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

keep it nice, Bhavani. You will have to tread very, very carefully. These Poddars are not people at whose homes we can just show up, flash a police ID and say ki hain-hain-hain we are investigating a crime, please cooperate.’

A man dressed in a spotless white safari suit opens the door and looks at the chunky fellow in the crumpled clothes inquiringly.

‘We have come from Delhi,’ Bhavani repeats the same thing he has explained at the gate, ‘to meet Shri Arihant Poddar. He is expecting us.’

A scented, white wet towel is presented to him with a low bow. Bhavani wipes his hands thoroughly, and divested off common germs, is led into a large, sunny room that looks out onto the front lawn.

‘Sir aaschen,’ says the man in the white safari suit, and withdraws with another of one of his low bows.

Bhavani looks around at the plump, upholstered furniture, and finally picks a large wingchair that seems to have a hard seat. Sitting down, he finds himself facing a large oil painting of a laughing, well-built, young man with broad shoulders and a deep cleft in his chin, dressed in mountaineering gear, standing against a stunning vista of snow-capped peaks.

‘Anshul,’ he murmurs softly as his eyes scan the expensive, gilt-framed painting critically.

Bhavani’s respect for Pankaj Todi and his kleptomaniac wife rises: they had definitely arranged a spectacular match for their only daughter.

He has looked Anshul Poddar up online, and the painting seems to be a faithful rendition of the original. The artist (Bhavani recognizes the signature in the corner as being that of a famous Padma Shri awardee, and nominated member of the Rajya Sabha) has captured not just the setting, clothes and features, but a remarkable amount of personality as well. Anshul Poddar seems ready to stride out of the painting to shake hands with Bhavani. His eyes ablaze with the joy of being alive, the hint of arrogance in the tilt of his chin, this is a man who knows exactly how attractive he is.

He was a little vain. He talked a lot about how good-looking our children would be. If he got … burnt … or scarred very badly, or became crippled in some way so that he couldn’t climb mountains any more, or do any physical activity, it could have destroyed his mind.

There are several framed pictures below the portrait. One of them is a laughing candid photo of Bambi and Anshul. She is wearing the gold-and-yellow lehenga she had described to Bhavani, and Anshul is tucking a cluster of white roses behind her ear, into the loose waves of her soft, brown hair. They are both staring into each other’s eyes, oblivious of the camera.

Kashi was right, Bhavani Singh thinks as he gets up to study the picture more closely, they do look like they’re made for each other. Very discreetly he turns the picture around. There is a monogrammed label at the back: Flames&Flowers – Your fairy-tale Indian wedding.

‘ACP Singh?’

It is a very soft voice, but powerful too, the voice of a man who never has to speak loudly because everybody always listens to him. It makes Bhavani turn around at once.

‘Sir!’

The older Poddar is an aged version of the young man in the painting. The face is puffier, the lips thinner, and the hair grey and thinning at the temples.

Arihant Poddar gestures towards the chairs. ‘Please.’

They both sit down, facing each other. Poddar is all polite attention, but it has been clearly communicated to Bhavani that the great man can spare only fifteen minutes. He has to make this quick.

‘Young Bambi Todi,’ he begins without preamble, ‘has been receiving letters from somebody claiming to be your son.’

Arihant Poddar had been leaning forward, one arm resting on the arm rest of his chair, but at this revelation he seems to slump slightly. Taking off his rimless glasses, he massages his eyes, then sighs.

‘Not again.’

‘Sir?’ It is now Bhavani’s turn to register shock. ‘She has … We mean to say, this has happened before?’

Arihant Poddar nods. ‘She’s a lovely girl, Bambi. We all fell in love with her the first time we met. Anshul was immediately smitten. Of course – I can be frank with you without sounding crass, I hope, ACP Singh – he had received several, far grander offers, the daughters of billionaires, of superstars. Anshul, with his height and physical attractiveness, his easy charm and, of course, our family background, was extremely sought after. But he found all the girls we introduced him to … to be bland, boring, conventional. Just when we had started to despair of ever finding a girl to be our daughter-in-law and fill this house with joy and warmth, along came little Bambi.’ Arihant Poddar’s stern face softens. ‘She wasn’t like the other girls. She was razor smart for one, with a bloody good head for business. She was funny and warm and, most importantly for Anshul, whose one demand in a life partner was that “she must be able to camp with me high up in the mountains in a tent, and bathe with ice cold, melted glacier water”, she wasn’t namby-pamby in the least.’

‘Why did you say “not again”, sir?’ Bhavani prods, very conscious of his fifteen-minute deadline.

Arihant Poddar sighs. ‘You must be aware of the details of the tragedy. Neither Bambi nor my wife took the news of the accident well. Fresh from the engagement party, with the mehendi they had applied that day still blooming on their hands, they both went through a stage of complete denial. And when they found out that there was a little bit of a grey area – that there had been thirty people on that doomed bus but only twenty-two bodies were recovered from the water, they decided that Anshul had somehow survived. For the next three days, they kept feeding each other false hope … It was an utterly ghastly situation – I wouldn’t wish such a tragedy on my worst enemy.’

He goes quiet for a while.