The Brave Pedestrian

Chapter IX: Namita’s Revenge Namita knew she was prostitute now. Worse, she knew she was a puppet in the Sub Inspector's hands. She was completely powerless, she was completely debased and she hated it. She hated Tony the pimp for his hand in it, but more than anybody else, she hated Gaitonde the policeman. This business about 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' is greatly misunderstood. One traditionally thinks of  housewives turning nasty and throwing saucepans and rolling pins. Sometimes, people think of mistresses. Rarely, if ever, does it apply to prostitutes. Also this thing about 'Behind every great man, there is a great woman'. The phrase is understood as being applicable to wives who are extremely tolerant and supportive. It's rarely about the noble and selfless deeds of a prostitute. In the case of Gaitonde, however, this second phrase was perfectly applicable. One year was too short a period for out-of-turn promotions to materialize in...

Chapter VII: FLASHBACK — How Henderson Met Namita Henderson had come into her life very recently. More precisely, he was brought into her life by Tony. Tony knew Gaitonde because the cop had nabbed him one day in the act of smooth-talking a foreign tourist, and taken him in for questioning. And because he had used third-degree methods without asking him any questions or charging him with anything specific, Tony, alias Mayank Tandel, had confessed to the murder of Deepya in Gorai village. A few discreet enquiries over with the Gorai village police  thane  had given the wily Gaitonde some very interesting information. Deepya, in his dying declaration, had said that the heavy oar had fallen on his head. Nobody had said anything about a murder, and so the police had put it down in their files as an accidental death. That night, Deepya was cremated beside Mayank's father, and his wife had wailed with her arms thrown around Mayank's mother. If anybody knew the truth, they w...

Chapter V: A Sunday with the Mathurs The Worli address on the calling card was well-known, and the taxidriver drove right through the wide gates, only slowing slightly as he drove past the security cabin with his white teeshirt-and-bermudas clad passenger. Normally, a new visitor would have been asked to disembark and enter his name in a register, but Henderson was clearly special. Henderson climbed out and stooped to pay the cabbie, who wondered how the  gora  managed to fit all of his large-boned, fleshy frame into the cramped backseat. Then he strode into the spacious building, and waited for the lift. “15th floor”, he told the liftman, favouring him with a little smile. He was met at the door by a short servant with shorts and knobby knees. “Yes?” he asked blankly. “Mr Ajay Mathur please”, replied Henderson. “This way please”, said the servant, turning, and leading him to a grand little anteroom with a coffee table laden with an eclectic mix of Booker Prize winn...