Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty

Ltd) Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Group (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England First published by Penguin Books India 2011 Copyright Ismita Tandon Dhankher 2011 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9780143414681 For sale in the Indian Subcontinent, Singapore and Malaysia only Typeset in Bembo Roman by SRYA, New Delhi Printed at Manipal Press Ltd, Manipal This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above-mentioned publisher of this book.

Prologue

The dam broke on my eleventh birthday. But even my birth was a horrid cosmic joke, coinciding with Halloween. I did not wake up with a birthday kiss and there were no birthday wishes; she had simply forgotten all about it. Nothing surprising there, but I was hurt like never before. God is kind and He must have felt some pity for a little boy named after the holy food manna, given to Moses and his followers in the desert. A miracle did take place as I entered the classroom; all the children stood up and began singing the familiar birthday song. My happiness knew no bounds at this unexpected sight. I felt important. Someone had remembered that Manna existed. I thanked everyone diffidently and took my seat. I shared my bench with Trevor Varghese, a smart boy from a well-to-do and respected family, unlike ours. The only reason we shared a bench was because we were the tallest and that decided the seating order in the class. We didnt talk much. Rather, he never initiated conversation with me and I was too wary of him to start one myself. So I was surprised when he wished me. Many, many happy returns of the day, Manna. Thank you, Trevor. What did your father give you as a birthday present? I got a new cycle and a chess set on my birthday. His words stung like poison; the whole town knew that my father had left us. Why are you in uniform? Didnt your mother buy you

any new clothes for your birthday? My cheeks burnt red, so I covered them with my hands to hide my shame. Where are the toffees? I gave chocolates on my birthday. I kept quiet, staring intently at the workbook open on my desk. I had solved the mystery behind the miracle a little too late; the class teacher knew about my birthday from her attendance register and had made all the students sing for me. It was time to feed the eager, greedy mouths waiting for me to distribute toffees. What could I do? I had nothing to give. Does your mother even know that its your birthday and that she has to buy toffees for us? You always eat the ones other children distribute. Trevor addressed the class: He has come to school without toffees. Instantly, the greedy faces turned hostile and began to chant, We want toffees, we want toffees, we want toffees! It was humiliation of the worst kind. Too proud to cry, I ran out of the class and though I was young, it made such an impact on me that the incident plagued my dreams for many years. It was a historic day for me as I learnt a very important lesson: Life has a cruel streak beneath the smiling faade and though miracles happen, more often than not, they are a prelude to Gods sinister plans for you. _ The blueprint of Gods sinister plans for my future was laid in Kahalia, a small fishermens town situated 50 miles south of Panaji, the capital of Goa.

I wasnt born a psychopath, nor did I have a penchant for killing. Like all my victims, I too was a victim of fate. I did not choose to be born to a promiscuous woman, jilted in love, disillusioned with life. She found solace in men, and as the years passed, in expensive bottles of booze. It would not be fair to say that she did not love me. As for neglecting me, yes, when she was too drunk to remember that I existed. Every mother wants the best for her child and so did she. Soon after I was conceived, she married a decent man out of sheer consideration for my future. Another mouth had to be fed, one more body to be clothed and, God willing, given a better hand than what fate had dealt her. But neither marriage nor motherhood could save her from selling her soul to explore the forbidden fruits that life offered. Goa was the hub of the sexual revolution in the seventies with its nude beaches, marijuana, white men and women clad in skimpy beachwear. They attacked the moral fabric of the very society that catered to their needs. Tourism was beginning to emerge as a big industry and even a hick town like Kahalia, where livelihoods depended on fish and feni, could certainly do with dollars and pounds. The village folk welcomed this intrusion into their culture with little reluctance and in time even began to find the foreigners lack of inhibition rather fascinating. So much so, that a few nubile locals harbouring dreams of a firang Prince Charming, ended up with a protruding belly and little else. The town elders dismissed them as stray incidents, labelling them as the

downside of development. The children born of these crosscontinental liaisons grew up flaunting their firang lineage by assuming exotic surnames left behind by the men who had sired them. The town folk continued to welcome tourists into their lives with bed-and-breakfast signs outside their homes. Kahalia also boasted of a series of waterfront hotels and resorts for the not so stingy and Sea Rock was the most exclusive of them all. This was where my mother was employed; she was smart, worked hard and rose quickly from a chambermaid to a floor supervisor. In those days, my dreary existence revolved around Papa, my world, my hero, because Mamma was never around. An ambitious woman, my mother knew success demands sacrifice and she was more than willing to sacrifice our needs to satisfy a few of her own. She kept unusually late hours which left Papa with the task of cooking our dinner, attending to my homework and arranging a neatly pressed uniform for me to wear to school the next day. Those were happy, carefree days when he would teach me to play basketball and wed go swimming before dinner. I was shy as a child, given the circumstances; I showed none of the exuberance the other children did. I was left alone, and no one was inclined to be friends with me or make fun of me, not yet anyway. Then came the day when Mamma discarded Papa like a bottle of expired marmalade; she no longer needed a man to run her house. I was ten years old when she drove away the

only man who cared for me. The man I knew to be my father left me for he was no longer sure that I was his son. A great guy, a selfless bastard who did not wish to reap the rewards of the seeds he had not sown. I begged him to stay or to take me with him. Mamma was practically a stranger to me. I was terrified of what the future held; Papa was the only security I knew and now he had walked out on me. Nothing much happened though. He moved out never to come back and Mamma said I shouldnt cry. Manna, sweetheart, dont cry. Mamma will take good care of you. I was like a puppy with a limited attention span and the promise of freshly baked cupcakes from Uncle Tonys bakery was hard to ignore. Slight changes in our routine and we were back on track. A middle-aged woman now greeted me when I returned home; a yummy snack on the kitchen counter with a tall glass of flavoured milk, new toys Mamma had arranged it all. I still didnt have any friends and Mrs Kotian didnt play with me. Just like cooking, and washing the dishes and the clothes, I was a task for her. She had no children of her own and did not wish to do more than what was necessary. As soon as the clock struck 7 p.m. I would watch her ample rear exit from the front door, all alone in the big house with the nearest neighbours at least half a mile away. It was an old house in a shambles, which looked all the more menacing in the dark; the pungent smell of seaweed clinging to the rocky beach invaded the house, monsters rose out of the shadows. I

would stay buried in my bed for as long as I could brave it and then make a dash for the makeshift bus stop, 600 yards from the house. There was always someone there waiting for a bus and thats all I needed. I would sit there quietly waiting for her bus to come and thats how she would find me each nightcurled up on the wooden bench. The ritual was always the same. She would scold me for being out there, knowing that I was scared of being alone in the house. This melancholic existence continued for a while till it became too much for me to bear. One night, I did not go to the bus stop. My mother found nothing odd about it on her return and so never bothered to check on me. I waited, my ears strained to hear some sound, imaginary or otherwise. I could not sleep for lack of love, a pair of strong arms to hug me, my mother kiss me and tell me that I was wanted. I found her sprawled on the couch in the living room, singing. Apparently she was celebrating her newfound freedom with a bottle of feni and Pink Floyd. It was too much for my young mind to take. I charged like a mad bull screaming, hurling objects at her and threw the bottle of feni on the floor with such force that it broke into a hundred sparkling pieces. Party over, the message finally got through to her and she shoved me with all her might. I fell sideways on the broken glass. Too stunned to scream, I just lay there in the liquid warmth of blood, feeling nothing. Oh, she did show some emotion then, kneeling beside me, drunk and wondering what to do.

Maybe it was the sight of my blood or my lifeless eyes that made her rush to the hospital with me bundled in her arms. Finally my prayers did come true; a strong pair of arms did hold me close that night. The doctor said holding me saved my life; little did he know that in time it would cost a few lives. It was a turning point for us. Sober, she looked pretty as she held my hand, tears shining in her eyes, and told me that the worst was over. Manna, baby, I promise Mamma will never hurt you again. Please believe me. She sobbed and I felt my cheeks wet with the tears I had not shed. I clung to her. Mamma, you promise not to leave me alone in the night? She broke the promise sooner than I expected. The doctor at the hospital not once questioned my mothers version of the storyI was home alone and up to no good when the accident occurred. Those were the good days; nurses fussing over me, Mamma sitting by my side reading stories, as she had never done before. Then came the day when she announced, Time to go home, darling, I have a surprise for you and you are going to love it. I hated him on sight. She had found me a brand new father. She no longer had to sneak out at night. He was here to stay, in my house, in her room. Looking back, I can say with conviction that fate had cheated me again of what was rightfully mine. My queen was

now cornered by a pawn. I was at an impressionable age, exposed to the realities of life. But, while other children were playing hide-and-seek, I had nowhere to hide and nothing to seek. I grew up with no real friends, not just because I was shy, but because I did not have the courage to bring my friends home to meet my mothers live-in boyfriend. He was aptly named Jumbo, a huge man with bulging muscles. He was a drummer and composed music for a five member band called Coleslaw that played exclusively at Sea Rock. There was nothing appealing about him apart from the fact that women found his nonchalance fascinating. He looked at everything dispassionately, the exception being his drums and, occasionally, my mother. Maybe that is what drew my mother to him. All her life men had chased her and this was the first time that she had had to do the chasing. In no time he was settled in our house and had set up the garage as his workshop where he made music. I had standing orders not to enter his den, to maintain safe distance from his musical instruments, and that is exactly what I did. I was lonelier in my own house than ever before, tiptoeing so as to not disturb the great musician at work. Halloween came and went; Christmas was horribly dull with no presents from Santa. Mamma gifted me a cycle, I got an Encyclopaedia Britannica from Uncle Tony and a terse Merry Christmas from Jumbo. Uncle Tony was not related to us but invariably, on special occasions, he showed up with freshly baked cakes from his bakery. He was never made to

feel welcome in our house as Mamma seldom bothered to greet him; still, he would come loaded with presents. I hardly ever spoke to him, busy taking in all the gifts he was carrying in his arms and figuring out what he had got me this time around. I never really thought much of it for many years to come and by then it was too late to make amends.

Months turned into meaningless years and then Jumbo fractured his right hand in an accident, which meant he was home most of the time. Even my mothers ministrations couldnt soothe his nerves. In her absence, I had to do his dirty work like fetching things for him. I was too timid to refuse to do as he asked. One afternoon, I returned from school and was hanging up my uniform when I heard him shouting my name. Manna, Manna. Where the hell are you? You son of a whore, is she coming back tonight or is she too busy collecting tips in her undies? I was scared. He had never used that tone with me before. His eyes looked puffy and his demeanour was definitely that of a drunk. I was all of thirteen but I still looked like a scared ten-year-old boy. What took you so long, you scum? Come on, boy, get my guitar from the garageand hold it carefully! I was rooted to the spot. I could hardly take my eyes off his face, he looked so menacing. His voice jolted me out of my trance.

Ill break your fucking neck, you bastard. Get my guitar. I bolted to fetch the object of his desire. His workshop was hardly what you could call state of the art but he seemed to produce moderately cool music that pleased the guests at Sea Rock. I located his guitar and took it out of the case, which seemed huge to me, and carried it back to the living room. He snatched it from my hand and I was dismissed. I had barely taken a step or two, when I heard Jumbo scream the word Slut in his drunken drawl. Too horrified to look, I hesitated and in that moment the guitar strings struck a deafening note. A jarring sound and a beefy arm flung me across the room, knocking me unconscious. I regained consciousness in my bed to find myself surrounded by strange men, my mother sobbing quietly in a corner, her eyes wide with fear and something else. I quietly said, Mamma, I am all right, theres no need to cry. What happened? Who are these men? The look she gave me was full of loathing and grief. Yes, that was itshe was grieving, but grieving for whom? I was all right, wasnt I? A man in a khaki uniform bent forward and asked me, How are you feeling, son? Okay. Can you tell us what happened? In my confusion I repeated after him, What happened? He paused, then asked, Where is your father? Hes gone.

Gone where, son? I looked at my mother. I was so confused. I blurted out, Mamma sent him away. The man straightened and looked directly at my mother. She then screamed, Jumbo is not his father. She looked at me wildly and said, Oh God! Manna, please tell them it was an accident! Before anyone could do anything, she dragged me by my arm to the living room and there he was sitting on the sofa, sleeping peacefully, too peacefully, his neck hanging at an unnatural angle. Someone, something, had broken his fucking neck! After that, the guys in uniform moved quickly to handcuff my mother and she was taken away. I kept screaming, Where are you taking Mamma? Mamma, please dont go. I had to be restrained by two men from running after her. She was leaving me alone once again. The next time I saw her she looked beautiful in a white sari, still angry with me. I dont blame her; it would take her years to fathom how she ended up in the state prison in Panaji with a life sentence. The icing on the cake was her shock at the bruises on my body, screaming years of physical abuse. Once behind bars, she had some spiteful things to say about me to the officer in charge of the murder investigation. My son is playing with your mind. Jumbo never even came close enough to greet him, let alone hit him.

Later the statements were retracted on her lawyers advice. Murder for a righteous cause would attract a far more lenient sentence than killing someone in a fit of rage. And what could be more righteous then saving your son from being physically abused by your boyfriend? The story that made national news portrayed a woman caught in a messy relationship in which her son became the innocent victim. Breaking news: Mother Kills Boyfriend for Beating Thirteen-Year-Old. So much for the truth! Hardly the ordeal I had imagined it to be. An orphan, I couldnt believe my luck. Freedom at last but at what cost? My story had just begun.

JOURNAL ENTRY

To some, I may be the protagonist, to some a sidekick, to others still, the villain in their lives. Whatever I may be, I am not alone in this story. I share

this momentous journey with characters burdened with their own secrets and lies. Their lives entwine with mine as we sail deeper into the heart of the ocean and discover things about each other that were better left undiscovered. Like the discovery of the cruel streak every man possesses, the seed of greed that grows in every heart and the lust for love that kills all reason and shapes a monster. A two-faced one at that. So here comes the curtain call, a sensational cast, with characters more flawed than mine. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

Captain Abraham Kuruvillapart pervert, part diabolical crook.

Chief Officer Aaron Angelo Andrewsa double-face bastard.

First Engineer Harsh Castillodangerously violent.

Engine Cadet Kirk Alexa devious coward.

Supernumerary Sancha Andrewsa beautiful busybody.

RAGHAV

These are the players who influence the game. Choose wisely and you might find yourself backing a winner. Or you could be left out in the cold.