Club You to Death by Anuja Chauhan (books to improve english .TXT) 📕

‘Damn,’ Bambi mutters. ‘I thought these had stopped.’

‘Matlab?’ Kashi’s voice grows sharp. ‘You’ve got these before?’

She nods awkwardly. ‘For a while now. Every time I go out on a date with anyone.’

‘But you’re not dating anyon—’ he pauses. ‘You mean me?’

She nods, going slightly pink. Kashi goes slightly pink too.

‘But that’s … insane,’ he says. ‘The A to my B? Made for each other? Are these supposed to be from … Anshul?’

She shrugs uncomfortably.

‘Haven’t you told your folks? Or the cops?’

‘What?’ She laughs uncertainly. ‘Don’t be silly, Kashi. It’s probably the Ghia-Lauki gang. It’s the kind of thing they think is funny.’ She stops, then adds reluctantly, ‘At least that’s what I thought till a little while ago.’

‘Till Leo died, you mean,’ he says.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Till Leo died.’

They stare at the paper.

‘You don’t think’ – the words seem torn from her – ‘that he’s alive, do you?’

The hope in her voice smites his heart. His voice is gentle when he replies. ‘Bamb, Anshul’s dead. His bus tumbled into an abyss on the Manali–Leh Road three years ago. His dad identified the body. There was a cremation. We all saw the ashes, remember?’

A stubborn expression settles on her face. She juts out her chin a little. ‘Then who’s sending me these?’

Kashi spreads out his hands.

‘I don’t know. It makes absolutely no sense. Maybe you’ve picked up some psycho stalker.’

She shivers.

His lips tighten. He yanks opens the car door for her. ‘Get in and go straight home. In fact, let me get in with you. I’ll walk back here from your place.’

She’s too cowed to argue. As they drive towards the main gate, she says, ‘Kash, should I tell Bhavani about this?’

‘Yes!’ The word bursts out of him like he’s talking to a moron. ‘Please do! About you dating Leo, and the letters too! You should have told him all this right at the start, Bambi!’

‘But supposing …’ She trails off, then shrugs forlornly.

‘Oh my God!’ Kashi’s expression grows concerned. ‘You really believe it’s Anshul?’

‘I don’t know what to believe!’ Her voice has a hysterical edge. ‘Suppose it really is him? Out there, alive, perhaps scarred or crippled and too insecure to meet me? I don’t want to get him into trouble!’

He leans in, and there is raw emotion on his face.

‘Bambi – no,’ he says forcefully. ‘Don’t go there. You’re opening yourself up to so much pain and disappointment if you start thinking it’s Anshul! You’ve clearly picked up some sadistic stalker – or as you said, it’s the Ghia-Lauki gang!’

She stares down at the letter, then crumples it up with a savage little laugh. ‘It would so serve those cows right if I gave this to Bhavani and the cops came and arrested them …’

‘Never mind all that,’ Kashi says grimly. ‘Focus on what’s important. Give Bhavani the complete low-down before something even more fucked up happens.’

The neem trees lining Aurangzeb Road are alive with fluttering gauraiyas and starry white neem flowers are twirling to the ground like confetti when Ganga Kumar drives her zippy little Maruti Suzuki Alto through the monogrammed gates of the DTC, happy Bollywood music playing on its speakers.

The sun is out today. Feeling very fresh and feminine in her floral kota sari, she exits the car and trots down to the little Daily Needs store. Her cleaning lady has already opened the place and dusted the shelves. All Ganga has to do it set a match to the diya under Saraswati ji ki murti, and wait for customers to arrive. Not that anybody will show up before

9 a.m., but Ganga loves the quiet time in the empty store before the rush begins.

‘Good weekend, didi?’ her cleaning lady asks.

Ganga smiles back at her cheerfully, a slightly secretive twinkle in her large, brown eyes.

‘Yes! And yours?’

‘Terrible,’ reports the cleaning lady’s little son happily before she can speak. ‘I got cuff!’

‘Cough,’ says Ganga automatically, as she frowns down at him. ‘That’s a nasty cough, Chhotu. There’s balgam rattling around in your throat.’

He nods proudly. Snot dribbles from his nose. He wipes it off on his sweater sleeve and smiles at her. ‘Didi, let’s make lemim tea?’

‘Ooookay!’ Ganga laughs as she sets the match to the brass lamp below the Saraswati idol, and places a handful of jasmine flowers in the lapis lazuli bowl. ‘Actually, today we’ll make honey-tulsi tea! Specially for your cold.’

He hunches. ‘I don’t like tusli.’

‘Nonsense,’ she tells him firmly. ‘C’mon, let’s get some! We’ll get some carrots too, hmm?’

Chhotu likes carrots. He grasps her hand and together they emerge into the winter sunshine and walk down to the kitchen garden. They pass the tennis courts, very busy at this hour, cut through the cluster of guest cottages and come out near the rustic wooden fence of the kitchen garden. As they do, they hear the steady beep-beep-beep of a hazard horn, and the sound of a heavy engine reversing.

Ganga falters, then stops.

‘It’s the police,’ says an old sweeper, who happens to be leaning on his long-handled broom near the path.

Chhotu gives a little wriggle of excitement, phlegm rumbling wetly in his throat. ‘Police!’

‘They’re digging up the kitchen garden,’ the sweeper reports with relish. ‘They’re saying there’s a laash there.’

Ganga’s hand goes to her bosom. ‘What!’

Chhotu starts jumping from foot to foot. ‘A laash! Didi, didi, let’s look! I’ve never seen a laash! Didi, come!’

She gives him a little shake. ‘No, Chhotu! Let’s go back!’

But he shakes off her hand and goes sprinting down the path. Ganga gives an exasperated cry, picks up her sari pleats and chases after him.

They both arrive breathless and panting, within seconds of each other, at the kitchen garden.

‘Oh!’ Ganga’s lips part in a little exclamation of surprise.

The gate to the kitchen garden has been cordoned off in yellow tape marked POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

Beyond the cordon, a sinister-looking, mustard-yellow earth mover with massive, whirring wheels and a long, slender neck ending in an iron claw is feeding upon the ground like