Eye On You Read online

  EYE ON YOU

  Kanchana Banerjee

  Copyright © 2021 Kanchana Banerjee

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Archie, who snored loudly while I wrote. RIP kiddo.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1. Myra

  Chapter 2. Dipti

  Chapter 3. Myra

  Chapter 4. Dipti

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6. Myra

  Chapter 7. Dipti

  Chapter 8. Myra

  Chapter 9. Myra

  Chapter 10. Myra

  Chapter 11. Dipti

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13. Dipti

  Chapter 14. Myra

  Chapter 15. Dipti

  Chapter 16. Myra

  Chapter 17. Myra

  Chapter 18. Dipti

  Chapter 19. Myra

  Chapter 20. Dipti

  Chapter 21. Myra

  Chapter 22. Dipti

  Chapter 23. Dipti

  Chapter 24. Myra

  THE END

  Acknowledgement

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  EYE ON YOU

  Prologue

  She walks without looking up from her mobile, her eyes hidden behind gigantic glares with a gold rim and the stylized G on either side. She shakes the lidded cup, sips from it without taking her eyes away from the mobile. In neon tights with gym shorts over it and a fuchsia sports bra, she walks down the paved path of Galleria, indifferent to the numerous pairs of eyes that follow her. Her slender legs are toned, stomach flat, firm breasts pushed up and tightly arrested in the sports bra. She wears her confidence with the arrogance of a person who knows she makes heads turn and couldn’t care less. And then there are the vine tattoos that branch out from her clavicles towards the shoulders. Tiny pink cherry blossoms on her porcelain skin, damp with just-finished exercise sweat; it was hard not to stare. Her tribute to Japan. She’d visited in February and had wanted to bring back the cherry blossoms. They came back with her as tattoos; inked on her creamy white porcelain skin.

  Her sweaty hair is pushed up with a band while irate curly strands stick to her forehead. The yoga mat slung on her back, eyes on the mobile, a smile forming on the corner of her lip; she walks towards her car.

  On the road, the cars splutter and cough fumes while they honk impatiently. Few street urchins scuttle around stationary cars, knocking on tinted windows trying to sell packs of coloured pens and pencils. Stray dogs lie around, basking in the morning sun which will soon get strong and harsh; then they’ll seek respite in shaded spots …under a car, under a tree.

  She reaches her car. Royal blue BMW 5 series gleaming in the sun. She keeps the phone on its roof, takes out the electronic car key from her tiny shoulder bag and presses the unlock button, opens the rear door, throws the yoga mat, a shoulder bag inside and uses her thigh to slam the door. She picks up the mobile and is about to open the front door when a voice calls out.

  “Didi…”

  She spins around, first with irritation writ on her face which softens on seeing the people who were standing behind her.

  Two kids, a girl and a boy, stand near the car. The girl who is taller of the two and looks no older than 13, licks her lower lip, gulps saliva, and gives a nervous smile. She wears her hair in a neat plait, oiled and combed by someone who cares. Her dress, a cotton frock, hangs below her knees, over her thin frame that comes not from dieting but generations of malnutrition. The girl smiles, licks her lower lip again, and then speaks.

  “Didi, can I use your phone please?” The girl squints as sunlight falls on her eyes. She speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully. It’s not a language she is fluent in. The boy, shorter than her, clutches her hand tight, moves in closer as though a tad nervous. He looks at the woman unblinkingly.

  The girl continues, “Didi, my papa was supposed to meet us. He isn’t here. My phone is dead. See…" she holds up her mobile, an old and much used Nokia. The bottom is held together by a cord tied around it.

  “I just need to call him. Just a quick call, didi. To tell him where we are standing.”

  The woman smiles, unlocks her phone and hands it to the girl, who smiles back and makes the call. It takes less than 2 minutes. They thank her and walk away holding each other’s hands. The woman gets into the car and drives away.

  The girl and the boy watch the car, standing under the yawning of a coffee shop, holding hands. When the car is gone, the boy jerks his hand free, takes out a phone from his pocket, the latest Samsung and makes a call. The soft, cute and nervous look that was pasted on his face is gone and is replaced by a hard look.

  “Ho gaya kaam? The new girl panicked and hurried. I don’t want to work with first-timers like her.”

  The girl tries to grab the phone. She doesn’t want to lose the job. She needs the money. The boy is quicker, moves away and she is unable to grab the phone. He listens to the person at the other end, hangs up and looks at her.

  "Why do you get so nervous, you idiot? Licking your lips and gulping like a fish. Anyway, he got the number. He has her."

  The boy walks away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, humming a tune. The girl looks at him for a second, walks off in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 1. Myra

  It’s the vacuum cleaner that wakes me. The sharp rolling rumble gives me a headache even before I have opened my eyes. My eyelids seem to be stuck together, unwilling to part. When I finally manage to open them slightly, just a crack; the light in the room hurts my eyes and I squeeze them shut immediately. A groan escapes my lips. My throat feels dry, parched; it hurts to even swallow, the inside of my lips stick to the jaw. I turn my head on the cold and damp pillow.

  “Where am I? Where is this?” I push the quilt that is almost wrapped around me and free my arm that is trapped inside in an attempt to push myself up. My body feels heavy as if someone has tied a huge weight around me. I moan as I try to move my legs.

  “My legs feel sore. They hurt!” The mere movement of trying to sit feels like an exercise. I lie back, shield my eyes with a palm, turn on one side taking a slow breath. I keep my eyes away from the window. Even though the sunlight is weak; it hurts my eyes. I try to focus on the objects in the room. The room by now is doing a slow waltz. It feels as though I’m sitting in a merry-go-around, no, a giant wheel, and it was going up and down. Up and down. I shut my eyes again, waiting for the spinning to stop. It doesn’t. Instead, a spot behind my eye begins to throb. I lie still for a while, then open my eyes again and look around the room.

  “Oh, good. The curtains are familiar.” I had bought them. The wooden lampstand, the tall one in the corner. Yes, I had bought that too. I see picture frames on the wall and the large monstera plant standing like a guard near the window.

  “I’m in my room.” I almost heave a sigh of relief.

  “I need to get up and out of bed.” I try to swing my legs out of the bed when I cry out loud in agony.

  “Fuck! Fuck. It hurts.” I fall back in the bed. Somewhere. Everywhere. Pain tears
through me like a pincher that gathered my muscles and nerves from inside into a tight knot.

  “What has happened to me? Why does it hurt so much?” The vacuum cleaner has been turned off. A dog is barking somewhere.

  “Is that Archie? Malti must have got him back.” I want to call out for him but can’t gather the stamina to yell.

  “I need to get out of bed.” I dig my fingers deep into my messy, curly hair, pressing the scalp with my fingertips. Suddenly, I remember.

  “Oh My God! What happened to the guests? I had a party. I fell asleep. Oh crap!” I try to lift myself from the bed again; pain shoots through my lower belly making me double up as I groan loudly.

  ‘O! Ma.’ I’m whimpering as I move my knees towards the belly, ball up to stop the pain.

  “Why am I hurting so much?” I try to steady my breath, take slow and deep gulps. “I have to get out of bed. I need to wash my face, drink some water. I can’t stay in bed. I have to get out.” I whisper to myself as I try to move my legs gradually towards the edge of the bed, hold my breath, swing them down to the floor and sit up.

  “I have the bloody baap of a hangover.” My head is reeling, hammering, and spinning all at once. “I’ve never had such a bad one. I need to drink some water.” I try to lick my lips. My throat feels dry, the tongue is stuck on the roof of the cavity.

  “Why isn’t there a bottle on the bedside table next to me? Malti always keeps one there.” I spot the bottle standing on the dresser across the room. My precious antique wooden dresser which I’d fallen in love with as I’d scoured the flea market in Cochin. Somehow the thought of reaching the bottle on the dresser seems like a herculean task.

  “I need to get to it.” I stand up as the pain in my lower belly almost guts me. I wince, bite my lips hard and clench my jaws. Every step hurts. My legs feel wobbly. I slide my feet on the floor, it’s less painful that way. I inch closer to the dresser.

  The pain is coming from below my belly and between my legs. I shake my head and keep sliding my feet.

  “One thing at a time, Myra. Drink water, then have a bath. You’ll be fine after that.” I tell myself but somewhere deep inside I know something is wrong. Horribly wrong.

  I reach the bottle! Open the cap, let it drop to the floor, and gulp. Water never tasted so good. My parched throat absorbs the welcoming and soothing drink. I stand near the dresser catching my breath and then drop the bottle to the floor. “I need to reach the bathroom now.”

  “Come on Myra, you can do it.” I tell myself as I drag my naked feet towards the bathroom. When I reach the door, I give it a shove. It swings open and I lunge for the basin. I stop the fall by catching the edge in time. I bend my head into the hollow of the basin and turn the tap on, letting water flow and soak my scalp.

  “Ah! Feels so good.” I shiver as the icy cold water soaks my head. My head feels hot while my skin tingles. But it feels good. I slap my face again and again with water. I raise myself slowly, eyes still shut, letting water drip all over me.

  “Myra, no alcohol for at least 15 days. Yes, that’s a reasonable detox time.”

  I look at myself in the mirror. My dense curly hair, asymmetrically cut, is soaked and sticking to my skull. The eye makeup is smudged, but the waterproof mascara obstinately stays and is making my lashes stick together. My lipstick is smudged too. I look like a rag doll that a kid tried applying make-up on.

  My wet halter top is sticking to my skin, my nipples are hard and taut.

  ‘Why am I not wearing a bra?’ I pull out the top which is clinging to my wet skin and gasp at what I see in the mirror.

  A lipstick line runs alongside my vine creeper tattoos from the clavicles to my shoulders on either side. It looks like a kid had been playing with the lipstick, tracing a line. In the valley of my cleavage is scribbled in bold red -

  FUCKED

  I’m finding it difficult to breathe. The lipstick has been used to draw a lazy crooked line till my crotch and ends with an arrow mark. I grab the hard tile, my nails scratching on the surface. I stare at my reflection, the scribbled obscenity in my cleavage and the line ending in an arrow and then touch my breasts. They feel tender. The nipples feel sore. It pains when I touch them. As though someone… I can’t complete the sentence even in my mind and close my eyes.

  I touch my lower belly and then slide my hand inside the panty to touch myself. “I’m sore. It hurts.” I almost lose my balance and grab the side of the shower cubicle to stop the fall.

  “Did I have sex with someone last night? I don’t remember having sex.”

  “Yes. I’ve most definitely have had sex. The aches and soreness are telling me. I had sex last night. Not just hurried sex but prolonged repeated sex. But, who?”

  “Arjun!” the name springs to my mind and then I remember. “He wasn’t there at the party. We fought the day before because he said he couldn’t come. Then, who?”

  ‘What do I do?’

  “Hridi. Call Hridi.” A voice inside my head behind the fugue and haze speaks.

  “Yes, I need to call Hridi. But where the hell is my phone?” I grab the bathrobe from behind the door and stumble out grimacing with every step.

  I can’t see my phone. Not on the bedside table or next to the pillow. Where is it?

  I feel as though I’m going to pass out. “I have to call Hridi now.”

  I finally spot it on the wooden writing table near the window. I grab it.

  Hridi is on my speed dial. But it feels like the phone is ringing forever. She isn’t answering.

  “She must be still sleeping. Come on Hri, pick up!” I’m about to hang up when Hridi answers the call, her voice slurring and thick with sleep. “Myra, I can’t even open my eyes ya.”

  “Hridi! Please come, quick! Come over, please. I’m hurt.”

  “I’ll be there in 5.” Hridi’s voice changes in a second, almost as though she has jumped out of bed. We have the kind of friendship that didn’t need explanations. An urgent call meant, act first, ask later.

  I sit on the bed with my head bent and buried in my palms, waiting for Hridi to arrive.

  ‘Hri, please hurry.’ I murmur to myself. The minutes feel too long. When the door flings open and my lifeline walks in, I begin to cry.

  “Babe! My! What happened?” Hridi drops her tote on the floor and rushes over to me and holds me tight.

  “Hri,” I can barely speak as I gulp the rising saliva in my mouth, my voice hiccupping. “I… th…think I’ve been raped.”

  “What! How is that possible, My? You were at home. We were all here. You had a party at home. How…I mean..?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember, Hri. I’m feeling sore all over. It aches between my legs and someone wrote on me.”

  “Huh? What do you mean wrote on you?”

  I untie the robe, part it and show her the lipstick marking and the scribble.

  “What? How? Who did this?” Hridi’s fingers tighten on my arm as she bites her lower lip, holding back her breath. Shock etched on her face.

  “I don’t know, Hri. I woke up and saw this.”

  Hridi lowers her head on her hands, her thick curls tumble over her face.

  “My, are there any marks of assault on you? Nail scratches, bites…anything?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see anything. It hurts to move.”

  “Can you get up? Let me see.” I nod my head and stand up slowly.

  She rushes towards the window and pulls the curtains together. “I hope you haven’t showered, washed or passed urine.” I shake my head, grinding my teeth to stop my sobs.

  “Is there anything else? Are there any marks on my body?” I ask as Hridi kneels and looks.

  “No. There isn’t any.”

  Silence fills the room. Hridi is on the floor with her head buried in her hands. I barely recognize my voice when I speak.

  “I need to go to the cops, Hri. Will you take me?”

  As Hridi busies herself making calls, I sit on my bed, thoughts chur
ning and swirling inside.

  Who could have done this to me? I invited my friends last night. One of them raped me!

  Chapter 2. Dipti

  It was the perfect place to hide. Who would have thought that the SHO of the women’s police station in Gurgaon, Dipti Beniwal, would need a place to hide?

  But her mother-in-law was visiting and she didn’t come alone; two sisters accompanied her and Dipti would have preferred to lock herself in the cell at the station. She’d rather get a root canal done than endure their grilling about when she would have a baby. It didn’t matter that she had been promoted as the SHO of the new all-women’s police station, her picture had been in newspapers and she had been interviewed by the TV crew; none of that mattered. It all came down to the fact that after six years of marriage, there was no baby. She hated it when Umesh simply walked out of the room, avoiding the situation and ignoring the predicament it put her in.

  ‘Why can’t he tell his family that he has a low sperm count and is taking medication for it? Keeping quiet just makes them look at me as if it has to be my fault. It’s always the woman’s fault.’

  For all the aggression she displayed at work; Dipti kept quiet at home, skirting around sensitive discussions, avoiding confrontation till necessary.

  On the cold and smoggy November Sunday, Dipti had escaped to her cabin in the police station and was reading the newspaper, sipping yet another cup of masala chai that was too sweet and spicy; when two curly-haired women walked in to report a rape. Except for the difference in skin colour; one had creamy white skin and the other a wheatish complexion, both looked almost identical.

  *

  “Make sure the dog doesn’t come out.” Inspector Dipti lost her arrogant confidence that she usually wore like her badge as she walked out of the elevator towards Myra’s flat and heard the loud barking. She was followed by two women constables and Rajdeep Bhatia, the forensic guy who had just returned after a month-long leave for his marriage and then honeymoon. His newly-wedded wife had been very vocal about her displeasure when he left for work on a Sunday. The charm and thrill of being married to a cop came with riders that she wasn’t cognizant of.