THE DEEP END

The water was calm when they said I was there – face down in the producer’s pool; moonlight slicing through ripples like a final spotlight on a life I’d thought would never end. Still water hides many hands, and not all leave a trace.

 

Blind to our mortality, we strut about in our self-congratulatory arrogance. The phoniness, the pretence, lying, cheating, double-dealing. Frickin’ self-important buggers yapping night and day. Does love or anything else last forever? I don’t know; I haven’t been dead long enough. 

 

You think you know me, don’t you? Keith D’Souza – womaniser, sailor, man-about-Bandra. The Queen of Suburbs in ‘aamchi Mumbai’ – India’s Maximum City. 

 

Sacred Games, schmoozy love, smutty tales, St. Andrews, Carter Road, Pali Hill, LSD- love, sex and dumbasses, not necessarily in that order. 

 

Maybe you’ve seen my face around; the sort of face that looks like it should’ve always had a smile but hasn’t worn one in a long time. Ladies found me rugged and handsome once upon a time.

 

 I died with a smirk, they say. Eyes grinning even in rigor mortis. 

 

They discovered my body floating face-down in an obese Bollywood producer’s pool, waterlogged and as cold as the ice clinking in their glasses that night.

 

 Dramatic, even for me, but I suppose I deserved an exit as grand as the wonderful life I lived. 

 

I was many things - a cheat, a thief, a lover of beautiful women - but I wasn’t expecting to go out like that.

 

The tides ebb and flow around me; a restless spirit lost among the Bandra bungalows and hovels; the whispers of the Arabian Sea and the mystery of my death clings to me like an anchor, pulling me to its darkest depths. Do I know who killed me? Perhaps I do.

 

  Did it happen by mistake? Could it be a case of murder? Or was it something far stranger? 

 

My story is a tangled web of unsettling events, and I hope you’ll help untangle it. I am aware of the reasons for my demise - and who killed me - but isn’t there something delicious about the thrill of mystery? My post-death jab at self-importance.

 

I was born near the sea, in love with the surges and the ocean. We Pisceans gasp for breath between the devil and the vast expanse of the deep blue tides. 

 

 The salty breeze from the Arabian Sea caresses my skin, reminding me of the generations of men in the D’Souza family who have felt the same. The sound of crashing waves fills the air, a raw, mellifluous symphony of nature’s power. 

 

Some people call us East Indians - the first native inhabitants of Mumbai - worshipping the waters till the Portuguese made us Catholic, named the city Bom Bahia and gifted the whole goddamn land as dowry to the English. Denem from the very pious Catherine of Braganza- future Queen of England, Scotland and Ireland.

 

My grandfather hauled fish, my father handled cargo, and me? I sailed the world on cruise liners, playing the part of a ship’s officer while cutting deals no one was supposed to know about. Trinkets, luxury goods, and a few high-priced items that slipped between customs – just enough to make life interesting. 

 

My first brush with show business – A certain megastar owed me a favour after I ‘misplaced’ his incriminating sleaze and dope party tape at customs; saved him from the cops and media – turns out Bollywood pays well to keep secrets afloat. 

 

Connections to Dubai and my future in acting – secured by this singular act of ‘generosity’.

 

And that old clichéd sailor’s adage – a woman in every port. Boy, that part is true, at least for me. Colombians, Nigerians, Thais, Romanians - I had my pick. 

 

But the love of my life was Lorna, a gorgeous Catholic girl from my mother’s village, Aldona in North Goa. She had almond eyes and soft lips and prayed to every saint for my soul but never saved it. 

 

I loved her in my way, but I loved the chase of the unknown even more. The smell of fresh sea air pulled me back to the docks and the sight of Bandra changed every time I  returned – those were the real loves of my life. 

 

A traditional Bandra Feast day spread was memorable – chityaps, fragrant pulao, pork vindaloo, roast chicken, homemade wine, et al. 

 

You wouldn’t recognise Bandra if you saw it back then. No glittering actor bungalows, no Bollywood cars with tinted windows speeding down Hill Road. It was simpler. Life was a siesta, a fun salsa.

 

Fishermen and their wives, kids playing on the shore, the cross on the beautiful basilica of Mount Mary overlooking it all. Gaothans and pakhadis, illicit liquor and quiet village roads. The Parsis and Bohra Muslims waltzed in first, with the Punjabis and Sindhis next. Then the film stars moved in and everything went haywire. 

 

The old Catholic bungalows sold out to new money, and I shared beers with actors and directors who valued tradition far more than box office figures. That was such a merry time. A promising life, you could say.

 

“You love yourself, Keith. The rest of us are just props in your little world.” These are the last words anybody ever said to me. Perhaps Lorna, my wife, knew I was about to die. 

​

                                                                                                        Death Becomes Me

 

The day started out pretty normal. Well, normal by my standards. I woke up next to Louisa – no, Lorna. She was the one in school or college, I can’t remember – my second wife. I loved them both. 

 

I loved anything in a skirt. No, lusted. Anyway. 

 

Many thought I’d killed Louisa – her death raised eyebrows among those who knew us. The police, however, handed me a clear chit, proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction.

 

Yes, that’s right, two wives named Louisa and Lorna. You’d think I was trying to make things easier but trust me, marriage is no cakewalk when you are haunted by the 1950s Goan love song, about two women who share the names of your future wives.

 

What’s with these Konkani fados, anyway? Who has the time to contemplate love? Stuck-up losers. Slam, bam, no time, ma’am.

 

Twisted Firestarter, Smack My B***ch Up – now that’s music. Crass? Sure. But I’ll take raw, unruly chaos over pretentious genteel fluff any day.

 

Anyway, Lorna, my second wife, stands at the foot of the bed, glaring at me as if she’s already reading my obituary, disappointed by its lack of drama. Lorna believes all help comes from God – a comforting thought, I suppose, especially when you’ve got a direct line to heaven through Sunday Mass, like a devout parishioner clutching their rosary at a Church Feast.

 

Lorna had a type. I’ll give her that – handsome men with questionable survival skills. 

 

She also had a shared history of two deaths with me as an ingredient in the fish curry.

 

First, there was Louisa – my first wife, her distant cousin, who died under circumstances the Bandra gossip-mongers still chew on. 

 

Then there was Dominic Fernandes, my old college buddy and shipmate, whose chiselled jawline and smug grin made me question, for the first time, if I wasn’t the best-looking and most confident guy in the room.

 

 A venomous tide of jealousy washed over me — if envy were a scent, I’d have been choking on my toxic fumes.

 

Lorna fancied him, of course – made no secret of it, either. 

 

Guitar and banjo maestro on top of that, Dom had a knack for jazz syncopation – always a beat ahead, unpredictable, like life itself. 

 

Fitting, then, that he took an unscheduled swim in the Arabian Sea before she and I signed up for the marital madhouse.

 

  Convenient timing? Maybe. Do I know more than I say? Maybe. But as the saying goes, “let the dead stay buried,” right?

 

“You know Sunil wanted to come here today,” Lorna said, her face contorted into the most grotesque shape the Good Lord ever created. 

 

“Which Sunil? That Malabari Gopinath, the fatso Sindhi Malkani or my beloved brother-in-law Sunil Serrao,” I replied. 

 

“I always talk about my lovely, adorable sibling, Sunil, Keith. You know that, so why pretend otherwise, men?” She glared at me with eyes that could’ve killed me on the spot.

 

There it was. The dreaded name. Sunil Serrao. My brother-in-law. Or, as I liked to call him in the privacy of my thoughts, “The Bore Whisperer.” Self-absorbed killjoy. 

 

The man had the magical ability to make every conversation sound like a TED Talk on the beauty of dullness. 

 

The sort of guy who could talk about real estate trends for hours and still think he was giving you the scoop of the century. Pompous, arrogant, gutless cockroach who thought he was a divine gift to the universe. 

 

“I’d rather spend the day trapped in a room with drunk Bollywood extras than listen to Sunil drone on about interest rates and property values,” I thought. 

 

The last time I met him, he talked incessantly about his partnership with the Bollywood comedian Rustom Irani and creating a township in Lonavala or Lavasa. 

 

I knew I had to act fast. If I let him into the house, my entire morning would vanish into the black hole of his one-sided conversation. I started weighing my options. I could pretend I wasn’t home, maybe make Lorna handle him. I had to come up with a plan, and quickly. Sunil always had a way of showing up at the worst possible moment, like a bad omen. 

 

The Bollywood producer throwing the party I was attending that evening, Karan Bajaj, wasn’t what you’d call squeaky clean either. In Bandra, his name carried a certain weight, murmured in half-lit corners and over clinking glasses – the tales that never find their way into the glossy pages of the rag tabloids. He was also a former classmate of Lorna, Louisa and Dominic at St. Xavier’s. 

 

But parties like his, well, they were a required nuisance for someone like me. They kept the right people happy and distracted. You see, I made all my money post-retirement through my contacts with the slimy underbelly of the great Bombay film industry.

 

 I knew who was sleeping with whom, which Dubai don had contacted which star, which producer needed an infusion of illicit dough, and the latest trend India had picked up from the West – shell companies and corporate funding that led to even more intrigue and burnout. It all started with my first rendezvous. 

 

“What are you thinking about, Keith D’Souza? I know you want to go to that sleazy rich producer Bajaj’s party, but Sunil is my brother and he will come this afternoon. Your chikni chamelis can wait,” Lorna shouted.

 

“Of course, darling. Have I ever refused to meet your wonderful brother?” I said, my voice sincere and obsequious. I thought of murdering Lorna that very instant. 

 

After fobbing her off, I slept for some time and headed to the kitchen. So, there I was, sipping my morning coffee, the day of Karan Bajaj’s big bash looming large, feeling good about myself, when the doorbell rang.

 

“Brother Keith!” 

 

His voice carried through the hall, syrupy sweet, trying too hard. I could already feel the migraine pressing against my temples.

 

There he stood – Sunil. My brother-in-law. Buttoned-up, polished like a cheap piece of plastic. The guy didn’t just tie his shoelaces, he measured the symmetry on each loop.

 

I put on my best fake smile. “Sunil. What a surprise.” Goencha dukkar.

 

“A pleasant one, I hope?” 

 

His eyes darted around my living room as though he were scanning for something, or maybe just finding it hard to look at me.

 

I gestured toward the chair. 

 

“Well, sit. Don’t just stand there looking like you’re waiting for an invitation to a job interview.”

 

He sat, but he didn’t relax. That was Sunil – always on edge. There was something sinister or shady about him: like he was carrying something too heavy, but you didn’t know what it was. Not that I cared enough to ask.

 

“So, big night tonight,” he started, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Karan Bajaj’s place. Many people are waiting to shake your hand. You’re our Tom Cruise, Hrithik Roshan – old, sexy, smarty pants. "

 

Something in his tone tugged at me, something… off. But I wasn’t in the mood to bite. Not yet. I leaned back, taking another sip of my coffee, the bitterness settling in the back of my throat. 

 

“Yeah, Bajaj throws a delightful party. You know, the usual circus – Bollywood glitter, overpriced whiskey, semi-naked curvy women and a pool I’d bet is deeper than most of their personalities.”

 

Sunil chuckled, but it sounded forced. His eyes stayed too sharp, too focused. He wasn’t here for small talk.

 

“That Karan’s got a good setup,” he said like he was testing the waters. 

 

“Real estate, a production house… and those investments abroad. He’s a clever man. Knows how to get things done.”

 

The way he said ‘get things done’ had an oily quality that slithered around the room, curling into corners. My gut clenched, and I could tell where this was going.

 

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess he’s got his fingers in a few pies.” I tried to sound disinterested. 

 

“What’s this about, Sunil? You didn’t come all the way here to talk about Karan’s brilliant career trajectory and his stellar accomplishments. "

 

He smiled again, more like a cat now. 

 

“No, no, of course not. Just curious. You and Karan go back for quite a long time, don’t you? You know, what with your time in shipping… international waters, Bollywood megastars, Dubai dons – those amazing connections.”

 

There it was. I should’ve seen it coming. Sunil had always had this odd fascination with my shipping days, asking questions, and making these cryptic and snide comments about customs and loopholes. He was always fishing. 

 

For years, I’d shrugged it off and laughed it away – my stupid, boring brother-in-law. But now, sitting there, with the way he was looking at me, I couldn’t help but wonder.

 

“What are you getting at?” I said, playing dumb but feeling the itch like a hot, sticky feni burn. 

 

He leaned forward, dropping his voice. 

 

“Keith, listen. Bajaj isn’t just some film producer. You know that, right? You must’ve seen the people he works with. Politicians, entrepreneurs. Not the clean kind. You’ve been around long enough. You understand how these things work.”

 

I raised an eyebrow.

 

 “These things?”

 

He gave me a look, one of those long, penetrating glances, like he was trying to decide whether to say it outright or keep fishing. 

 

“Look, we’re family. I’m just saying… be careful. People like Bajaj… they don’t just take, they… well, they know how to use people. And you, with your shipping connections… let’s just say, he might use you for more than your charm at parties. I’ve heard he wants to network with the biggest cartels in the world.”

 

My mind flashed back. Years ago, when I was still working the international routes. Smuggling small stuff — luxury items, Rolex watches, maybe a few cases of booze here and there. Harmless.

 

 I was more interested in the ladies, sorry birdwatching. Exotic wildlife in the world. Just enough to make the long trips interesting. Then things became darker, intense and murkier. 

 

Sunil’s prior questions sparked my curiosity. Maybe he was envious. I had always brushed it off. I didn’t want the moron to know everything about me. 

 

Now, though, sitting in front of me, there was something more to his questions.  

 

“Sunil,” I said, keeping my voice steady. 

 

“You’ve been asking about shipping and my jhol jhal for years. And I’ve always told you, I have been out of that game for a long time. What’s your interest in all this, huh? Maka suseg di, give me peace bhava.”

 

His face hardened just a little. He wasn’t used to being pressed. 

 

“Just looking out for you, Keith. Bajaj’s deals… they’re not the kind you want to get tangled up in. You could end up on the wrong side of things. And I know you’ve still got… contacts. Overseas. People who could help grease the wheels, and facilitate things. Obrigado- aiz maka, falea tuka. Today it is me, tomorrow it will be for you.”

 

There it was. As I leaned back, the pieces began coming together in my head. Sunil, the boring brother-in-law, wasn’t such a bore after all; he had a hand in something bigger. But what exactly? And why was he poking around now? Perhaps it was because he wanted a cut of the stuff I was still running on the side. Or maybe, just maybe, he was digging for something else – something I hadn’t yet pieced together.

 

I recalled how he'd behave at other family gatherings – always lingering on the edge, always inquiring about my connections in Hong Kong, Dubai, or Singapore. He'd drop hints about investments and opportunities as if I had the Triad bosses on speed dial or shared chaha with Dubai's top bhais. Back then, I dismissed it, thinking it was just Sunil being himself. But now? Now I wondered if I should have paid closer attention.

 

I met his gaze, narrowing my eyes. 

 

“You’re the one who should be careful, Sunil. You’ve been poking around too much. And now you’re poking in the wrong place.”

 

For a second, something flickered across his face – fear, maybe? Or guilt? Hard to say. But then it was gone, replaced by that same slick smile. 

 

“Just trying to keep things in the family, Keith. You know, make sure no one steps on any landmines.” 

 

He stood up, brushing down his suit. 

 

“Anyway, I should let you get ready for tonight, re. Just… be smart about it, okay?”

 

I stood up too, watching him head for the door, my head spinning. What the hell was he playing at? How deep did this go? 

 

Before he left, he turned back one last time. 

 

“Keith,” he said, his voice low. 

 

“If something happens tonight, men… just remember, I warned you.”

 

And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing in the middle of my living room, the coffee cold in my hand, and a thousand questions buzzing in my brain.

 

What was Sunil after? What did he know about Bajaj that I didn’t? And why did I feel like I was standing on the edge of something big – something dangerous? Nah, it was a dumb, stupid Bollywood party. Nothing new was going to happen. It wasn’t like trigger-happy marauders were going to eviscerate the Taj again. 

 

I set the coffee cup down, staring at the door Sunil had just walked out of. Maybe I’d been underestimating him all these years.

 

                                                                                               The Day I Died – 8:30 p.m.

 

I arrived at Karan Bajaj’s mansion with my usual swagger, the salt-and-pepper in my hair a little more salt these days, but damn, I still looked good. Those white taporis on Netflix had nothing on me.  

 

Faleam mortolo mhunn aizuch fonddatt poddchem re - Celebrate life when you’re still alive, as they said in Konkani. 

 

The valet, some scrawny kid with a too-tight suit, opened the door of my sleek black car and gave me a look that said he recognised me. Perhaps a Bandra film party, perhaps elsewhere. I was familiar with the Fonsecas, Rebellos, Tauros, Salgaonkars, and all the goddamn agencies in the area. 

 

I gave him a nod, tossed him a note, and walked up the driveway like I owned the place. 

 

Karan’s mansion loomed ahead, all glass and chrome, shimmering under the night sky like some Bollywood producer’s fever dream of Hollywood – L.A. Confidential with stray  dogs and beggars. And maybe that’s what it was – a bad knock-off of a Beverly Hills estate. 

 

I thought much of SoBo was about trying hard to impress white people. Stinky pretentious brown SOBs. Queue up for their shows, idolise individuals and cheer for every former star who didn’t give a damn. Nothing like shelling out a fortune to watch has-beens play yesterday’s anthems to today’s sheeple. Play it cold, hot play. 

 

And these Bollywood types were the worst of the lot. Not that the rest of India was far behind these days. 

 

In the middle of the driveway, an enormous fountain gurgled, spraying water high as if auditioning for a movie role. 

 

The air smelled of damp grass, tinged with the sharp scent of premium liquor and a touch of floral perfumes, swirling with the undercurrent of excitement and excess. I winced at the overwhelming showiness of it all, but grinned to myself, impressed by the sheer audacity. 

 

The city’s two most plush caterers: the Taj and The Olive. 

 

  I could already smell the truffle oil wafting from the canapés, mingling with the floral perfumes of a dozen leggy models. 

 

All of them in some cheap see-through dress and oversized heels. Heavy mascara and smoky eyes.

 

 I stepped inside, and the flashing chandelier lights, Honey Singh’s Manali Trance, and the loud hum of conversation overwhelmed me.

 

  Actors, producers, wannabe directors, all standing around in small cliques like vultures circling the biggest paycheck in the room. I grabbed a whiskey from a passing server’s tray – neat, no ice. It slid down my throat like liquid gold. 

 

I swallowed when a familiar silky voice purred beside me. 

 

“Keith D’Souza, still turning heads, I see.” 

 

I turned to see Rhea Malhotra, Bollywood’s current ‘item’ girl, standing there in a skin-tight dress that seemed to be made from a million tiny diamonds. The earlier boyfriend had committed suicide, and it had become a national issue and shouting match, only to be forgotten in a few months. 

 

Her crimson lips curved into a sly grin as her eyes roamed over me, lingering on my still-sexy abs before dropping lower, as if savouring every inch.

 

 “Rhea,” I said, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks. 

 

“You know the score, babe. Just trying to hang with the cool crowd.”

 

 She laughed, a sound that was both throaty and innocent – one she had mastered for the screen, no doubt. B-grade flicks or OTT shows, you could go fully nude and trend No.1. Lust greased the wheels.  

 

“Oh please, you’ve always been ahead of the game, Keith. And I see you’re still working that rugged charm.”

 

I forced a smile, but her innocuous words coiled tight in my gut like a snake preparing to strike. Sucker punch. Sure, I still had the looks, the charm, the street smarts, but standing here, amidst these gleaming, plasticized people, I couldn’t help but sense the edges of my life fraying. 

 

Younger women, more polished actors, and dirtier deals. I was still Keith – older, with deeper lines etched into my face, but unchanged where it mattered. Now am I an ex-ship guy, a smuggler or a hipster actor? A bit of everything. I believed I was famous in the glorious suburb of Bandra. The rest of the country knew my charms somewhat.

 

  As she talked, my eyes darted around the room. A group of models in tight, glittering dresses stood by the bar, laughing too loud, tossing their hair back. 

 

A few Bollywood kingpins huddled together, whispering, their eyes darting toward the prettiest girls. Fat, lewd morons. 

 

  A famous actor posed by the piano, fake-candid for the photographer, snapping away like the Cannes red carpet. I felt the urge to laugh. Indians trying to be the West. 

 

Trying so damn hard, they didn’t even see how ridiculous it all looked. The wealth, the arrogance, the pretence. I downed another gulp of whiskey, my lips curling in distaste as I caught the distinct smell of someone’s overpriced cologne. Who wore that much musk? I wasn’t wasting my brain cells on this shit. 

 

“Not your scene anymore, Keith?” 

 

It was Rhea again, catching the shift in my mood. Why was this cheap floozy still trying to flirt with me? But she looked good in a way. Erotic, erotic, put my hands all over her body. Ma. She’s a donna. 

 

I shrugged, putting on a smile. 

 

“It’s always my scene. I’m just… enjoying the view.” 

 

“Mm-hmm.” 

 

Her eyes narrowed – a playful suspicion there. 

 

“Well, don’t enjoy it too much. I hear you’ve got competition tonight.”

 

I raised an eyebrow. “Competition?” 

 

Rhea leaned in closer, her breath warm on my ear. 

 

“You know Karan’s scouting for his next film. New faces, extra money. All of them have been craving his approval.” 

 

She glanced toward a tall, broad-shouldered guy across the room, fresh out of a celebrity gym, and purred. 

 

“He’s the latest flavour. Your kind of guy? Are you ‘bi’, Keith?” 

 

I looked at the man - tall, handsome, with more swagger than a peacock on a catwalk - and stifled a laugh. 

 

“Please. He looks as if he’s auditioning to be the next furniture catalogue model. And, I don’t act. You know Karan and I are negotiating a business deal. We are gonna be partners in a new project.” I always bluffed. 

 

Rhea laughed, throwing her head back, and drawing a few eyes from around the room. I felt a small twinge of satisfaction. I still had it, oodles of machismo and sex appeal.

 

 But that old sense of unease crept in again. Rhea was right. New faces and fresh players emerged. Guys like Karan were reshuffling their decks. 

 

And me? Well, I wasn’t an integral part of the new scene. I had been in shipping, rubbing elbows with the international elite, and pulling small-time smuggling gigs. 

 

Then came a few A-list heroines and a dozen other starlets from mofussil Indian towns. Easy distractions. Acting in a few shows and sleazy Bollywood flicks. Networking with the dark side involved cartels and dons. Deeper and deeper, sweeter and sweeter. 

 

With a cigarette in my hand, I always felt like an arsehole. 

 

And now? Here? I was just the old rogue they invited to parties to keep the past alive. Depression was a feeling that my mind never embraced. 

 

“You don’t look too impressed,” Rhea said, her smile fading a tad. 

 

I took another sip of the expensive whiskey. At least Bajaj had the finest poison in Bandra – hell, in all of Bombay. 

 

“It’s all just a twisted little chessboard, Rhea, where everyone’s playing their moves. They come, they go. I’m just here for the ride.”

 

 Just then, I spotted my sneaky snake of a brother-in-law, Sunil standing in the corner talking to Karan. His stiff posture, the way he gestured with those precise hands – it didn’t sit right. Karan nodded and smiled, his eyes gleaming in that telltale way when he held back tidbits. 

 

My gut twisted. Sunil had been asking too many questions. The shipping, the connections overseas. Now, he was cosying up to Karan as if they were old buddies. What in the world was happening? 

“Excusez moi,” I said to Rhea, placing my empty glass on a passing tray. She gave me a curious look.

 

I moved through the crowd, the buzz of conversations and laughter melting into the background. My eyes stayed fixed on Sunil, who was now leaning in closer to Karan, talking too low for anyone else to hear.

 

 I felt that familiar tightening in my chest, the kind that came just before something went very wrong. What was this bugger Sunil up to? And why was he so interested in my past shenanigans?

 

 As I approached, I heard Karan’s booming laugh, cutting through the noise. 

 

“Keith! There you are!” Karan waved me over, his grin wide and blinding. 

 

Sunil turned, his face impassive; but his eyes held an enigma I couldn’t decipher. Deft and sinister. 

 

 “Good to see you, Keith,” Karan said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “We were just talking about you.” 

 

I forced a smile. “Yeah? All good things, I hope.” 

 

Karan laughed again, but Sunil’s face remained still, unreadable. 

 

“Of course,” Karan replied, his smile still present, yet a hint of sharpness in his tone. 

 

“We were just reminiscing about your shipping days. Quite the adventures you’ve had, am I right? International playboy. The Goan Bond.”

 

 My heart pounded. 

 

What the hell were they getting at? I glanced at Sunil, who met my gaze with that same cryptic stare. Boy, this guy was a chameleon who sheds skins every minute. Or was that a lizard changing colours? Heck, I didn’t care.   

 

I forced a chuckle. “Ah, nothing too wild. Just moving goods across the ocean. A little import-export business. You know the rules of the game. Karan, I have no secrets from you. Stop kidding.”

 

But Sunil didn’t laugh. He nodded, smirking at me, implying a hidden narrative. As I started toward the bar, Sunil’s unyielding grip on my elbow stopped me. 

 

“Keith, we need to talk.”

 

I shrugged him off.

 

  “We’ve done enough talking for a lifetime, Sunil. Earlier today as well. You’re the most boring bastard I’ve ever met in my life. I don’t know why I tolerate you. Yeah, my brother-in-law. For Lorna’s sake.”

 

He lowered his voice, glancing around the room as if he was worried someone might overhear. “Karan’s got something on you. I’m serious.”

 

I let out a laugh, more for show than because I found it funny. This bastard was a nincompoop. 

 

“Karan’s always got something on someone. He wouldn’t be in this business if he didn’t. Sleazy producer.”

 

Sunil stepped closer, his breath warm and sharp in my ear. 

 

“No, Keith. This is different. He knows about the Singapore-Indonesia-China run. The one where you skimmed a lot from the top. Double-crossed him and his Dubai contacts.”

 

I paused. Tried to play along. Just for a second. It lasted long enough for him to see. 

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” I said, my voice a little louder than I intended. A couple of people glanced our way. I didn’t care.

 

“He’s been digging into your shipping deals. He knows everything, Keith. The side jobs for the cartels, ISIS, Al-Qaeda. There’s no statute of limitations on this and he’s got contacts in the CBI, the ED, all the political party bigwigs. He can throw you behind bars any time,” Sunil said, his voice a low hiss now. 

 

I jerked my arm away and turned towards the bar. 

 

“You’ve always been paranoid, Sunil. And this isn’t America for the statute of limitations and all that shit. We’re in India, where judgements come a hundred years after your grandfather has died. I’ve told you before – you worry too much. Now go hide your rotten face somewhere.”

 

However, as I headed towards the drinks counter, a feeling of unease twisted in my gut. Sunil wasn’t the type to bluff. He had never been. Well, maybe sometimes. 

 

And I knew Karan – how he mastered the long game, flashing that big, disarming smile while quietly digging in the dirt, unearthing secrets that could bury us all. We knew he financed the cheap tabloids and had a stake in everything from cricket leagues to political parties.

 

I tossed back a shot of whiskey, then another, feeling the familiar burn in my throat. I needed to clear my head. Increase the fog; distract myself from Sunil’s words. Bailea masti pisso.

 

A stunning woman in a sleek silver dress passed by, her perfume cutting through the haze. I reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her close. 

 

“Where are you going, beautiful? Stay a while.”

 

She looked me up and down, amused but unimpressed.

 

“Maybe later, Keith. You’re a little too drunk for me right now.”

 

I laughed, pretending I didn’t notice the look of disdain in her eyes as she pulled away. 

 

“Ah, don’t be like that. What’s a few drinks between friends?”

 

I again signalled the bartender for another drink. Behind me, the party was getting louder and more chaotic. 

 

Bollywood beats thumping, Bhangra, house, electronic dance music, people shouting over each other struggling to be heard, models parading like they were at a fashion show. Smoke and heat. The entire scene was absurd, maximum overdrive. I loved every moment, surprisingly.

 

I leaned in toward a woman standing nearby, her back to me, talking to someone else.

 

“Hey,” I slurred, “you’re looking a little too classy for this place. What are you doing here?” She turned around, and my stomach dropped. It was Karan’s sister, Maya. She had dated everybody from American billionaires to Arab princes. 

 

Her eyes flashed with something between anger and pity. “Keith,” she said, “maybe it’s time for you to go home.”

 

But I wasn’t listening. “Home? The night’s just getting started, sweetheart.”

I shifted my gaze to a different woman, standing beside a vigorous man who seemed like he could snap me in half. 

 

“And you, pretty doll, what’s your story?” I said, letting my hand linger a little too long on her arm. She looked at me like I was dirt under her shoe, but I didn’t care.

 

The guy she was with stepped forward, his fists clenched, but I laughed it off. 

 

“Relax, big guy. Bro, we’re all friends here.”

 

I could feel the room spinning, my thoughts scattering like confetti. I downed another whiskey or was it vodka, not caring who I offended or how much I was embarrassing myself. The booze was hitting me hard now, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

 

Sunil was in front of me again, grabbing my shoulder and trying to pull me aside. 

 

“Keith, we need to leave. Now.”

 

I pushed him away, laughing. 

 

“Leave? You’re not my bloody keeper or aai, Sunil. Go babysit someone else, bewarshi.”

 

He didn’t budge. His face was tight, his eyes scanning the room. Sunil dragged me to a small pool in a part of Karan’s bungalow I thought only I knew.

 

“You don’t get it, do you? Karan’s watching you. He’s waiting for you to screw up, then move in for the kill.”

 

I blinked, trying to focus on his face through the blur. 

 

“Karan? Please. He’s my pal. He wouldn’t –”

Before I could finish, I felt a shove. Or maybe it was just the ground tilting beneath me. My legs buckled, and the next thing I knew, I was stumbling backwards.

 

 I reached out, trying to grab onto something - someone - but the world was spinning too fast. Three distinct voices blurred together, cackling like the witches of Macbeth, shouting, a silky siren calling my name, dissing my self-absorption. 

 

Then the cold hit me like a tidal wave.

 

It was unexpected, jarring. A slap across the face. I gasped as I plunged into the water – ice cold, even in the sticky Mumbai night. 

 

It hit me like a rogue wave – unexpected, disorienting. I was an experienced sailor. I had survived hurricanes and cyclones in monstrous oceans. What was a pool going to do? 

 

One moment, I was gasping for air; the next, many rough hands clawed at me. Fingers dug into my shoulders, and my chest, forcing me under. The water closed over me like a heavy lid, muffling the world above as panic clawed into my lungs.

 

I again heard voices from above, more sarcastic laughter, then a scream. My head bobbed up once or twice, but I was coughing and choking on the water. 

 

My legs kicked, trying to keep me afloat, but I was too drunk. Too weak.

 

Was I pushed? Did I slip? I couldn’t remember at that instant. I couldn’t think.

 

I felt something pull at my legs, and for a moment, the black water closed over me, swallowing me whole. Everything went dark. A void of nothingness.

 

That’s all I recall about that instant – final curtain call. The lights dimmed, the camera rolled, but the reel had run out. My earthly existence had ended. 

​                                                                                                                  

                                                                                                        Dead, not loving it.

 

People often say that when you are about to die, your entire life passes by in an instant. They say it with the smug confidence of someone who has kicked the bucket and come back to share the scoop – like death is their weekend hobby and we’re all supposed to take notes. 

 

Well, I can tell everybody that there was and is no such thing. My life and everything in it is coming back to me now, as I hover around Bandra, looking for redemption. Maybe I’ll ascend to the heavens on Good Friday. 

 

I used to believe my death would be dramatic and fitting, like having a heart attack while trying to impress a woman out of my league or falling off a yacht during a boozy night. 

 

But no, it had to happen in a damn secluded pool on the second floor of a Bollywood producer's mansion. The ground floor was packed with partying, doped-up wannabe actors and sleazy directors who didn't hear me shouting for help. I assure you; the irony isn't lost on me.

 

And you’re wondering who did it, aren’t you? Who shoved me into that cold water? And why didn’t people notice? That secluded little private pool only I knew. Memories of arranging trysts with Euro-trash for Karan. C’est la vie- Prawn Balchão-spicy, tangy, fiery and messy. 

 

It wasn’t one of those muscle-bound bodyguards with more biceps than brains. God knows people run YouTube channels named after beer and muscles.

 

Well, it was Karan Bajaj. And next, who led me there? The most obvious suspect. It was also Sunil, the nosy bastard who spent or wasted half his life warning me about every poor decision I ever made. 

 

No, but here’s the shocker. The pièce de résistance - Lorna. My wife, Terminator 2: Judgment Day. The sequel to Louisa. Yeah, I know – didn’t see that coming, did you?

 

See, Lorna always had a quiet fury about her. The kind that boils beneath the surface, slow and steady, until one day it explodes. That night, she’d had enough. 

 

No more philandering, smuggling, lies, or nights I didn’t come home. Cooking and cleaning for yours truly. I guess she decided that I’d swam in the deep end of life long enough, and it was time for me to sink.

 

She’d read my diary, you see – the one where I confessed to strangling Louisa and shoving Dominic into the sea when no one was looking. Her cousin and the love of her life were both dead by my hands.

 

 I hadn’t known she’d co-opted her brother Sunil and Louisa’s devoted friend, Karan Bajaj, to help her. That little detail only came to light after my lights went out. 

 

Drifting as a phantom has its perks – you slip through doors like whispers and watch the living chatter away, blissfully oblivious to the shadow of your unseen gaze. Hell hath no fury like a man cut from the script. 

 

I saw Karan, Sunil and Lorna laughing and dining at a snazzy joint after my funeral as if celebrating a job well done. Kha, pi ani susegad raõ. 

 

The official story was that I died of a heart attack at home – every detail was staged with care and swept under the rug, courtesy of my pious, devoted wife, Lorna, and Karan’s impeccable clean-up crew.

 

And how do I know all this now? Simple. I’m dead – floating in the ether, waiting for Lucifer’s smirk or Peter’s sigh. Either way, it looks like I’m on the highway to the deepest, darkest hole. The VIP suite in the abyss. 

 

So, yeah. The love of my childhood, the girl I married in Mount Mary’s chapel, was the one who did me in. She walked right past me that night – cool and collected. I replayed that night from all angles courtesy of Ghostflix which only plays Deaths and Murders on repeat. My last supper was followed by the last stagger. 

 

I don’t know when she sneaked in. Gave me the final push, and let Karan, Sunil and the water do the rest.

 

You could say I deserved it. I won’t argue. But here’s the thing – sometimes, the people closest to you are the ones who surprise you the most. Life’s funny that way. Or, in my case, death is.

 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an eternity to figure out whether or not to forgive her…

​

                                                                                                                    **END**