Guys! Another small break from my usual self... This story is originally dedicated to one my really cool friend cum reader. Yes, the name of the OFC is actually a name of the cool friend I am talking about. The story is as simple as my other ones.. My style statement! anyways review as much as possible..I need to know if I am write senseless or sensible! Ok enjoy now! Sakshi! Girl this one's for ya! Romance fully loaded xD
I was home alone on a winter night of Friday night. In Dehradun.
That's how most horror movies start, isn't it? A young girl, all alone in a massive house with acres of land surrounding so no one could hear her scream and from the shadows, the killer lurks, watching her through the windows...
Well, I'd defy anyone to make a good horror movie set in my house. My house is in the middle of a council estate in a fairly average city just on the outskirts of Dehradun, and the walls between the ridiculously tiny houses are so thin that I always know when my neighbour is walking around upstairs; he has a habit of pacing his bedroom when he fights with his girlfriend. Furthermore, my house was even more crowded than it should have been, serving its life functioning as a student house. My landlord had turned all the available rooms – barring the kitchen and bathroom – into bedrooms so that the house, technically only supposed to have two bedrooms, had three. My downstairs bedroom came with its very own (non-functioning) fireplace and mantelpiece as a reminder that it was supposed to be a living room.
Anyway, I've digressed through description; my point is that for a good horror movie to work, you need to have lots of open spaces and potential places for the killer to hide. In my house, there were minimal places to hide without being discovered quickly; every room was nearly always in use. One of my housemates, Chirag , was rather fond of Sherlock Holmes and used this fact to his advantage. He liked to kick open my door when I'd be sitting innocently in my room and shoot me mercilessly until he was out of bullets. Whoever said that boys matured as they got older was lying through their teeth.
I ramble too much.
So, like I said previously, the Friday night that this story begins, I was home alone. Chirag and my other housemate, Sweta, had gone out to the cinema to see the latest instalment in some gory horror film franchise whilst I'd chosen to stay at home.
"Yar Sakshi, chal na humare saath maza ayega! Tickets book kar lenge instantly don't worry!" Chirag persuaded as he and Sweta were stepping out the front door.
"Nehi yar," I said with a grin. "Go on, you two kids have fun!"
They both laughed; I'm actually two years younger than both of them having come straight from school to university whereas they'd taken gap years and done various exciting things.
"And you," I said, sternly pointing a finger at Chirag, "Mere Sweta ko kuch hua, you should know I have ak 44 and a shovel – I doubt you will be missed."
"CID lover," Chirag laughed, pulling on his coat. "I'll have her back at a reasonable hour and all that... no later than 2am!"
Sweta grinned apologetically. "We'll try not to make too much noise when we get in. Raat ka show haina tu samajh rahi hai na, I doubt it'll be over much before two... Sakku tu bore ho jaigi please chalna humare saath..."
"Sweta, tu meri room mate cum best friend hai, mummy mat ban," I pointed out. "Go, have fun, enjoy your life! I have a fantastic evening planned anyway; a date, woh bhi Sr. Inspector Daya ke saath!"
My housemates both rolled their eyes.
"We need to get you laid," Chirag said flatly. "And very soon."
"Goodbye guys!" I said firmly, pushing them out the door and shutting it behind them.
So there I was, a 20 year-old student, living in Dehradun in the finest years of my life... and I was home alone on a Friday night and doing the washing up because I was too much of a wimp to see a film about gratuitous violence and torture.
Plus, as a student, I was suffering one of the typical traits that came with the title - permanently poor.
I sighed, absently staring at the soapy water as I rinsed out my favourite Starbucks mug (which may or may not have been gained through less-than-legal ways), putting it on the draining board –
- And suddenly, there was a loud BANG from behind me. I jumped about a foot in the air and spun around.
The kitchen was empty.
"What the -?!" I asked out-loud to no one in particular.
I suspiciously looked around the kitchen from where I stood, trying to listen for any more odd noises. It was probably my neighbour; maybe he was just as much of a loser as I was, staying in on a Friday night? Chirag's comment about me getting laid suddenly resounded in my head... maybe I could just happen pop round with a Silk chocolate... "Oh hey, I heard you were in tonight and since you've just broken up with your girlfriend again, I was wondering if you wanted to – how did I know that? Err, well I may have heard her screaming at you through the wall that separates our house. Actually, whilst I'm here, what's your name?"
Just as I was turning back to the sink, there was another loud noise, this time a clatter – like the sounds of pots moving against each other. I turned around again, trying to locate the noise. It sounded like it was coming from inside the full-length cupboard at the other end of the kitchen.
Do you ever get those moments in life where, in hindsight, you wonder if there was anything you could have done to predict what was coming next? I remain firmly convinced to this day that there was no possible way I could have guessed what was would happen when I opened the cupboard. At the time, I distinctly remember thinking that I hadn't stacked something properly when I put it away and was preparing myself for an avalanche of plates and pans as I opened the door –
"... hello!"
I screamed.
So did the boy in my kitchen cupboard.
I first heard of CID when I was 18. I was young, naive and in my first year of university, desperately trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. For me, university initially completely failed to live up to the hype – the endless parties I'd been promised were nowhere to be seen and the wonderful drunken sexual encounters I was supposed to have were non-existent. As for my degree, my lectures were filled with subjects I had little to no interest in, finding out far too late that a degree in Film Studies would get me NOWHERE in life, particularly when I didn't even really want to go into the film industry anyway. But far worse than all of that, I had no friends.
The lack of friends was definitely the worst part. I could have dealt with realising I'd made a mistake in my degree and discovering the social life wasn't all it was cracked up to be – if I'd had someone to share it with. Sure, I was making friends but there was no one who I'd immediately just 'clicked' with. Do you know how it feels to know that if you skipped lectures or even dropped off the face of the earth, no one would notice? It's ten shades of suck, that's what it is!
I was used to feel content when I started reading news papers. Headlines used to be filled with news that had to with all bravery works of the CID team, which attracted me more and more into them. And then I found out it was man that fucked everything up forever for me. I was becoming obsessed with him. I used to spend my free time looking up his childhood photos and early officer photos of him with Abhijeet. In one of the interview he had acknowledged his friendship with childhood companion Abhijeet.
A lot of Daya fans will vehemently protest that they always knew that CID is only best because of Daya. Me, I've got no problem admitting I thought CID would ever run without such an officer. After discovering his true talent, I was so intrigued by this team that I wanted to find out a bit more about them. I was impressed to discover the team had been going since they were young, and even more impressed to discover that the Abhijeet and Daya are two inseparable best friends. Amazing officers living in Mumbai, had got me loving that town more than I can ever imagine.
Yeah, yeah, I know, it's cheesy. I'm sure that the team got countless people, each of them feeling the same as me, maybe some of them even in far worse situations than mine, but whatever. For me, thoughts about these men came into my life at a time I really needed some help – it gave me something to borrow some strength off.
And gradually, things got better at university. I started to like my course (though I still think it's a useless degree). I made friends and found kindred spirits, like Chirag and Shweta, who I would eventually end up living with after the end of the first year. The point I'm trying to make with this somewhat-long flashback is that I'd also been changed. I was a CID fan from that point on and there was no going back.
Therefore, on a Friday night when I opened my kitchen cupboard and happened to find a small boy in there, even throughout the shock (and screaming), I couldn't help but notice that the boy had a very strange resemblance to the thirteen year-old version of none other than my favourite senior officer of CID.
Of course, this wasn't the most dominant thought in my head. That one, as both the boy and I screamed like the apocalypse had come, was, "OHMYGODTHEREISACOMPLETESTRANGERINMYHOUSEANDI'MALONEHOWTHEHELLDIDTHEYGETIN
ARETHEREMOREOFTHEMWHERE'SMYPHONEWHAT'STHEHELLISGOINGON?!"
I slammed the door shut with unnecessary violence, pressing hard against it with both hands. For a few seconds, there was complete silence, broken only by my gasped breathing, feeling my heart race and thud against my rib cage.
And then, there was a tiny, timid knock from the other side of the cupboard door and an equally tiny voice calling out.
"Eh Deva... hello?"
I kept my hands pressed firmly against the cupboard door with all my strength, trying to rationalise what the hell was going on.
It was just a small boy, I told myself. He could have gotten into the house earlier – somehow – but why was he in here in the first place? – but he might have been scared when he realised I was in, so he hid. I'd probably scared the shit out of him, flinging the cupboard door open and screaming like a banshee.
But he could also have been one of the chavvy kids off the estate and had actually been trying to rob us when, again, he realised there was someone else in the house. What if there were more of them in the house?! What if it'd been one of the gangs?! They'd never particularly intimidated me – there's something about a group of spotty twelve year-olds in their knock-off tracksuits, banging on about " 'ow well 'ard" they are that's never really struck the intended fear into my heart that it's supposed to – but if there were more of them in the house... we had laptops, for God's sake! And Sweta would go bezerk if anyone touched her clothes...
The boy was knocking on the cupboard door again, this time a little more strongly, and calling out. For some bizarre reason, he was speaking Marathi – If my two years of being a lover of CID and Mumbai have taught me anything, it's how to recognise Marathi when I hear it. I still can't actually speak it to save my life but I can recognise a few basic words.
Marathi or not, there was also no mistaking the distinct tremor in his voice.
"Hello?" he called again. "Abhijeet?"
Well, I'm not going to get any answers with kid still trapped in the cupboard, I reasoned with myself. Just as I was taking a deep breath and preparing to open the door, there was a crash inside the cupboard, followed by a loud "behnchod!"
I pulled the door open again and said the first thing that came to my mind.
"Mind your language!"
The boy blinked furiously as the light filled the cupboard, almost shying away from it. He was half-propped, half holding himself up awkwardly against the shelves with his foot stuck in one of the saucepans on the floor. His eyes suddenly focused on me – has he curled his hair? - and shrunk back into the cupboard as much as he could.
Yup, I'd definitely terrified him.
"Niklo waha se!" I said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him out, a little more roughly than necessary. The saucepan came with him with a CLUNK – his foot was well and truly stuck.
"Kon ho tum? Yaha kese aye?!" I demanded, pointing at the cupboard. I realised I had to stoop slightly to meet his eyes; I'm 5ft7 and this kid could only have been about 5ft4.
His eyes darted from the cupboard, to me, then all around the kitchen, as if he was taking in his surroundings... and then he said something in rapid Marathi again.
"Zyada hoshiyar mat bano!" I snapped. "Tum mujhe samajh sakte ho, ab batao yaha kese aye?!"
As I was yelling, the most irritating and inappropriate thought that I could possibly have for that moment in time was jumping around in my head; this kid really did look like Daya... except I'd never seen Daya looking like he was young and when he is about to cry.
Horror filled me. I've never been good with kids, particularly crying ones. Case in point, when I babysat a seven year-old when I was sixteen. It'd all been going fine until he suddenly started missing his Mum and started howling for her. I thought playing a game would cheer him up and remembered that he'd especially loved 'Hide And Seek In The Dark.'
At the time, it didn't occur to me that locking an-already-hysterical seven year-old in a completely pitch-black room probably wasn't the best idea.
"Hey, no no, please mat ro!" I said, watching the Daya-a-like's eyes dangerously water up. My hand shot out to pat his shoulder in a gesture I genuinely meant to be comforting. The kid, however, clearly thought I was going to beat him. He let out a strangled cry and the next thing I knew, big fat tears were rolling down his cheeks as he started bawling.
"No no noo!" I cried, flapping my hands ineffectually. "Me nehi mar rahi apko, mat ro please!"
It was no use; he only cried louder.
I looked around the kitchen, desperately trying to find something that would shut him up. This Daya-kid wasn't a quiet crier and any second now, I was sure my neighbour would be ringing the doorbell... "Is ghar me bache ki rone ki awaz ayi? Kya ho raha hai?!"
My eyes fell on an opened packet of Brittania Cakes on the kitchen counter. Chirag was going to kill me for this (you did not touch his Brittania Cakes without permission unless you wanted to be in considerable pain for a long time) but desperate times called for desperate measures.
"Here!" I said, grabbing the box off the counter and holding it out to the kid. He stopped wailing – thank god, he sounded like a car alarm going off in a biscuit tin – and sniffed, looking from the box in my hand to my face in confusion.
"Lo yeh lo!" I said again, shaking the box at him a little. "Tumhare liye! But please, for the love of God, stop crying!"
He said something (in Marathi, again), his voice breaking slightly as he gulped back a sob. I didn't have a clue what he was saying, so I just forced what I hoped was a reassuring smile and held the box out to him again. He still looked terrified, but slowly reached out with his right hand for the box. The thumb of his left hand was hooked over the hideously looking shiny chain around his neck, clutching it tightly for comfort and his entire body was shaking madly. I wasn't sure if it was from fear or because he was genuinely cold. My house had no heating and I'd only just noticed what he was wearing at this point; an oversized black shirt with no sleeves and the neck-line torn to the point of revealing far too much of his chest for my liking. Call me crazy but I don't particularly feel comfortable with under-age flesh on display and this kid was clearly no older than thirteen. His shirt had a pair of stripy, orange flares that looked like they'd come straight from the 70's.
The kid was nervously chewing on a chocolate Cake as I stared at him. There was no way he could have come from any of the young groups on the estate; this kid wouldn't have lasted ten seconds with them with such cloths.
"Idher raho," I said distractedly as I noticed goose-bumps rising up along his bare arms. Juvenile delinquent or whatever, I didn't want this kid freezing to death on my watch.
He looked at me, nibbling the edges of the Chocolate Cake.
"Hmm?" he asked.
"Idher- Raho!" I said a little louder and slower, gesturing to the floor as I turned to the door. It's a typical Indian trait; if someone doesn't speak Hindi, speaking louder and slower in said language will surely make them understand!
I was in and out my room in less than a minute, grabbing the first brown over sized coat I could lay my hands on; a massive, oversized one that I'd woken up in after a particularly drunken house party. How I'd gotten it was a complete mystery to everyone as I'd woken up with my head on Sweta's lap, both of us sprawled on a sofa, with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted of vomit... and somehow, I was also wearing this massive brown coeat with a random black print over my jeans. It came down to my knees and I had to push the sleeves back several times to ever use my hands, but I liked it – it had an oddly comforting smell of aftershave. No one at the party could identify who it belonged to or even how I'd gotten it in the first place (welcome to student life!), so I called dibbs and kept it. I secretly loved it; it looked like something Abhijeet would wear.
"Yeh lo," I said, back in the kitchen and holding the coat out to the kid. "Thand lag rahi hogi tumhe."
He looked at the coat and then at me before taking it and pulling it over his head, accepting it less hesitantly than the Cake. His messy curls was even more of a mess when he pulled his head through and I had to bite back a laugh – the coat was too big for me and it absolutely swamped this kid - but he suddenly smiled shyly at me.
"Dhanyawad!" he said.
OK, I understood that much.
"Acha, ab acting band karo," I said, trying to sound as friendly and non-intimidating as possible, "Me nehi marungi, ap batao ap yaha kya kar rhe ho, pakka me apko chor dungi."
The kid blinked at me, apparently not understanding. I suddenly noticed he had broad and pointed nose... just like Daya. And I could have sworn I'd seen his exact outfit somewhere before...
My brain clicked. I threw my head back and laughed.
"OK, very funny," I said, patting the kid on the shoulder. "Yeh kisne kaha tha tumhe karne ko? Chirag bhaiya?"
The kid stared at me like I was a lunatic.
"You're a really good look-a-like," I continued, chuckling. "Or Marathi wala accent to bhot acha tha! So, what's your name beta?"
He still hadn't said anything. The over-sized jumper wasn't helping; he appeared to be shrinking into it with every word I said.
"Acha?" I asked, still smiling. "It's ok, itna bhi bhadda mazak nehi tha Chirag ka– kisi bache ko Daya Shetty banake–"
The kid suddenly shouted something excitedly, breaking me off mid sentence. He stared at me expectantly, and then appeared to grow impatient when I didn't say anything else, quickly saying something else in Marathi. I was too busy trying to work out what I'd said to get that reaction.
"Maza—naam—Daya Shetty- ahe," he suddenly said, enunciating every word and tapping his chest slowly with the hint of a smirk on his lips.
Huh. So I guess that was not only I imitating the Indian trait – hang on, was the little brat mocking me?!
I rolled my eyes. OK, so he wasn't giving up the act that easily, huh? Fine, I could go along with this – he was bound to slip up sooner or later and then I'd find out who'd put him up to this. I was willing to bet good money on it being either Sweta or Chirag, leaning more towards the latter; whilst both my housemates mocked me relentlessly for my love in Daya and CID, completely failing to see why I was so drawn to a the team of hero. It is a possibility for Chirag to come with prank like this. Sweta more preferred to say "I swear, do teen bache bhi ho gaye honge is officer ki" every time she looked at my CID logo and Daya's face posted in my room.
"Maza naam Sakshi ahe," I said, deliberately copying the kid's actions. I knew what 'Maza naam' meant – thank you, Dhanyawaad!
'Daya' grinned and held out his hand to me, pushing back the sleeve of my jumper – apparently, he'd completely gotten over my initial treatment of him in the trusting way that only a kid could.
"hello, Sakshi!" he said, giving me the goofiest smile I'd ever seen on Inspector Daya.
"Hallo, Daya," I said, shaking his hand – his hand was so small and thin, it felt like mine was swallowing his up. Chirag was SO going to pay for this at some point. What was I supposed to do now, babysit all evening until they got back?!
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, dialling Chirag's number. I wasn't sure if they'd be in the film by now or still at dinner, but either way, I ended up going through straight to voicemail.
"Chirag, buddy, you're so DEAD when you get home – ek dam bhadda mazak!" I said laughing, looking at Daya as I held the phone to my ear. "Seriously though, call me when you get this."
I hung up. Daya was looking at me curiously.
"Kya?!" I asked. "Yeh batao tumhari mummy arhi hai tumhe lene ya mujhe tumhe chorna hoga tumhare ghar pe, kitne der tak rukoge yaha tum?!"
He didn't answer, as expected.
The kid was an exceptionally good look-a-like though. Literally, if it wasn't for the fact that I knew Daya was seven years older to me, I would have thought I had the real thing in front of me. He'd even drawn a little dimple on his right cheek, exactly as Daya.
"Tumhare face pe yeh kya laga hua hai," I said, gesturing to my mouth.
"Kay?" Daya asked.
"Kuch laga hai yaha," I said, pointing again.
Daya hand shot up to wipe his mouth (on the sleeve of my coat... charming. I give him a coat out the kindness of my heart and he wipes his mouth all over it), but the dimple was still there.
"Kay?" He asked again, slightly disturbed.
"Here, let me," I said, licking my thumb and rubbing it before he had a chance to pull away. Daya let out an annoyed cry – one that clearly said "Get off me!" – and squirmed away. The dimple was still intact.
"Yeh asli hai?!" I asked incredulously.
Daya was rubbing his face (on my coat sleeve again), looking completely disgusted and muttering something in Marathi.
Suddenly, my phone went off, vibrating furiously through my jeans pocket and belting out my ringtone. I checked caller ID – Chirag.
"'Sup?" Chirag asked as a way of greeting. "Phone kiya tha tune?"
"Yes, mene kiya tha!" I began, "Yar, tu kis jhamele me mujhe –"
"Kyaa? I can't hear you!" Chirag suddenly yelled, sounding all crackly and static. Daya was watching me curiously.
"Chirag? Buddy? Are you there? Tune kisi bache ko humare cupboard me chupaya tha kya?!"
"What? Sakshi-? I - hear - on?"
The crackling was getting worse; something was seriously interfering with the line. Daya, meanwhile, was looking back down at his foot, which was still stuck in the saucepan.
"Chirag!" I said loudly, my voice amplified in the kitchen, "Where! Did! This! Kid! Come! From?!"
"Ek minute? Sakshi hang on, I'm really sorry, I can't hear you! Reception here sucks! Hang on, I'm moving about -"
"Abe yaar! Did you or did you not hire a Daya Shetty look alike in the kitchen to scare me?!"
There was a moment of silence. I thought for a second the line had gone dead.
"Sakshi?" Chirag's voice suddenly came through, still sounding slightly crackled but a lot clearer than before. "Daya shetty? CID wala? Woh tere ghar pe aya hai?"
"He's just showed up," I said quickly in case the line went again, "Did you have anything to do with it?"
"Nope, nothing to do with me – agar aya hi hai to khush ho ja naa! Tera sex god tere samne khara hai or tu mujhe phone kyu kar rhi hai. You have the house to yourself! Aish kar uske saath!"
"Sale kamine, me yaha ek bache ke-"
"Aree yar Sakshi, film shuru hone wali hai – I'll see you later, OK? And then you can give me all the juicy details about this mystery man! Ciao!"
And then he hung up.
For a few seconds, I stood there in surprised silence. There was a chance that Chirag had been lying to me... except that wasn't really in his nature to do so. He always took pride in his work, regardless of whether it was academic or underhand. I couldn't think of anyone else I knew who would want to do such a thing, particularly if they weren't around to see the result.
Daya blinked at me.
"Problem?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Nako," I said without thinking.
Daya face lit up, as if he liked the fact that I'd answered in Marathi. I ignored this though; my mind was otherwise occupied.
There was no denying the resemblance between the 'real' Daya and this Daya. But it was so much more than just a passing look-a-like; this kid was an exact doppelganger. He had all the right marks and distinctions, from the mole to the broad nose and the face that I have looked up was so similar when he was a kid. Plus, in this day and age, particularly on Dehradun, you'd be hard pressed to find a kid who would willingly wear this kind of cloths...
The more I thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that he'd simply snuck in; downstairs, there were only three ways in – the front door, my bedroom window or the kitchen window. I would have heard the front door as my room was right next to it and it was impossible to get through the kitchen window stealthily as we'd stacked various bottles of booze along the kitchen shelf. And obviously, I'd been in my room the whole time; I would have noticed if some kid climbed through my window!
And if it was a prank, why would someone chose something so obscure? Surely it would be a lot easier to 'pretend' to be Daya in his current day form with massive body frame and everything. And in Dehradun, of all places, where mentioning CID to most people would get you a response of "Are, par humne to koi jurm kiya hi nehi."
I walked past where Daya was standing, still watching me, and opened the kitchen cupboard I'd found him in. Pots, pans, shelves, bowls, plates...There was nothing to suggest anything out the ordinary. Feeling foolish, I leaned in and gingerly tapped the back wall – nope, solid.
Daya leaned over my shoulder, looking in the cupboard with me. He babbled something which I assumed was a 'helpful' explanation. Great. For all knew, he was saying "you need to tap the third brick in on the eight row down with the handle of the Wok to open up the secret door" or something. I turned to look at him.
"Idher se aye ho?" I asked, pointing at him and the cupboard wall.
"Ho!" Daya kid nodded. He started talking quickly again, miming what appeared to be crawling, falling and then pointing at the cupboard again.
He... fell into my kitchen cupboard?
I pushed myself out the cupboard (yup, the back was firmly in place) and stood up straight, looking at Daya. From what little philosophy I could remember from school, there was one theory that had always stuck in my mind; Occam's Razor. The simplest solution was often the best one. Yes, there could be lots of possible ideas as to how this kid got in my cupboard and who he really was... but if he hadn't snuck in and it wasn't all some massive practical joke then that meant, somehow, against all the odds...
This kid could be the real thing.
Occam's Razor, my foot. This was NOT the simplest solution! Yet, weirdly, it made the most sense...
I stared at the kid in front of me. He grinned at me adorably, as if he knew I'd just figured it out. Daya Shetty, thirteen years old, in my kitchen in 2014, with his foot stuck in a saucepan.
And he didn't speak a word of Hindi.
Behnchod.