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

back to the studio, where a famous news anchor looks gravely into the camera.

‘Viewers, a brand-new update has just been received by our intrepid reporters in the DTC Double Murder case! A key witness has just surrendered himself to Delhi Police and is being taken in for questioning. Sources claim that this key witness’s testimony is set to change the case completely and spectacularly! Let us proceed without any further delay to New Delhi Railway Station to unravel yet another layer in this fascinating double murder!’

The camera cuts to a grubby, chaotic platform at New Delhi Railway Station. A train is just chugging in. Announcements sound in the background. And then, from the thick of the noise and the dirt and the massive crowds emerges an undersized, adolescent reporter, clearly the last cookie in the jar, sent out in haste, probably at last moment’s notice from channel headquarters.

‘Oh My Gods!’ says this young, wobbly voiced person, who has clearly decided that this is his make-or-break chance to impress all of India on national television. ‘Vutt-a sensational twist in the Khooni General case! Vutt-a dwellupment!’

He gives an excited little wriggle at the end of every sentence, the peach fuzz on his upper lip shining with sweat, and his hair flopping up and down jauntily.

‘You might have heard Madhuri Dikshit madam ji’s superhit song “Mera Piya Ghar Aaya, O Ram Ji”, vich for the benefit of south-Indian viewers I vill explain … It means “My loved one has returned home, halleluiah halleluiah!” Have you heard this song? Hey, have you heard this song? No? Vul, if not, then you vill hear it now, because this is the song Ganga Kumar ji vill be singing when she hears that he is here, he is back from the dead, he was never dead at all! Ladies and gentlemen, General Mehra cannot and vill not be arrested after all, because the man whom he allegedly killed, is still alive!’

The camera turns to reveal a tired-looking man, flanked by Delhi Police constables. He has a French beard, dark circles under the eyes and a shiny Rexine backpack on his shoulder.

‘Vat is your name, sir?’ demands the callow reporter.

The newcomer swallows, then looks to the constables for permission. They nod.

‘Ajay Kumar,’ he answers in a low, halting voice.

‘And your wife’s name?’

‘Ganga Kumar.’

‘Vy have you come back to Delhi?’

He licks his lips.

‘To clear her name by proving I am still alive.’

ACP Bhavani Singh’s eyes twinkle with quiet jubilation as he lathers his chin in front of the mirror the next morning, humming ‘Mera Piya Ghar Aaya, O Ram Ji’ to himself.

Shalini enters the bathroom with two cups of tea, hands him one, slams down the lid of the toilet, sits down upon it and looks at him worriedly.

‘You’re singing that stupid song? When all the newspapers are having a laugh at your expense this morning? What is happening, Bhavani?’

Bhavani clinks his teacup with hers cheerfully.

‘You don’t have time for your husband, busy busy Shalini ji, that is what is happening! If you talked to us more often you would know what we are up to!’

She is immediately contrite. ‘Board exams are happening, Bhavani – we cannot neglect our students now. Chalo, don’t be pricey, explain what you’ve been up to!’

‘What have the newspapers called us?’ he asks.

Her face clouds over. ‘Clownish,’ she reports reluctantly. ‘And clueless and blundering. When I went out to get the milk packets, everybody in the colony looked at me sympathetically.’

Bhavani chuckles. ‘Excellent. So basically, your clownish, clueless blunderer of a husband figured out that Defence Minister Govardhan Ruia is jealous of the general, and out for his blood. Because he’s getting—’

‘Too popular,’ she says at once. ‘Of course! That makes complete sense.’

‘Yes. So, when the chief told us, in no uncertain terms, that orders had come from the top to arrest Mehra, we went ahead and complied obediently, but at the same time, we stepped up our hunt for Ajay Kumar. The drug dealer angle helped narrow the search, and we had some good pictures, so even though the fellow had no police record, we managed to track him down, alive and still peddling in a small-time way. Then we … er … persuaded him to show up in Delhi, and pretend that he had come forward on his own to clear his wife’s name.’

She leans forward and pulls his chunky cheek. ‘Clever clever ACP Brownie! Is the chief furious?’

Bhavani shrugs. ‘We suppose so. But Ruia’s scheme to discredit Mehra has failed for sure.’

Eye twinkling, he raises his teacup and clinks it with hers again.

TRANSCRIPT OF A RECORDED STATEMENT BY AJAY KUMAR.

My name is Ajay Kumar. I am a waiter at Jain Bhojanalya Restaurant in the Navi Mumbai area. I got married to Ganga Kumar four years ago. At first we were happy, but when she found out that I supplemented my livelihood by selling drugs, we started fighting.

She refused to take my ‘dirty’ money and started cleaning people’s houses instead, saying this work was more honourable than the ‘dirty work’ I was doing! Then one day she came back with so much money that I knew she had started an affair with a rich man. Naturally this maddened me, because which man wants an unfaithful wife? She denied it flatly, we kept fighting, and finally I left her.

Because I still loved her, I would sometimes come back to try and talk sense into her, but she never listened.

Then she became friends with that rich Bambi Todi, who was a feminist type and turned her against me even more, with the result that the last time I went to meet her, instead of being kind to her husband and giving him a nice meal and some cash at the very least, she phoned that Jhelum-walla general who beat me up and tried to hand me over to the police. Thankfully, Ganga had the decency to not press charges.

Things were going downhill for me. I decided