Revenge

Even if his Baba had succeeded in doing what he had attempted to do, he knew that this day would have come. Things were bound to turn out this way. The only way this day would not have come was if his Baba hadn’t attempted it at all.

It had all begun—all this emptiness—some minutes ago when he’d averted his gaze from his Baba’s picture; the one which hung on the wall. Nostalgia brought to the surface fragments of embedded memories in his mind to form an image his eyes had beheld right before his Baba was executed. It was a picture he had lived.

March28

The day Baba had flung that tiny explosive at the King’s jeep as it drove past the park had somehow clawed its way back. Back to the present; back to now.

A buzz of retaliation had been instilled in him that very day; about 10 years ago. Retaliation against the King, retaliation against all those who’d vowed to back Baba when the time came. That time came, but their time, unfortunately, did not. And this feeling of revenge had never flared, had never done the rounds through his blood; like it is doing just now.

lll

He arrived at the nearest phone booth. Inside, he inserted the coins, one by one; punched in the numbers from a paper, and hastily pocketed it back. He hadn’t really expected the phone to be received at the other end. It was near midnight, and just as he was taking the receiver away from his ear with the intention of putting it down, a voice croaked from the other end. The receiver immediately found itself being pressed against his ear.

“Hyallo,” slurred the voice.

“Hello,” his voice echoed around the booth.

“Who’s this?” the voice on the phone enquired.

“I want you to do a work for me,” he ignored the question.

“Who are you?” the question repeated, so did the answer.

“I ask, whoever are you, disturbing my sleep and asking me to do…” his voice retreated, the followed, “…this late?”

“Does that matter as long as you get to make some dough?” he said.

“Ke re? What did you say?”

“You work at the Raj Durbar, right?”

“Yes,” came the reply, after a yawn.

“Then, nothing much. I am on an espionage operation. I want you to be my jasoos,” he said. “Be my spy.”

“Spy…on whom?”

“The King. I’ll give you double of what you get working there.”

“Wrong number.”

“Treble that,” he fed the phone some more coins.

“How am I supposed to spy on him when all I do is lean on the gate all day?”

“You’re at the gate? That’s the best I’d have found as a spy. Just know where he goes. That’s all,” he said.

Silence.

“Umm… Okay. Triple, right? I’ll do it,” the voice said, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s start with my first reporting. The King just left with two of his body guards. I hear they’re heading to their Chitwan Bungalow.”

“At this time? What’s with them?” he said. “Anyway, you’ll get your payment.”

“Whe-” was what the receiver managed to croak before finding its place in the cradle.

lll

The dial reflects the light of the lamppost behind him when he positions his hand so that the watch faces his eyes. He is not exactly sure of the plot he has in his mind. Should I slit his throat or should I make it seem an accident? He talks to himself to stop thinking, to stop counting his chickens before they’ve hatched.

The mirror reflects perfectly. It makes no mistake because it doesn’t think. I shouldn’t either, he reflects. I’ll do what has to be done. When it’s time to do so.

lll

He zoomed past the oak trees surpassing the highway speed limit. They said the highway was haunted but he wasn’t scared; not even a bit. After all, he was almost on the last rung of his mission. It was very possible that he might suffer the same fate as his father.

The forest ended. He took the last turn, locked himself into a fight, and threw awaythe key.

lll

He—as he thinks—is ready. He has a switchblade, and a pouch filled with a power of some sort. He has decided it will be murder. He has gloves on. More importantly, he has, as his face shows, patience.

The Bungalow is not as it used to be. Something is really fishy. There seem to be only two guards on duty. Perhaps they’re the only those who’ve come along. He wonders if the King is inside.

He, as surreptitiously as possible, hurries past the bushes growing adjacent to the huge wall encircling the Bungalow. From what seems to be the back of the mansion, he climbs his way up to the top, and then down the wall. With slow, furtive steps, he approaches the bungalow.

Immediately, he hears groans; first a female, and then a male. They’re coming from inside.

The moon is hiding behind silent clouds. He sees that a window is open. He draws near it and finds that the King is on one of his trysts. One of his illicit trysts, shall we say?

This is my time; my only chance, he thinks. He holds the knife in his mouth and climbs his way up. Halfway to the window, he’s aroused. With his hands on the window pane, he presses his abdomen to support his way through the window.

He’s in. The King—with her—is facing the same window he is facing. He stands behind them, unnoticed. The groans—and the movements—have started to increase; they’re doubling by the second. The King moans in a harsh, long, low-pitched coming of an orgasm.

Let him have his last, the to-be-killer says to himself. The movements come to a halt. The other person—perhaps from some royal bordello—helps herself to the bed.

He knows precisely where to make an incision, to end this once and for all. He speeds across the room, reaches the centre—his destination, and plants his blade right there—somewhere between the upper ribs, below the hand, in the torso. Then comes a loud scream and all hell breaks loose. Having girls around was never the best.

The victim tries to grab hold of the assailant but how could that be? The King doesn’t know that, in minutes, the seemingly weak attack will claim... claim something real, something dear.

The killer then exits the way he came. With an involuntary erection; his heart throbbing in his neck, in the back of his head, his hands, his trembling legs. He runs and mumbles, “It’s gonna be a long night.”

- Sharad Duwal