AND IT CAME

Sandy relaxed on his seat as the train left Allahabad Station behind. For a two hour's journey he didn't require to travel by an air-conditioned train, especially in this November morning. But this one traveled faster than others. And money shouldn't be an issue. They promised to pay the traveling expenses. 

He looked around, and brought out his smartphone from trouser pocket to take a selfie. He looked at the photo with satisfaction. It looked perfect for a twenty-six year old; trimmed auburn hair, clean shaven oblong face, snugly fit jeans with trendy leather jacket, the Rayban shades- everything fell into place. 

The appointment was important. If he could grab it, his ambition would get its wings. But he was not sure. It was a gamble of sorts. Sandy, an electronic engineer, never relished his enviable post at the multinational. The mundane principle of 'sell and earn' bored him to death. He always wanted to create. He started writing- fictions, blogs, poetries, non fictions, and you name it. He was good at it right from his school days. Creation provided him with a sense of orgasm of the soul, if you like the term. 

Of late, he got two novels published to his credit. The publisher didn't feature in the top bracket, and the books didn't sell much. Yet it sold to an extent, principally due to endeavors of his own. The books belonged to the genre of suspense thriller. Even if he didn't earn much, he got some rave feedbacks that egged him on to start with a fresh manuscript. His peers at his firm had advised him to take up writing part time, but he would love to be a full timer in it. He was waiting for an opening.

Was it the opening his present venture would lead him to? 

He was not sure whether it was a real one or a hoax. A week back he had come across a notification in a largely followed Facebook page: STORY TELLER REQUIRED. SUSPENSE THRILLER WRITERS PREFERRED. SALARY NO CONSTRAINT FOR THE RIGHT CANDIDATE. Sandy had put up his candidature in the comment section along with his contact number. He obtained no immediate response, and discarded the incident as some bad joke.

He received a call yesterday when some male voice asked him to visit a certain address at a fixed time. They also mentioned that his to and fro expenses would be borne by them. 

It felt kind of fishy as no details were discussed. At first he thought of giving it a skip. Then his interest grew. It was the suspense involved that got the better of him. He himself has created scenes like this in his stories.

In any case, he had nothing to lose. He already had a job, and he was too clean to be blackmailed. Had it been the first of April he could've considered the practical prank angle as well.

At about half past ten he was in front of a small and cosy cafe at Hazratganj, the heart of Lucknow. He was late by ten minutes. As he pushed the glass door open, no one came to receive him. He went to the counter and asked the middle aged man on chair, "Is there a message for Sandy Singh from anyone?"

"I'm afraid, no sir." The man swung his head in negation.

He looked around, and sauntered past a few tables nearby. No one showed any interest in him.

'Such a poor joke it is!' Sandy sighed in frustration. He repented his impulsiveness, and moved doorwards.

As he moved a few steps away from the cafe his phone rang.

"What kind of thriller author are you?" A female voice asked with a pinch of rebuke. "Can't even wait and watch at the spot? I expected better."

"Err... well, madam, sorry. But is it you who put the ad?"

"Yes, dammit. Come back to the cafe." This time the voice was stern and official.

Sandy reentered the cafe. The tables were arranged at a distance from each other. Lights were dim and a soft music percolated all over creating a soothing effect on his being. 

A lady waved from a corner table. As Sandy sat opposite to her he looked at the pleasant countenance of the female. She looked young, but important. 

"I'm Iva Lopez, Sr Inspector, Crime Branch, UP Police," she said curtly, and flashed an identity card.

If Sandy was subdued under the domineering personality of Iva, it didn't haze his logic. "I thought police personnel meet at police station for official meetings," he smiled, and felt at ease. 

"Some meetings are held elsewhere as well, Mr Author." Iva remained businesslike.

"I'd prefer Sandy." Sandy was back to his carefree frame of mind.

"Should we talk?"

"Sure."

"I assume you're aware of the Prakash Chowhan case."

"I am, madam."

"What's your opinion about it?"

Sandy might be a thriller writer, but he never thought his opinion mattered in real time crimes; least, to a cop. He was on his guard.

"It's like anyone else, as much as I could gather out of media. The gangster was shot when trying to escape." He was aware that there was much more behind the story. Even the media people highlighted the discrepancies. But one is better off having a noncommittal face while in front of a police. 

"Come on, Sandy," she fashioned a faint smile for the first time, "I wanted an honest opinion. It's not an official interrogation, it's off the record and informal."

Sandy looked into her eyes. He felt he could trust the lady. "Well,madam, if you want me to be frank, id say it's a poor patch up job by police. They had to protect their political godfathers from being exposed. Prakash Chowhan had many cards up his sleeve. He had to be murdered in guise of an encounter. But so poorly plotted! Even a 'c' grade script writer would do better."

Iva scrutinied him for a moment, and nodded appreciation. "I feel similarly. Our department does everything in hurry. I don't disagree our department is corrupt, and we've to manipulate many things. But it has to be believable to the mass, and more so to the opposition. And your role comes here."

Sandy was still at the loss. "I don't understand."

"You're to write a plot under these circumstances, and that too, fast. There'll be many more misdeeds in future as well. We'll give you a gist of the circumstances, and you're to make a story on them so that it look natural and conceivable."

"You mean making tailor made stories?" Sandy sounded flabbergasted.

'Exactly," nodded Iva, "with your imagination you can make fake encounters look natural so that we're not left with loopholes. We'll pay you well, be assured. And payment will be instant." She looked rather luringly at Sandy.

All of a sudden Sandy detested the lady in his front, police or otherwise. He didn't feel like staying a moment more over there.

"Excuse me, madam. I'm an author because I have a free flowing soul. I'm not, repeat not, going to sell my soul at whatever price you offer. I write at my own terms and conditions only. Thanks for your precious time." He started walking off. 

"Stop, I order you," shouted Iva, "or else you're a dead man."

Sandy turned back. "Shoot me, madam. I'd rather die than writing tailor made stories for you."

There was no gun in Iva's hand. To his surprise, she was grinning all the way. She came, and held Sandy's hand. "Forgive me, Sandy. I was just pretending."

Sandy went back to his chair, bewildered.

"I still don't get a head or tail of it, Iva." He forgot even to address her 'madam'.

"My apologies, Sandy. I'm no Eva, by the way. Do you remember Angelina by any chance?"

Sandy remembered hard, and he got the spark. "Angelina Gomez?"

Iva giggled, "Of St Mary's High School."

"Angie, you!" Sandy exclaimed in a gush of joy. He remembered this classmate of his with a perpetual running nose. He even had a mental crush on her. She persuaded a course in humanities while Sandy qualified for an elite engineering college. Thereafter she was forgotten for good.

Angelina kept smiling, indulgently. "I know of your literary works. I follow your blogs. I have gone through both the books of yours. To say the least, I adored your innovative genius. And incidentally, I'm no cop. This is my identify." She handed over her card. 

Sandy looked at it. It, in addition to depicting her name, it showed her position. 'CEO, STAR WEB SERIES', it announced. It was a popular production house that had given a chain of crime serials to the entertainment of people. He simply could utter, "What a surprise, Angie!"

"We are upgrading to movie production. How about being our script writer? A good story is the essence of a great movie. And, we pay well." Angelina winked. 

The proposal was more than he expected. He nodded. "But I write on my own terms, mind it." He eyed Angelina mischievously.

"I know," she was beaming. "You did so in school as well. 

Sandy used to be the student representative of their school magazine. He never compromised with the quality, be it his own, or someone else's. He wondered how Angelina remembered such minute details.

"That's the reason I wanted to verify you with my cock and bull stories. We want authors with an indigenous mind. Do I consider it a deal?"

Sandy grasped Angelina's hand tenderly, and smiled. "You bet."