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

‘It’s possible,’ she allows. ‘But it’s incredibly painful. You’ll get completely fucked, and sucked dry emotionally, and eventually both of them will dump your sorry ass.’

‘Jesus! You’re not much hel—’

‘Balbirrrr! Kidsss! Look! General Mehra is being arrested on TV!’

Mala Dogra’s piercing scream brings everybody rushing to Dadi’s bedroom, where mother-in-law and daughter-in-law are having their mid-morning tea. The old lady looks bemused but flattered as they all collapse onto her double bed and stare riveted at the TV. Very hospitably, she increases the volume to max. Everybody winces.

Khooni General Hai Hai!

#ArrestMehra

Fauji nikla Mauji! Hawji Hawji!

These dramatic headlines appear in quick succession over shaky footage of the front gate of the DTC, where a thin, militant-looking female reporter in a red bandana is standing next to the moustachioed guards and speaking shrilly into the mic.

‘After two weeks of ceaseless, in-depth investigation, New Delhi’s Crime Branch is finally set to arrest the sinister double murderer who has claimed two victims inside India’s oldest, poshest and most exclusive club – the Delhi Turf Club! Our sources reveal that this cold-blooded, remorseless killer is none other than the architect of the surgical strikes and popular military hero, portrayed in last year’s superhit film Jhelum Bridge by Amitabh Bachchan – Lt. General Om Prakash Mehra himself!’

After flashing several images of the general – in uniform, in a pink Lacoste T-shirt and tennis shorts, holding a drink in a suit and tie at a party – the camera cuts to a congested lane in Greater Kailash II, and a narrow, double-storeyed house with an ornate gate, behind which an elderly golden spaniel is drowsing in the sun.

‘And here is the home of the killer general, ladies and gentlemen!’ hisses a manic looking male reporter with a heroic moustache. ‘A man so desensitized and immoral that he has named his dog Whisky! This is the den of vice he resides in!’

Whisky barks valiantly but even he cannot prevent the camera from zooming in through the gate and revealing glimpses of the Mehra front porch. There is a framed photograph of Guru Nanak, with an incense stick guttering before it, a sign in pretty tiles which reads ‘Savitri & Om Mehra’ and a friendly looking clay turtle sitting on a mushroom. The porch – and perhaps even the house inside – is spick and span, but somehow manages to look bereft and abandoned.

Now the shot veers sideways to capture the square homely face of ACP Bhavani Singh, dressed in unobtrusive plain clothes, speaking to the sea of cameras patiently.

‘Yes, yes, we have a non-bailable warrant for General Mehra’s arrest. It is for the murder of Sri Ajay Kumar, late husband of Mrs Ganga Kumar, three years ago, and for the subsequent murder of Leo Matthew, Zumba trainer at the DTC, two weeks ago.’

‘Sir! More details please, sir!’

Bhavani raises both palms in a calming gesture.

‘We cannat contribute anything new! You people know everything much before we do! It is all already in the public domain. Three years ago, the general was enamoured of a young lady who had a troublesome, jealous husband, so he got rid of him in full fauji fashion with his fauji revolver, misused his position as head of the horticulture sub-committee of the DTC to have him buried in a composting pit at the Club and then grew beetroot over him for three whole years! Then somebody found out about this murder and started blackmailing him, so he poisoned this person with an overdose of popular party drug Pinko Hathni. We are going inside to arrest him and we urge that the lawyers do nat let us down, but put him away for a long time nat only for these double murders but also for besmirching the reputation of the armed forces and robbing our young children of a role model they looked up to!’

Kashi frowns. ‘Why is he talking like that? So insensitively? Almost flippantly? Bhavani is better than that …’

‘Being on national television does strange things to people.’ Natasha sighs. ‘And anyway, most cops are assholes. Just totally desensitized.’

‘You can’t make sweeping statements like that, Nattu! Bhavani’s a decent guy.’

‘Well, this arrest is preposterous!’ frets the brigadier. ‘Wasn’t this ACP excitedly pursuing some other angle, Akash?’

‘Yes, he was.’ Kashi nods, frowning. ‘I don’t get it—’

‘Oh look,’ says Mala Dogra. ‘They’re somewhere else now.’

The scene has shifted to another – incredibly familiar – location: the back gate of the DTC. Ganga can be seen sitting inside her little red car, gheraoed by the press. The wide, looming form of Inspector Padam Kumar is in the frame, standing in front of the bonnet, frowning at the journalists.

‘It remains to be seen whether Ganga Kumar was just an innocent bystander or an active accessory who attended to the amorous army man’s daily needs! As of now, we have no details if she is to be arrested too,’ an excited reporter says breathlessly. ‘Madam! Madam! Why did you come to work today? Did you want to show solidarity with the general in this difficult time? Will you be visiting him in jail? How does it feel to be romantically involved with a man old enough to be your father?’

‘Hullo ji, that is enough!’ Padam Kumar’s cherubic face is red with anger. ‘I have already given you all the information, why are you asking the same questions again and again?’

‘Ganga!’ shouts another reporter. ‘Ganga! What are your feelings about your sugar daddy’s arrest?’

Behind the glass window, Ganga shakes her head, and seems to be appealing to the press to move out of her way. They ignore her, and the gherao continues.

‘The Club is going to the dogs,’ Balbir Dogra says worriedly. ‘This is terrible publicity.’

‘Dad, is that all you care about?’ Nattu demands. ‘The stupid Club?’

‘Clearly, yes,’ Kashi says wryly.

His mother grips his shoulder. ‘Wait, what, is the story over?’

A dramatic super reading KAHANI MEIN TWIST! has just filled the screen, accompanied by music. As they watch, the camera cuts