OMNIBUS: EPISODE 1-3
None who knew Pallavi Deshmukh would characterise her as reckless. From the nuns at boarding school to the matrons at hostel, Pallavi had always behaved in a rational and cautious manner. Indeed, these women had depended upon her to be a moderating influence on the girls in her company. So how do I begin to explain why we find Pallavi at Sagar Lake Resort & Casino this evening throwing dice at the roulette wheel dressed as—well, it pains me to say it—a high-class escort?
Usually clad in modest sarees, Pallavi’s willowy frame was now encased in a clingy dress of a colour which might ironically be called ‘nude.’ The never-worn dress had been fished out from the suitcase she had packed over a year ago for her honeymoon. She had paired the dress with open-toe heels with red nail varnish peeking through. The same shade of red coloured her lips. Yes, Sisters, she was sending a bold message. But she had no choice. She must make a strong visual impact this evening.
Not that our Heroine could ever fail to make an impact.
Pallavi possessed the kind of beauty which would have rivalled every woman in the room had she worn a gunny sack. But this evening was not about beauty—it was about getting attention.
The effect of her dress was exactly as she had expected: She received some looks of admiration mingled with many looks of contempt. You know how some minds work: An attractive woman—alone!—in such a place as this, dressed such as she was, was no doubt conducting business. The sort of business that concludes in one of the luxury suites of the attached resort hotel.
And, of course, these narrow minds were not entirely wrong.
Pallavi was here on business. But she had no intention to see the inside of any suite however luxurious. She was here to acquire information that only Raghav Rao could provide—and she had come fully prepared to use her womanly powers to make him voluble.
At that very moment, she saw him.
He was across the room speaking to an older gentleman. Soon he moved away and then stopped to briefly chat with a couple. He was tall with a lean athletic build. No doubt he was attractive, she decided. But it was not owing to any particular feature that made him so. It was his demeanour. His deportment. He carried himself with self-knowledge and self-confidence. That is what made eyes follow him. This attention was not from women alone. Just as many men seemed eager to draw his notice.
Power attracts, as they say.
No wonder he visits his casino every night, she mused. Like a false guru, it must be such a boost to his ego to have the glitterati of Hyderabad pay darshan to him at his temple.
She scooped her chips into her clutch and left her seat to follow him. He was now walking towards a set of doors which parted as he approached and shut softly behind him.
“No! No! Ganpati Bappa, please!—don’t let him leave before I get my chance!” She prayed under her breath, moving hastily on unaccustomed high heels towards the same set of doors. Pallavi was not the first—nor would she be the last—to call for assistance upon their favourite deity in a casino but she hoped her prayer would be granted. She must speak with him. There would not be any peace in her life until she knew why Raghav Rao had her husband’s ring.
***
The two guards did not move to open the doors with the same alacrity for her as they had done for Raghav. In fact, they ignored her. And when she reached for the door handle they prevented her from entering.
“Members only, madam,” one deigned to inform her.
“I’m a special guest of Mr Rao.” The lie flowed easily from her tongue.
The guards exchanged looks.
Pallavi took advantage of their hesitation. She said, “Never mind. I’ll just call Raghav and he can speak with you.” Making a show of pulling out her phone from her clutch, she touched a random button and lifted the phone to her ear, sighing with exaggerated vexation. That did the trick. The men immediately parted the doors and ushered her in.
This exclusive members’ sanctuary was in stark contrast to the other room. That vast marble space was shimmering and ornate; this was the equivalent of a grand library composed of semi-private rooms where she sensed serious gaming was taking place. There was a palpable hush of risk and assessment in the air. It was mostly gentlemen at the tables but a few ladies were present too. None lifted their heads to notice her as she strode past. Their entire focus was on the cards they held.
Pallavi spotted Raghav seated at the bar. He was alone.
“May I join you?” she asked, approaching him.
He turned at her words.
“Endhuku?” Why?
What a kick to her confidence! Pallavi had imagined that if she dressed alluringly and spoke enticingly she would have received immediate welcome. Nothing, of course, could guarantee that he would disclose the information she sought but she had not expected this immediate antipathy.
And more to her annoyance—his left hand was tucked into the pocket of his trousers. She couldn’t see whether or not he was wearing the ring. This entire evening would be a fruitless mortifying exercise if she could not confirm whether Raghav actually possessed her husband’s ring. She had based this entire escapade on one photograph and now she began to doubt her sanity.
But not enough to walk away.
She ignored his rudeness and climbed onto the barstool. He was about to speak again—she suspected to repeat his earlier question—so she cut him off by saying in English, “I’d love a glass of champagne.”
Preparing for a chilling setdown, she was surprised when Raghav indicated to the bartender that he should serve her.
She had only had alcohol once before. It had been on the evening Mandhar had proposed to her. At her affirmative reply he had produced a bottle of champagne to celebrate. It had once been a sweet memory but no longer so. Yet it seemed fitting to her that this was the appropriate drink to enjoy on this occasion. After all, this evening was all about Mandhar.
“Are you a guest of one of our members?” Raghav asked. She noticed his Hindi was stilted. As though he spoke it rarely.
But as her Telugu was worse than his Hindi, she replied in Hindi. “No. I was simply curious what happened behind these grand doors.”
He looked at her. His dark brows drawing together in anger. “The guards ought to have stopped you.”
“Oh, they did. But I told them I was your guest.” She added a girlish giggle to convey that this was all just a whim on her part and he mustn’t be angry with the guards—nor with her.
“You know who I am?”
At this she gave a genuine laugh.“You are well aware that all of Hyderabad knows who you are, Mr Rao.”
“Only Hyderabad?” he asked rhetorically.
There. That was it. That was what men and women were fascinated by: Raghav Rao’s utter lack of humility.
The bartender brought the champagne and glasses. Raghav waved him off. He uncorked the bottle himself and poured a glass for her.
That is when she saw that he was wearing the ring.
The ring he had been wearing in the photograph which had first brought her attention to Raghav Rao. The ring which had been in the small box of items given to her after her parents’ death. The ring she had guarded all those intervening years until placing it on Mandhar’s finger at their engagement. The ring—the very ring!—Mandhar had been wearing when he left the house on their wedding night a year ago—never to return.
Raghav was speaking but she was lost in her own sad reflections. The sight of the ring had evoked memories of Mandhar. Their speedy courtship. Their speedier wedding. Then the memories drew dark. His sudden disappearance—and then that most grievious shock of all—the discovery of his actions that ended every regard she had ever held for him.
“Oy, madam!” he snapped his fingers in front of her nose jolting her out of her bittersweet reverie. “Ardhamaindi?” he asked.
“Sorry?”
He returned to Hindi. “I said—You’ll have this one drink and return to the main hall. You can’t be here unless you’re a member or accompanied by a member.”
“Why? What harm am I doing?” she asked as she took her first tentative sip.
Aah! The champagne was delicious. Better than she remembered. She felt the floral bubbles slide down her throat and pool into a rosy glow in her stomach. It was then that she realized she had not eaten anything all day. Besides the hasty cup of tea downed this morning, she had been too anxious about the evening ahead to eat.
Krishna, her assistant at the shop—and her reluctant conspirator in this adventure—had begged her to eat before leaving her house this evening but Pallavi wouldn’t take a bite. Perhaps she ought to leave the glass. She was not accustomed to alcohol and this was not the time to lose her wits.
Despite that—Pallavi took another long sip. It was so tasty.
He did not touch the champagne. He appeared to be drinking scotch. He drained his glass and poured himself another from the decanter at his side. The ring glittered with his movements as though singing for her attention.
He said, “Members pay a great deal of money for the privilege of privacy. They don’t appreciate voyeurs.”
“Believe me, Mr Rao—I understand about men and their desire for privacy,” she said. She had tried to make her tone playful and light but it was difficult to speak these words without thinking of Mandhar and all his secrets.
Raghav's eyes swept her form. “Then you should understand better than most that barging into rooms uninvited is not good for business. Not mine. Nor yours.” There was no judgement in his tone nor anything vulgar in his appraisal. It was simply a statement acknowledging that he knew what she was. Or rather—what she wanted him to believe she was.
Again, he tossed back his drink and refilled his glass.
She wondered if he always drank this much. Perhaps if she waited to interrogate him after he had a few more drinks she might learn more from him. But—could she risk it? She suspected Raghav Rao was not in the habit of making empty threats. He had granted her one drink. It was best to not delay or she may be escorted out of the room without having gained any information on the ring.
Indicating his hand, Pallavi said, “that’s a distinctive ring.”
He looked at the ring but said nothing.
She tried again. “One doesn’t see a blue diamond that often.”
Immediately she had his full attention. He turned in his seat to face her and asked, “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” Pallavi repeated. Oh! How could she have been so foolish as to not give herself an alias?
“Your name?” he demanded.
“My name? Er . . . my name is P—Pari.”
He tilted his head and said, “No it isn’t.”
“Mr Rao, women in my line of work never reveal our real name,” she said, rather impressed with her ability to improvise.
His lips curled in amusement. “But I am not a client so there is no harm in sharing your real name.” He turned to refill his glass and added, “I’d rather be your employer than your client.”
“Sorry?”
“Anyone who can distinguish between a blue diamond and a sapphire in this poor light is someone I want working for me at Jayati Jewellers.”
EPISODE 2
In the tumultuous months to follow, Pallavi would reflect and identify that this is where her plan—which had always been reckless—became truly dangerous. It was in this moment Pallavi decided that she would not leave Sagar Lake Resort & Casino without the ring in her possession.
Let me be clear, Sisters, to steal the ring had never been her plan.
Never had she looked upon this evening as anything other than a fact-finding mission. But the longer she sat next to this man and saw the jewel gleam on his finger, the more determined she grew that she would have her property back.
When Pallavi had confided in Krishna that she intended to dress in a provocative manner to gain Raghav Rao’s attention and inveigle from him everything he knew about the ring, Krishna had asked a perfectly reasonable question: “Why not simply call him and ask him directly, Didi? Why must you try to entice him into thinking that you are—you-know—?”
Pallavi had smiled at the girl’s modesty, and explained. “I don’t want to alarm him. Everyone knows that Raghav Rao’s legitimate businesses are merely a cover for his nefarious underworld activities. Why would such a man have Mandhar’s ring? I’m certain there is some connection between Mandhar’s disappearance and Mr Rao. If I call him up and ask about the ring, I’ll put him on the defensive and learn nothing. I must put him at ease. I can do so by appearing as though he and I both operate beneath the law.”
Krishna had continued to repeat her concerns throughout the day—but nevertheless, the dear girl had supported her as she always did. In fact, it had been Krishna’s own suggestion that Pallavi tell the family she had been invited to spend the night at Krishna’s. There was a good excuse to give. Aunty was on an overnight pilgrimage and Krishna didn’t like being alone. This way Pallavi could dress and leave for Sagar Lake directly from Krishna’s home. And nobody but Krishna would know where she was going and how late she may be in returning.
These thoughts reminded Pallavi she had promised to text Krishna intermittently. She quickly sent her a thumbs-up emoji.
“Here,” Raghav said, handing her a card. “This is my direct line. If you are interested in a job at Jayati Jewellers contact me.”
Pallavi took the card. It contained his name and a phone number—no address, no email, no titles.
“Thank you, Mr Rao, but I know nothing about gemstones,” she said. “I simply made a lucky guess. I know that blue diamonds are exceedingly rare. And I assumed a man such as yourself would be more likely to design a ring with a precious diamond than a common sapphire.” She bit her lip hoping-praying this sentence would generate more information about the ring.
Of course it worked.
If you want a man to speak, Sisters, ask him about his work.
He slipped the ring off his finger and leaning towards her he showed her the architecture on the underside. “I didn’t design this ring. This kind of trellis was common a century or more ago. And this stamp indicates it is an ancestral piece. Probably made for a nobleman by his court jeweller.”
She pressed, “And how came you by it?”
He met her eyes. “You seem unusually interested in this ring.”
Pallavi replied, saucily, “The longer we discuss this ring, the longer I may stay and the more champagne I can drink.”
He allowed a small smile and refilled her glass. He is even more handsome when he smiles, she thought.
But instead of placing the ring back on his finger, he placed it on the bar. Right there. Within her reach. Should she pick it up and pretend to examine it? Or more audaciously—should she try it on her finger?
With champagne-fuelled courage, she did. She tried the ring on her thumb where it fit snugly as she knew it would. She asked, “So you purchased it at a jewellery auction?”
“No. From a couple who came to the shop to have it appraised—”
“—A couple?!” she blurted out. And then immediately tried to cover up her exclamation by saying, “I mean—were they people of noble lineage?”
Fortunately Raghav ignored her ridiculous outburst and continued, “It’s a rare specimen so the appraiser brought it to my attention. I wanted it. So I made them an offer.”
Pallavi’s heart was hammering with anger. Mandhar had been with a woman! He had gone to a jeweller—with a woman!—to have the ring—her family’s ring!—appraised! How could he? He knew how much the ring meant to her. She had so few memories of her family—and even less in terms of material connections.
“He agreed? So easily?”
There must have been something in her voice which caught his attention. He turned to her and said, “The price I offered could not easily be turned down.”
She asked, “Why? Did he appear desperate for money? Was he barefoot, starving and dressed in rags?”
He threw her a bemused look and began, “Of course not—”
She didn’t allow him to finish. “Then—how could he accept it? The ring was made with such care and preserved—as you said—for well over a century. How could he be so foolish to exchange ancestral history for some quick cash?”
Pallavi knew she was losing a grip on her emotions. To Raghav—who knew nothing of the matter—her reaction must seem overblown. She was not only thinking of how Mandhar had capitalised on her legacy but how he had also put at risk the legacy of his own family.
Raghav was looking at her with such curiosity now. She knew she had better stop speaking. She must not say another word. Because if she continued railing she would inevitably say more than she should. And tears would then flow. She held her tongue and reached for the champagne, draining the glass without tasting any of its deliciousness.
Raghav refilled her glass as he said, “For a whore, you speak very sentimentally.”
His words were spoken so casually—without bile—that it took a moment for Pallavi to absorb its insult. When she did, she almost started out of her seat.
“How dare you call me that?!” she exclaimed.
And in that moment multiple things happened.
With the force of her passion, her barstool wobbled. She grasped the bar to prevent herself from falling but instead her arms brushed against the ice bucket which held the champagne. It toppled and she caught the full contents all over herself. Her hair, her face, her entire bosom was drenched by watery ice.
The bucket clanged loudly to the floor. The champagne bottle followed—not breaking but rolling awkwardly until it was stopped by the wall.
But clearly the gods had decided that her mortification was not yet complete—because her barstool lost balance and she was unceremoniously deposited on the floor.
There was a split-second of complete stillness—and then Raghav acted.
He pulled her to her feet. Faces emerged from the private gaming rooms. Raghav assured them that all was fine and they should return to their former activity. Some did but some found the scene too interesting and remained. Now they were the voyeurs.
The bartender came rushing with bar towels. Pallavi mopped at her face but it was ineffectual. Her hair was so thoroughly soaked it continued to drip relentlessly across her face.
Raghav pulled off his jacket, extended it to her, and said gruffly, “Take this.”
Her resentment at his earlier words coupled by her acute embarrassment made her refuse the article. “I’m f—fi—fine,” she shivered.
“You’re anything but,” he stated, and moved behind her to force her arms into the jacket sleeves.
It was then she realized how completely compromised she was. The combined effect of the icy onslaught and the nature of her flimsy dress left every aspect of her breasts outlined. In an otherwise frozen face, her cheeks burned at the knowledge of what he must have seen. She drew the jacket close over her chest.
He tucked her clutch under her arm, gripped her wrist and led her away from the crowd.
EPISODE 3
The indignity of her sodden state and the discovery of Mandhar’s perfidy combined in Pallavi to make her irate and distrustful. Particularly when she realized Raghav was leading her out of the casino complex towards the resort hotel.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Somewhere you can clean up,” he replied.
She stopped in her tracks, threw off the hand gripping her wrist, and said, “I’m not going to the hotel.”
He turned to look at her. “I’m not taking you to the hotel,” he clarified. “I have a villa on the lakefront. You can clean up there. It’s just down this lane.”
Clearly he believed this arrangement would suit her—but to her it was more horrifying than the hotel option.
“No,” she stated, her arms wrapped around her waist. “I want to go home.”
He shrugged. “As you wish.” He spoke into his phone, “Send a car to the East Entrance—”
Pallavi interrupted him. “—I don’t need your car. I’ll order a taxi.”
He ignored her and continued speaking on the phone. “At once, Farhad!”
Ending the call he addressed her as though she was a difficult child. “You’re not climbing into a public taxi at this hour. In this state.” To punctuate his message, his eyes made a scathing survey of her from head to toe.
Resenting his autocratic behaviour, Pallavi said, “Don’t worry about me, Mr Rao. I can handle myself.”
And then in an act of dismissal, she swung away from him, pulling out her phone to order the taxi. Raghav was near enough that the long wet ropes of her hair whipped his face. He turned his face aside and with the back of his hand wiped it.
“Sorry!” she said, making an automatic—and perhaps less than sincere apology.
His jaw tightened as he leaned over her, glaring into her eyes. “Listen, Miss Calamity. I don’t give a f**k about you. Because of the scene you just created in there,” his finger pointed towards the casino, “two dozen witnesses saw me leave with you in a dress that leaves no room for imagination. Should you be raped and killed and left in a ditch by the roadside, which door do you think the police will first knock upon tomorrow morning?”
All this—except the expletive—was spoken in Telugu—but she understood him perfectly. And though she resented his autocratic manner, she was not so foolhardy to deny he had a point. The hour was late—and times were such that no woman should presume safety.
She agreed silently and turned away from him. This time with more care so as to not douse his face. His fury was palpable. She trembled under his jacket.
Fortunately, a black sedan soon approached. She knew it belonged to him because of the RR emblem on the bonnet. A young man jumped out from the passenger side. Pallavi presumed this was Farhad. He took in Pallavi’s state and then exchanged looks with Raghav, as though to ask—‘what the hell?’
Raghav gave a humourless laugh and said by way of explanation, “Madam went for a swim in the lake and now wishes to go home.”
Farhad opened the door to the back seat and enquired politely, “Your destination?”
Pallavi began to give the address for home—but then corrected herself recollecting she was to spend the night at Krishna’s. So instead she provided him with the name of the temple near Krishna’s home. Farhad left her side and went to inform the driver.
Though not inclined to speak another word to Raghav, Pallavi was not ill-mannered—and she knew she owed him an apology. Perhaps several apologies. She stepped towards him and said, “I’m sorry for all that chaos inside. And thank you for arranging for the car.”
He made no reply.
She was climbing into the car seat when she realized—his jacket!
“Oh!” she exclaimed, stepped out again and began to remove it rather reluctantly. Truth be told, she didn’t want to be without it—shivering in the back of the vehicle in a dress that leaves no room for imagination.
“Keep it,” he said.
She gave a nod promising, “I’ll make arrangements to have it returned to you.”
He shut the car door once she was back in, then leaned down and said through the open window, “Don’t let me see you at Sagar Lake again. There are plenty of other casinos in the city where you can conduct your business.”
With this harsh dismissal, he straightened, rapped the roof of the car to signal the driver to push off.
In writing this tale, Sisters, I’ve committed to keep nothing from you. You will hear it all—the delight, the despair, the divine, and the diabolical. Therefore, I will not attempt to hide from you that all the way from Sagar Lake to Krishna’s home, our Heroine wept silently.
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