Crime fiction: British India, 1936. Can two friends track down a killer and absolve themselves?

Ratan flicked his cigarette onto the wet snow and once again practised the lies he would tell. The moonlight, the smoke from his cigarette, the snow and mud, all mingled together like a giant bowl of ash. It had stopped snowing the day before but the rain continued beating down. He didn’t remember the last time he had seen Simla this shade of grey.

Or silver.

Ratan looked up at the sky for a fleeting second as he walked up the familiar path. In the distance, a barefoot, liveried jampaani pulled a rickshaw with a coat of arms stamped on it, around a steep corner, and disappeared out of sight. A tiny runaway snowflake bounced off Ratan’s cheek and rolled onto the lapel of his coat. He lifted the collar of his coat to keep the wind from lashing against his ears. The collar continued to slap against his neck. All else grew quieter and quieter as he climbed the hill.

It never ceased to amaze him how the din from Lower Bazaar below turned melodious as he went higher up the Ridge. If he were to stop walking now and look down, he would catch a cacophony of sounds that could only amount to noise. The clatter of utensils, the pounding and thumping of hama dastas, harsh, strained voices, mingled with the wailing of babies, and dogs barking into the night. If he gazed upwards at the forests, where the mist came and went, only the music wafted through. The notes swirling within the vast gardens of the British summer homes. The tinkling of manicured hands going over the keys of a piano. The rustle and clink of silk gowns and champagne flutes. Soft, gay laughter and the merry prance of dancing feet.

The thing to do, Ratan had long since decided, was to walk upwards. To leave the noise behind with every step. Here, up and up, the music never stopped. If in summer it was louder and the parties incessant, in winter, it became softer. The parties were fewer but there was always something to celebrate.

Never a dull moment in India, Ratan had heard a British officer tell his wife in her first month in Simla. Flustered, she was watching a turbaned man being taken away by the police. He had painted an offensive slogan with gulaal on a parked coach at the Mall Road. A small crowd had gathered and Ratan too had lingered to watch the scene. He still remembered how the vermilion on the man’s hands had managed to look bloody and joyous at the same time.

Fading into the fog, still shouting “Jai Hind!”, the man’s eyes gleamed with hate. He turned back, again and again, straining against the hands that led him away. Of all the people who stood staring, his eyes sought Ratan out. Daring him to look back, and Ratan had. Letting him know that he, Ratan, was a free man looking at someone bound in chains. That image of the man, half in the fog, half out, had stayed with him. Dark bushy eyebrows over grey eyes flashing like the red light on the police jeep behind.

Later that day, he had told Sara about the man. Chewing on a paan, uncaring of the juice from the betel nut trickling down her mouth, she had tucked the flounce of her evening gown under her to sit cross-legged and listen to him. Then she proceeded to ask what it was exactly that was bothering him.

“How dare he judge me? Why must his choices be mine?”

“You judged him back, didn’t you? It’s equal then.”

“It’s not. He judged me louder than I judged him.”

She had smiled then. He wasn’t amused.

“Ratan, look at me,” Sara said.

He flashed her a look.

“Louder, darling, louder.”

He flashed more, eyes hurting and laughing all at once. It was always like that with Sara. She made him laugh when he wanted to hurt.

Sara Davenport. Lady Davenport. Sara. Sa Re Ga Ma. All the classical Hindustani music lessons that his father had wasted his money on, came back with her name. And yet, he couldn’t stay anymore. He had to tell her, hard as it was going to be, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Tonight, he would tell her tonight.

He was to pick her up from Wildflower Hall, where Lady Hotz was having an impromptu charity ball. He would seat her next to him in the Benz, drive her somewhere picturesque and tell her his lies. They were good lies. They wouldn’t hurt her. They would be just enough for her to take her next step. Ratan could see Shyam in the distance now. Silver or grey, it was a clear night. Shyam was waiting for him outside the Davenport House with the keys to the Benz Roadster. Shyam was the only other chauffeur the Davenports relied upon.

Married just a few weeks back, he hated working nights. Always in a tearing hurry to go back home to Cheeni, his coy new bride. Holding a lantern, Shyam was hopping from one foot to the other as Ratan appeared closer. Ratan slowed down, enjoying the torture he was inflicting on him.

“Ratan, saaley!” Shyam hissed into the night.

Ratan grinned and took the keys from him, amused to see a series of accusations in Shyam’s fish-like, protruding eyes. Pinching Shyam’s plump cold cheek, he opened the door to the Benz and got in. Leaning back, he settled in and from the corner of his eye, watched Shyam hurriedly shuffle out of sight. For a long moment, he let himself thaw from the warmth of the plush leather upholstery of the car. Before turning on the ignition and climbing the hill.

As the car pierced the rolling mist, he wondered if Sara would believe his reasons for leaving Simla. The last thing he wanted to do was let her down. She had turned his life around. If he hadn’t met her when he did, he would still be with Bhai, inches away from serious trouble, every single day. But the thing about trouble was that Ratan never had to seek it. It announced itself much as a storm did.

Excerpted with permission from In Your Blood I Run, Sonia Bhatnagar, HarperCollins India.