coated in those faux half-stones used for weatherproofing that resembled stone walls of some ancient castle or fort. This side of the building leaked during the monsoon and she had had the waterproofing done just three months ago. Now, how the