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instructions not to touch his mail and to leave it on the dining table for him. One afternoon, a
large yellow envelope was brought by the delivery boy just when I was having tea. By mistake I
spilt tea on the envelope and went into a panic. I knew if Ahmed saw that I had spoilt his packet
he would be angry. It might contain valuable commercial documents which could have been
damaged. So I sat down and carefully prised open the gummed flap. I inserted my fingers and
pulled out the documents . . . and whistled in surprise.'
'Why? What was there?'
'Nothing much. The packet contained just one glossy eight-by-six colour photograph of a man's
face and half a sheet of neatly typed details. Even I could read that much. It said:
Name: Vithalbhai Ghorpade.
Age: 56.
Address: 73/4 Marve Road, Malad.
'That was all.
'I presumed these were the details of some businessman Ahmed had dealings with, and didn't
think too much about it. I carefully resealed the flap and put the envelope on the dining table. In
the evening, Ahmed came home and opened the envelope. He received a phone call shortly
afterwards. "Yes, I have received the packet," is all he said.
'Almost two weeks later, Ahmed was sitting in front of the TV, watching Mumbai Crime Watch.
I was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, but I could hear the presenter speaking. ". . . In yet
another gruesome incident in Malad, police are looking for clues to the murder of a prominent
businessman named Vithalbhai Ghorpade, who was found murdered in his house on Marve
Road." The name rang a bell. I glanced at the TV and almost cut my finger, because on screen
was the same photograph that had been in the yellow envelope. The presenter continued, "Mr
Ghorpade, who was fifty-six, was shot dead at point-blank range while he was alone in the
house. He is survived by his wife and son. According to Malad police, robbery appears to have
been the main motive as the house was ransacked and many valuables were missing."
'I noticed Ahmed laughing when he heard this. This, too, surprised me. Why should Ahmed
laugh over the death of a business associate?
'A month later, there was another yellow envelope. Ahmed was out and I could not resist taking a
peek at its contents. This time I steamed it open, so that no marks were left. I opened the flap and
pulled out yet another glossy photograph. This one showed the face of a young man with a thick
moustache and a long scar running from his left eye to the base of his nose. The typed sheet of
paper said:
Name: Jameel Kidwai.
Age: 28.
Address: 35 Shilajit Apartments, Colaba.
'I memorized the name and put the photo back.
'Ahmed came home that evening and looked at the envelope. There was a phone call, as before,
and he confirmed receipt of the packet. Exactly a week later, I heard the news on Crime Watch
that a young lawyer called Jameel Kidwai had been shot dead while getting out of his car near
his residence in Shilajit Apartments. The presenter said, "Police suspect a gangland motive in
this killing, as Mr Kidwai had represented several mafia dons in court. An investigation has been
launched, but there are no clues at present." Ahmed, sitting with a glass of whisky, guffawed
when he heard this.
'I was now seriously worried. Why did Ahmed receive pictures of people in the mail and why did
those people die soon afterwards? This was still a mystery to me. So when the next yellow
envelope was delivered three weeks later, I not only took a peek at the photograph, which was of
an elderly man, I also wrote down the address. It was of a house on Premier Road in Kurla. The
next day, I followed Ahmed. He took a local train to Kurla and walked to Premier Road. But he
didn't enter the house. He just passed it three or four times, as if checking it out. Two weeks
later, Crime Watch announced that the same elderly man had been found murdered in his house
on Premier Road in Kurla.
'I am not a fool. I knew there and then that Ahmed had murdered the man and that I was living
with a contract killer. But I didn't know what to do. Ahmed had saved my life once and I couldn't
even contemplate betraying him to the police. Meanwhile, Abbas Rizvi called me up and made a
firm offer of a supporting role in his next film. When I heard this I ran all the way to the shrine
of Haji Ali. I touched my forehead to the cloth covering the tomb and prayed for Rizvi's long
life.
'For the next two months I lived an uneasy double life. If Ahmed was a contract killer
masquerading as a businessman, I was an actor masquerading as a servant. Ahmed had licence to
kill, but I knew that a day would come when he himself would get killed. I simply hoped that I
wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. And then everything fell apart.'
'What happened?'
'It was four months ago the twentieth of February, to be exact. I remember the day very well,
because India was playing Australia in the last match of the series and Ahmed had just placed
another bet. He used to bet on everything: not only on which team would win, but also the first
wicket to fall, the bowler to take the first wicket, who would win the toss, whether there would
be rain during the match. Sometimes he would bet on virtually every ball in the match whether
it would be a four, a six or a dot ball. That morning, Ahmed had just spoken to his bookie.
"Sharad bhai, Code 3563. How do you think the pitch will behave? Yesterday it was flat, but will
the ball start turning from today? The weather forecast is good, but do you think it might rain
later in the day?" Then he placed his bet. "Book me on Sachin Malvankar making his thirty-
seventh century today. What's the rate?" The bookie said, "He is already on seventy-eight and
everyone feels a century is a sure shot, so the odds are not very promising. The best I can do is
thirteen to ten." "OK," said Ahmed, "then put me down for ten lakhs. This way I will at least
make a profit of three lakhs."
That whole afternoon Ahmed sat in front of the TV set and watched Malvankar play, cheering
his every run with loud whistles. As Malvankar inched towards his century, Ahmed became
more and more excited. By the time Malvankar entered the nineties Ahmed was a nervous
wreck, biting his fingernails, praying before every ball, cringing whenever Malvankar was
beaten by a delivery. But Malvankar played like the master batsman he is. He moved from
ninety-one to ninety-five with a magnificent straight drive for four. Then he took a single to
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