This unusual novel uses interviews, WhatsApp chats, emails and reports to piece together a thriller

Three days after the Delhi University meeting, I receive the first of a series of WhatsApp voice messages from Abhay. This would soon turn out to be his preferred medium of communication and I am glad for it. Hearing his voice as he searches for Sakshi is reassuring and makes me believe that we will, in fact, find her alive. His decision to call me “Writer ma’am” is also strangely endearing.

Writer ma’am, this is going to be a tough one, so if you have a place to sit down, I’d advise it.

As I said at our face-to-face, I was mulling over a couple of options. One was to determine the kidnappers’ modus operandi and anything from their history that could give me a clue. But since IB left no one alive, I wasn’t particularly keen on that approach. My other option was to see if the dead kids themselves could reveal what happened.

As it turned out, the latter was the way to go. I found out that the morgue had been ordered to cremate their bodies post- haste, so I persuaded an assistant at the morgue to give me a copy of the medical examiner’s report, which was classified, I should add. Nevertheless, I got hold of a copy and have emailed it to you. I must warn you the autopsy photos in the report are grisly, but they’re also very interesting.

In brief, your sources were correct in that the children did die from an overdose. What your sources didn’t know was that there was something that the kids had in common with Sakshi. All of them were diabetic like her but they suffered from a strain of diabetes known as Type 2 Mellitus, which means that their kidneys were weak and low on insulin.

My bet is that Sakshi suffered from the same strain. Now, I found out this is fairly common among adults but not so much in prepubescent children. What your sources also didn’t mention was the condition their bodies were in when they were found. I’m quoting the report here:

All six minors had dried black secretions on the front and sides of their faces. Tests of the secretions have proved inconclusive. Initial assumption is that drugs in their system triggered a massive allergic reaction, which also had an effect on the haemoglobin levels in their blood, resulting in ocular, nasal and aural secretions that were black in colour.

Now we need to figure out if these kids were connected to each other in any other way. Both of us need to start doing that ASAP.

It seems that luck is with us for the time being. 

After receiving Abhay’s message, I decide to speak to Sakshi Prakash’s parents. I have two reasons for doing so – one, to unearth any details that they didn’t reveal to the Police or the media, and two, to better understand the subject of my investigation. A part of me wants to leave her parents alone, but the selfish writer in me needs to hear their story.

Two days later, I am in the Prakash home, a nondescript at located in a DDA housing complex. Anand, her father, has read my first book, but even though he says that that was the reason he has agreed to meet me, I do not believe him. Like most people who have suffered an injustice, he wants to be heard. It would not have mattered if I was a writer, a reporter or a priest, he would have opened his door to me.

Sakshi’s mother, Vidya, is less willing to open up. Through most of my conversation with her husband, she sits next to him, her eyes on her feet, her lips moving in silent prayer. At the risk of sounding unkind, it looks like she has already given up; that her despair has overpowered any lasting hope of seeing her daughter alive. The prayer is powerless, a mere force of habit.

Before we start the interview, Anand shows me a photograph of his daughter. In the photo, Sakshi is dressed in a blue school uniform, her hair in two braids. On her face is a smile that extends from her lips to her brown eyes. I stare at her picture and my heart aches.

Me: Have the police been in touch with you since they issued the statement to the media?

Anand: No. They haven’t even been picking up my calls. Yesterday, I went over to the police station but they just kept me waiting for hours.

Me: No one met with you?

Anand: No, they sent over a havaldar to keep me company and ensure that I didn’t create a scene. So much for “Peace, Service, Justice.”

Me: Can you tell me a little more about your daughter? I completely understand if you don’t want to.

Anand: No, no, it’s alright. At least you look like you care. What would you like to know?

Me: Anything you can reveal. What she likes, who her friends are, what her favourite subjects in school are.

Anand: (Smiles) She loved...loves...to read her history book. She can’t get enough of it. She must have already gone through it twice, even though her class is still only on the third chapter. I don’t know where she gets it from. I teach political science and Vidya doesn’t read that much, but for some reason, Sakshi is enamoured by history. Sometimes, I read to her from that book and her eyes are always on me, wide open in wonder, from all the stories of old kings and their kingdoms. She...she...

(His voice breaks and he pauses to clear his throat.)

I’m sorry for that...I didn’t mean to...

Me: Please, there’s no need to apologise. What about her friends? Does she spend time with girls her age?

Anand: No, none of that! You know, when we first found out about her diabetes, we thought we would have to keep her cloistered, forever under our watch. But soon we saw that brilliant spark in her! The moment she’s done with homework, she runs out to play cricket with the neighbourhood kids, all of them boys twice her age! No dolls, no makeup, none of that. I thought it was a little strange at first but Vidya shut me up pretty quickly!

(Anand turns to his wife, looking for commiseration but finding none. Vidya’s eyes are closed and her head bowed in prayer.)

Me: Has she told you what she wants to do when she grows up? When I was ten, I wanted to be a detective, thanks to all the Nancy Drew books I was reading.

Anand: Oh, that changes every week! Sometimes she wants to be a pilot, sometimes a cricketer, sometimes a historian, or as she puts it, “a history man”. I worry that when she’s thirty, her resume will be the size of a book and nobody will want to go through it. What a thing to worry about, right?

Me: For someone her age, she seems driven. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to ask you some questions about the day she was kidnapped.

(I see Sakshi’s mother stir from her catatonic state. Her eyes utter open but she continues to stare at the carpet.)

Anand: Go on.

Me: She went to school that day, am I correct?

Anand: Yes. Her school starts at 8.00 am, so she’s usually off by 7.15 am. Sometimes, I walk her to the bus stop but most days, she goes off on her own. It’s only two minutes away.

Me: And what time did she get back?

Anand: That day, as on most days, she was back by 3.30 pm. She had her sandwiches, watched TV till about 4.30 and then left for her maths tuitions.

Me: How far is it to her classes? Did she walk there?

Anand: There are five more kids from our building who walk to the same class, so she accompanies them. All of them attend other classes as well, so she comes back on her own. It’s not too much of a walk, barely fifteen minutes away, so we decided...

(He is interrupted by his wife’s howl. She’s on her feet and the next instant, her fingers are clawing his face. “You decided! It’s your fault!” she screams over and over again as Anand fends her off. I jump up to help him but he motions at me to stay seated. He stands up, and with one hand he grabs her arms, and with the other, he pulls her against his chest in an embrace.)

Shhh...it’s ok...it’s ok...

(Vidya crumples into his arms. Her cries are now mere whimpers. He’s crying as well and tears trickle down his face, red rivulets, thanks to the numerous scratches on his cheeks.

I have an incredible urge to stand up and run out of the flat to escape the despondence that has taken root in it. But my legs refuse to move and I stay planted on the sofa, which feels like a cold hard slab of granite.

Anand walks away, his wife still in his arms, into one of the rooms in the at. A few minutes later, he steps out alone, a hand towel dabbing at the wounds that refuse to let up.

I sit silent as he takes his seat opposite me. I have no words, nothing that can even begin to fill the void that I feel in that flat. Thankfully, Anand decides to start talking.)

She...she has been trying her best but...there’s no point in it, is there? She already speaks about our daughter as if she’s dead. But I can’t believe that, I choose not to believe that. I don’t think you do either. You wouldn’t be here if you did. You wouldn’t be talking to me, would you?

Me: No. I believe there is a chance that she is still alive. And so does my colleague, who’s helping me with the investigation. In fact, we think we have a lead that could help us find her. If you would like me to, I could take you through what we’ve found so far.

Anand: Is it something concrete? Are you close to finding her?

Me: No, I am sorry. But it has given us something to pursue.

Anand: Then, no, please don’t tell me anything, my heart won’t be able to take it. Just tell me when you find her. The police won’t do anything, the reporters have stopped coming around. It’s just you now.

Me: There’s something I wanted to ask you about Sakshi’s diabetes. Was there anything out of the ordinary about her condition?

...Anand?

Anand: How did you know? I...I mean yes...yes. She has a rare form of diabetes, Type 2 Mellitus, it’s called. She needs insulin to get through the day but she rarely complains about it. It’s just a part of her life now.

It’s strange that you would bring it up.

Me: Why do you find it strange?

(He leans forward and his eyes are brighter than they were a few moments ago. I feel guilt crawl down my throat. Hope, perhaps false, has invaded the air between us.)

Anand: We got a call a few weeks ago, actually, it was last month. They said they were from the CDSA1 and they said that Sakshi could be the potential recipient of an experimental drug treatment. They said that the drug, whatever it was, could help control her diabetes. We went to her specialist but he said he had never heard of any such treatment. On his advice, we refused it. It sounded too risky.

Me: Did they tell you who the treating doctor would be? The CDSA sometimes reaches out to patients on behalf of private drug companies.

Anand: It was a Dr Mhatre, but they didn’t give a first name. They said that if we decided to consider the treatment, he would get in touch with us. That was all.

Me: I think you have given me enough, Anand. I do believe what you told me will be useful but I can’t really say anything right now. If anything else comes up...

(He reaches out and gently clasps my hands between his. He is crying again.)

Anand: Promise me you won’t give up. You’re not them, you are not them. Promise me you will nd her, promise me you will give it your all. I need to hear it. I need to hear you promise me.

Me: I promise.

Excerpted with permission from Cold Truth, Nikhil Pradhan, HarperCollins India.