Doosra Read Online Free Page A

was never rude or violent, just noisy. All side effects of Scotch. As a result she never drank Scotch. Important precautionary measure that. She was in love with Bourbon: Jim. Sex, lies, and Bourbon.
    Should she? Shouldn't she?
    What the heck! It was the last day of the three-month vacation that had been forced upon her.
    A couple of large drinks down and she drifted into her unsuccessful love life. Where had she gone wrong? Yes, she'd had some relationships that didn't work — who didn't? — but she wasn't what someone would call rambunctious. Still single. As for life so for love: you couldn't let your failures cling to you. Accept defeat or loss and then breaking the old and unavailing ties tightly shut the door on the past.
    All relationships are mutable by nature, she now knew. You are permitted to believe otherwise at your own peril. There will always be spillages of memory now and then, but let them not dictate your decisions or future. Move on Rita. You're not making any sacrifices; you're liberating yourself. And then, Ash Mattel, her buddy, the criminal psychologist buddy who had helped her in cracking the serial killer earlier was travelling to India next month. Cheers! With that pleasant thought she went into the kitchen, broke two eggs, scrambled them, put them on toast and called it a night.
    ***
    Dawn was unfolding but the sun seemed to be on a late shift; no signs of it yet when Rita went for a jog. Mumbai, after a three-month sabbatical is easy to dislike at first glance — the cloying traffic, the unruly crowd, the stifling humidity and heat, but having lived in the city before Rita appreciated that it was even easier to fall in love with Mumbai and the people when you spent a few days in it again.
    For some years now, fitted shirts and jeans were Rita's usual attire at work. And for a reason: she didn't have to be in uniform and she found any other outfits a little uncomfortable for the job she was in. She had got her hair cut shorter — it sat just on her shoulders, instead of falling down over them like before when she tied it into a ponytail sometimes — after the incident where a criminal she was chasing had grabbed her by the soft straight coffee brown tresses. On the way out she carried her powder blue cotton jacket to cover the Smith & Wesson she knew she'd get back when she resumed office later. She ran her fingers through her hair. Short. It was still long enough to be gripped but surely not accessible from arm's length.
    Kuldeep was already waiting for her when she came down from her apartment.
    Mumbai Police HQ is in the vicinity of a historic landmark called Crawford Market, and it is where the top brass of Police and the Crime Branch are stationed. The travel from Bandra was about thirteen kilometres but it took them forty-five minutes to get there. The Mumbai traffic had snarled up in the torrential rain that had started in the early hours of the morning. The pluvial waters of July had filled the potholes to the brim. Arrogant rain was still sheeting down like Arjuna's arrows and showed no intention of stopping. Its continuous thundering drops on the windshield sounded like a rap singer on steroids; the wipers struggled to keep it clear, but Kuldeep soldiered on. Rita mused as the car moved tardily through the traffic. Mumbai, she discerned wasn't so different from Delhi as the media screamed at every given opportunity. In fact no city was different from the other: the rich in their chauffeur-driven cars, the not so rich struggling in the weather on their bikes and scooters or on foot. There was, and always would be, without exception, an invisible line between the wealthy and those who aspired to be. Of course, you could win the lottery and cross over to the other side, but the not so fortunate inchoately existed on the sides largely because the fortunate needed them. Who else would clean their houses, run the laundry, repair their cars and bring their newspapers or milk or take their