Club You to Death by Anuja Chauhan (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📗

roughly ten women in each class, toh’ – he does some quick calculations – ‘that was four lakh a month! For teaching this Zumba dancing! And he probably didn’t pay any taxes either. All payments in cash only!’

‘He’s making more money than me,’ Kashi says a little glumly.

‘Except that he’s dead,’ Bhavani points out practically. ‘So he isn’t making anything any more. You’re better off, don’t you think?’

They continue to scroll through the group chat. It seems very businesslike – just timings, and a few messages from Leo about pending fees, running late, or calling in sick. There are a lot of Zumba videos on the group – full of shimmering, flat bellies and lithe limbs, all dancing energetically with wide smiles on their faces – and even a video of DTC GIRLS ZUMBA dancing to Shakira’s ‘Waka Waka’, recorded by Leo.

‘That must be madam Urvashi,’ says Bhavani. ‘She is standing front and centre, and she certainly is very beautiful.’

Urvashi is also very much the leader of the group, dressed in a simple, but gorgeously coordinated white-and-gold gym tights and matching vest. On her left is a sleepy-looking Bambi in a grey sweatshirt and baggy pants. On Urvashi’s right is the maroon-haired lady, resplendent in red spandex. Cookie and Rosh, standing in the second row, are visible through the gaps.

When the music kicks in, Urvashi is absolutely electrifying – lissome, flexible, light on her feet and completely unselfconscious. Bambi is erratic, good when she remembers the steps, but blanking out sometimes – hopping about with a foolish, self-conscious grin on her face, till the group reverts to the main hook step that she has mastered. Cookie and Roshni give a fair account of themselves, but look utterly exhausted – the video has clearly been shot at the fag end of the one-hour class. And the maroon lady stomps gamely through the lilting song with robotic focus, managing to reduce the graceful, fluid steps to a series of PT exercises.

Kashi chuckles. ‘Bambi’s barely keeping up!’ He stares down at the screen amused, as Bambi Todi forgets the steps and clowns around the floor.

‘Focus, vakeel sa’ab!’ mutters Bhavani, and abruptly exits WhatsApp.

Having spent thirty years in the Crime Branch, eighteen since the advent of the smartphone, he knows that almost every phone has its own little chamber of secrets. Shady deals, private diaries, bank accounts numbers and other financial details, archived chats, sexts, dickpics. You just have to keep digging till you find it.

He picks up the iPhone. It feels alive with its owner’s essence, bursting with little secrets and insights. But it is proving to be aggravatingly bland.

He checks Call History.

The maximum number of calls Leo has received recently are from an individual called Rax, whose display picture shows a grinning, paunchy guy with a shaved head, probably in his mid-thirties.

Going back to WhatsApp, he checks Leo’s chats with Rax.

TWO MONTHS AGO

‘Pondicherry?’ Kashi wrinkles his forehead.

‘Pornography,’ Bhavani enlightens him. ‘It is slang – from the nineties.’

‘Ah.’

ONE MONTH AGO

TUESDAY

FRIDAY

This last message has been seen-zoned by Leo.

‘Clearly a clingy, childhood best friend,’ Kashi pronounces.

Bhavani nods. ‘Agreed.’

They move on to the second most frequently called number. This proves to no-nonsense looking young woman called Sho. She has short pink ombre hair, and is cuddling a belligerent looking orange cat in her WhatsApp DP.

ONE WEEK AGO

FIVE DAYS AGO

TWO DAYS AGO

YESTERDAY

They look at each other.

‘She means it figuratively,’ Kashi says.

‘We know,’ Bhavani replies. ‘She sent it after he didn’t come for the shoot, and didn’t return her two missed calls.’

Kashi peers down at her DP. ‘She sounds nice. Strong, and responsible. D’you think they’re in a relationship?’

‘Not any more,’ Bhavani replies whimsically.

They move back up to the edit Sho has sent – the thumbnail is Leo’s handsome brown face frozen mid-move on the screen. The powerful neck is tossed back, the trademark messy mane of hair is on full display, as are the very white teeth, parted in a warm, wide smile.

Bhavani presses play.

‘Uno! Dos! Tres! Cuatro!’ Clad in just a pair of cream cotton pyjamas and a Hawaiian flower garland, Leo dances to a vibrant salsa beat at the edge of a landscaped swimming pool. His movements are effortless, his coordination with the music bang-on. The flowers bounce against his sculpted brown chest and rippling abs, emphasizing the sinuous fluidity of his moves.

Bhavani starts to hum and sway tentatively to the beat. ‘Too good, ya!’ He smiles. ‘This Zumba is quite zabardast!’

Kashi doesn’t look too impressed. ‘Let’s look at the third most favourite caller.’

This turns out to be a man called Naaem. He’s very smiley-faced, and encased in a too-tight jacket.

ONE WEEK AGO

‘How much we would love to take our Shalini on a European holiday!’ Bhavani sighs. ‘Her English is better than the Queen’s also!’

Kashi wonders if he should mention that England is no longer a part of Europe, then decides not to bother.

Bhavani taps the DP of the fourth most frequent caller. He’s saved as Vicky, and turns out to be a dark, smiling man in a Roman Catholic cassock, standing in a Mother

Mary grotto.

Kashi utters a small exclamation. ‘Hey, I know this guy! He runs that orphanage through which I met Leo. It’s in Haryana somewhere.’

There are no WhatsApp messages to or from Vicky. Clearly, he and Leo prefer to just talk.

‘He looks to be the same age as Leo, nahi?’ Bhavani asks.

‘Yes.’ Kashi nods. ‘Didn’t Randy Rax talk about a Vicky? He said the pondi in the texts would blow his holy little mind. The three must be school friends!’

‘Good people to talk to,’ Bhavani replies. ‘We’ll get PK to set up meetings straightaway. Oh look, here are some messages from Urvashi ji.’

There is a very prim exchange of birthday greetings between Leo and Urvashi, several music videos – Shakira’s ‘Waka Waka’,