Chapter 4

He splashed on the cologne, sickening amounts of it, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Behind him, on the bed, his wife watched him. She saw what he saw:

A middle-aged man the wrong side of 40, fair, tall, lean and trim from his evenings in the CCI pool and at the gym, a little silver in the hair adding a touch of distinction. Not a very handsome man, but attractive in his own way. A certain masculine ruggedness. Women could find this creature desirable, no question of it.

But to her, just looking at him made her feel like puking. Because she saw the beast beneath the skin. Everything about him, the foppish way he bent his wrist as he brushed his hair back, the way he pursed his lips to whistle some old Dev Anand tune, the stench of the cologne he used, the quantity of it, the powder he patted onto his armpits. She hated every little habit, every gesture, every expression. Repulsive. Disgusting. Unbearable.

She knew where he was going now. To that big launch party tonight. Sin City. He had blasted forth a tirade about the erosion of moral values and lack of spiritual strength. After he'd raped her. He always lectured after he raped her. Yes, raped. Because she could never think of what he did to her as sex. Let along love-making. It was rape, pure and simple: brutal, uninvited, undesired, without the slightest trace of tenderness, affection, consideration.

And afterward, he always lectured her on how despicable women were, how disgusting sex was, how sexual promiscuity was responsible for all the problems of today's world -- from rising onion prices to the lack of a stable Government in New Delhi!

She had lain there in bed, her body recovering slowly from his assault, feeling the blood on her left nipple where he had bitten her. Listening to his voice drone on mindlessly. She had to pretend to listen, because if she didn't, he might wallop her for "insulting him" by not paying attention.

She knew what he would do tonight. Go to that launch party, mingle among the celebrity guests, smile and pretend to be one himself -- which, unfortunately, he was. Shake hands, exchange gossip, clink glasses, talk about business or politics or whatever.

And at some time during the night, he would pick out an attractive unescorted woman. Would drug her a little. Then offer to drop her home.

And she would usually agree, because she was unescorted, because she didn't have her own car, because he was a famous businessman who had his picture in the newspapers occasionally, because he was influential and could help her career. Because in any case she was single, and best of all, he was married. So unlikely to hit upon her. Therefore, safe.

And because his wife was accompanying him, so he couldn't possibly be up to anything remotely unsocial.

Which was where she would be wrong. Desperately wrong.

And which was the reason she would end up as yet another battered, brutally raped victim. Another in a long line of victims Birju had viciously attacked and raped over the years. Even Madhavi didn't know how many, but it had to be a lot. There were nights she lay awake and remembered their faces, their laughter, their innocent eyes (or not-so innocent eyes) and was tormented by the thought of how their lives must have changed forever after her husband had savaged them. But right now, her reverie was interrupted by his low nasal voice.

"Come on," he said. "Getting late, Madhavi."

She rose from the bed. She was already dressed in a silk saree, all made up and decked up, a suitable businessman's wife. A suitable accomplice for a serial rapist.

They left together, the invitation to Sin City pressed neatly into the left inside pocket of Birju's blue blazer. Beside the scalpel.