Where is Roohi?
We are a team called the Spellbinders. We are collaborating and writing a story for the Blogadda challenge “Game of Blogs”. The team is diverse, and we are having fun interacting with each other creatively. To know about us, join us here
The team members are Farida Rizwan, Sunita Rajwade, Bhavya, Ankita Singhal, Bushra M, Ryan Fernandes, Kunal Borah, Ankit Mahato, Deepa and me (Ritu Lalit)
The story up until now :
Chapter 1 Room No.4
Chapter 2 Table No 4
Chapter 3 If Looks Could Kill
Chapter 4 The Flower That Never Bloomed
Chapter 5 The Elephant Parade
Chapter 6 Chance Encounters and Changed Plans
Chapter 7 Relationships
Chapter 8 When Dreams Came True
Chapter 9 The Runaway Brat
Where is Roohi?
Shekhar sat up and looked around with bleary eyes. His head throbbed. No, his jaw hurt, there was a dull ache at the back of his eyes. He reached out for the place that hurt, the side of his jaw and his hand came away bloody. He tried to focus. What happened? Why was he not in bed? And why was he injured?
Wait a minute, all of his body hurt. His senses slowly came back to him and now he realized the place stank. Something was dead. A stray dog? He saw that his slippers were off his feet, and looked around for them. The place was dimly lit by the pale sunlight that filtered through the broken skylight of what seemed like a warehouse. He could hear the sound of tide, they were near the ocean. Then every sane thought vanished as he saw that he was sitting in a pool of blood which came from a small figure in a frilly dress. “Roohi!” He screamed. He stood up and slipped in the blood falling face forward on the child. She was cold. He howled and tried to stand up again. “No! Roohi,” he wailed crawling back and coming against a wall. He stood up, petrified and soiled his pants. The stench made him sick. He ran out of the warehouse, unmindful of the fact that he had lost one slipper. Her eyes looked at him accusingly, his daughter, his Roohi. He had never loved her when she was alive, never kissed her. He closed his eyes to avoid those opal blue eyes, expressive, wary that followed him as he put distance between him and the body. His little child …
“Are you okay man?” a man’s voice disturbed him.
Shekhar looked around; he was sitting on a beach. The man, dressed in shorts and a vest looked concerned.
The question was so amusing, he began to laugh, a high maniacal laugh that ended in a sob. “Very fine, man. I just killed my daughter,” he said.
The man backed off. Shekhar began rolling himself in the sand, trying to rid himself of the stink. “Very fine,” he said, laughing louder. He did not notice the crowd that gathered or the men dressed in khaki who roughly grabbed him, cuffed him and pushed him into a jeep. “I killed my daughter,” he said calmly. “Now tell her eyes they’re dead, they should not bother me anymore.”
***
SP Altaf Malik, a slim bespectacled man with salt and pepper hair sat in the Circuit House studying the photos and newspaper reports. The reports were scanty and the photos gruesome. His pleasant face and non threatening demeanor was misleading, something criminals cooling their heels in various jails all around the country would vouch for. He took a sip of his coffee and scowled, “Nafisa you forgot the sugar,” he said. It was just the thing his wife did to tease him when he was too involved in solving a case.
Oh damn! He wasn’t at home, in Nausar. He was in Mumbai, at the behest of the DGP, his boss to investigate the murder. He had agreed, thinking it was an open and shut case. A mad man had confessed to murdering his own daughter. But here was the catch. The dead child was not the mad man’s daughter, the DNA reports had come in. Moreover, the child had struggled; her nails had bits of skin, hair stuck in them. The man had no marks on his body, the initial medical reports said. The reports of the residue stuck in the nails were awaited.
The same morning, the son of the media baron Darius Daruwala was found wandering near the beach. He said he had been robbed in the night. He had scratches on his body. He denied involvement in the murder, said the scratches were made by a lady he had slept with. He refused to name the lady. The DGP wanted Malik to pin the murder on the mad man. Who cares? He had said with a wink.
I do, damn it. I don’t like people killing girls of my daughter’s age, Malik thought.
He hated rich men, especially rich men’s sons. They thought they owned the law!
Malik had the air of dogged determination, the kind that actually enjoyed going up against opposition. He recalled the short meeting he had with the missing girl’s mother. She cared too.
He looked sadly at the empty cup of coffee, he had drunk it without the sugar. Sighing, he rang up his home. His son Adil picked up the phone. “Yes Abbu?”
“Son, tell Ammi that I won’t be back for another week. This case will take time.”
“You tell her. I won’t,” said his son firmly.
“But son, she must be watching her soap. I don’t want to disturb her,” Malik said.
“Coward,” his son whispered and added, “No,” in a louder voice and slammed the phone down.
Even the boldest of police men are as meek as sheep while facing their wives.
His driver knocked, “Sahib you called?”
“Are you married?” Malik asked. The driver shook his head.
“Good, then you have only one boss, me. The most I can do is sack you. When you have a wife, she can do worse. Let’s go and talk to the security guard of the missing girl’s building. He was the last person to see her.”
Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com. #CelebrateBlogging with us.
