Brutal

1

Eight Years Later

Hotel Ritz Plaza,  Allahabad

Something woke Prakash Sinha up. He felt dizzy, his eyes burning as he tried to part his eyelids. He looked at the wall clock and groaned. 8:25 AM. Damn. Yet another sleepless night. He had slept only for 15 minutes. That was the best he had slept in two weeks.

He lifted his five-foot-ten body from the bed and stood up, immediately greeted by a pinching sensation in his right knee. Yeah, good morning to you too, he sneered, stretching his leg. The pain had been bothering him since the last few days, stinging often when he got up or sat down. It was one of the 'gifts' from his last assignment. He stroked his fingers over his knee and noticed a tiny metal splinter protruding from his kneecap. Another Goddamn piece of shrapnel. Not today!

Today was a big day. He couldn't allow it to go wrong. He was a Special Correspondent at Globe News, getting back into the field after three weeks of leave, a period he had spent in severe depression and trauma. His face looked wan, eyes bloodshot with dark circles under them. The salt-and-pepper hair he prided himself on appeared more salty than peppery. Yesterday, while looking at the mirror, he had remarked that he looked sixty. He was only thirty-five.

His ordeal began one month ago, when at the peak of a glorious career, he took up an assignment to cover a story in Banka. It was a Naxalite hotbed and a place notorious for the bloody battle between the government and the rebels. He had taken a team of cameraman Ojas Patel and a local freelancer with him. Both of them had died in the very first week. He woke up in an ICU, his body full of shrapnel, enough to give him a lifetime of suffering.

The doctors were able to remove a few major chunks of metal from his neck, thighs and back. But they had to leave untouched the minor fragments embedded deep inside his body. He was discharged in a week – body fragile, mind tormented.

Night after night, he would wake up with a splitting headache and spasms coursing through his body. Some days, he would hear explosions and then squeeze his ears with hands. Nightmares made him spend nights under his bed in terror. He tried sleeping pills; even drinking, praying for an inebriated slumber which never came. It didn't take him long to realize that he was lying in a cemetery surrounded by graves. One belonged to his career. One to his happiness. And one to his life. All buried for good.

If someone had told him that he would soon leave the gloomy walls of his New Delhi apartment and fly to Allahabad to cover a story known as the 'Nitin Tomar case', he wouldn't have believed him. But he was well on his way to do it. And it was made possible by Seema Sharma, a close friend who was also an ace journalist with the Century News channel. She kept visiting him, often against his wishes, even on days he closed himself up in his room sulking in darkness. She was the only one who could persuade him to come out of his shell and get back into the field. Begin with an easy case, she said.

He had begun to hate journalism, maybe even fear it. But he also badly wanted things to get back to where they were a month ago. So, he agreed to her suggestion, just to give himself one desperate shot at redemption. He knew nothing about Nitin Tomar or the crime he committed. He was going as a blank slate, unprepared, like a rookie. Beginning his career again, like he did twelve years ago.

He picked up the mobile phone from the bedside coffee table. There was a message from Seema. This must have woken me up. He read it. 'You are coming to the court, right? Will kill you if I don't see you at 11:30 AM. He smiled and nodded in agreement. There was one more message. It was from Ritesh Pandey, his boss, the editor for crime beat at Globe News. It said: 'Best of luck. Be the stubborn bastard again that we all knew.'

He had a quick bath, dressed formally and then went over to the restaurant area of his hotel for a breakfast. It was a long time since he had eaten in public.

He was halfway through his breakfast when he saw a short, stout man with a balding head enter the restaurant. Dilip More. This man was his old companion and cameraman. Like him, Dilip also lived in New Delhi, but they hardly got to see each other nowadays.

Prakash smiled and called out his name.

Dilip looked back, smiling. "So, the lion is back into the game!" he said, before hugging him. It was a long hug. From a colleague who was now almost a brother.

"How is the great Dilip More assigned to such a low profile case?"

"Ritesh Sirji called me up. He said you are going to cover the Nitin Tomar case at Allahabad. That was enough for me to..."

"So you have come to babysit me?" Prakash muttered.

"Now c'mon bhai, everybody can do with some help," Dilip said, settling into a chair across from him. "Look at yourself. You look fucking tired."

"I am unable to sleep nowadays."

"I can understand what you've gone through," he said. "Dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is tough. Happened to me also after covering the Godhra riots. But..."

"I shouldn't have done the Banka story," Prakash said, avoiding Dilip's eyes. "We all knew how dangerous it was." His voice was almost a whisper.

"You are a journalist. And one of the best I know," Dilip said. "You of all people can understand that things sometimes go horribly wrong in the field. Doing a story in the Naxalite belt is a dreadful affair. Believe me – most of the big-shot journos would give it a pass. But you still managed it somehow."

"I got two of my colleagues killed, Dilip. That's how I MANAGED it," Prakash said with anger, looking into his eyes. "Ojas Patel is dead. And his wife..."

"No one blames you, Prakash. Whatever happened was sad. I mean it. But you cannot live with the pain. You have to move on."

Prakash nodded slowly, realizing he was losing it again. Don't.

"Now no more living in the past! You heard me? No more sad smileys," Dilip said and got up from his chair. "Let's go. We have a new story to cover. Just like old times." He tugged at his friend's arm, making him stand.

"Hmmm. But I haven't done any homework on this case," Prakash said with a sheepish grin.

"Don't worry. It's an open and shut case. They don't come easier than this." Dilip winked. "Perfect way for you to get back into action."

Prakash nodded. He thanked Ritesh silently for teaming him up with Dilip.

He said, "Why don't you brief me about this case?"

"That's like my old boy!" Dilip said, with a broad smile. "Let's get seated in our van first. I will tell you the whole story on the way. A police van carrying Nitin Tomar has already started for the court."