Prologue
New Year’s Eve, 2003
Zoya frantically pressed the elevator buttons three times, juggling with her purse in one hand and her mobile phone in another. Her rental ride was already downstairs, and she hated to keep anyone waiting. But halfway down from her ninth-floor residence after having checked three times if she had taken all that she needed, Zoya realised she had left behind the most important thing for today – her red notebook.
Annoyed at the elevator that did not seem to be moving past the twelfth floor, Zoya decided it was best to simply take the stairs.
Zoya was a woman who liked to think on her feet. Having worked in media and journalism for a little more than five years now, she was accustomed to an exceptionally fast-paced life. News does not let you breathe, or fix your clothes, or take a sip of water, or in Zoya’s case now, wait for the luxury of an elevator ride. Things happen, and they keep happening one after the other, and if you have any wish or intention of telling the news to your audience, you must keep up – Zoya learned this the hard way.
However, Zoya did not have any news to break today. She was simply late for her own book launch event.
It had been a whirlwind of a time for the 27-year-old from Delhi. She had to spare time to finish writing her book, all the while keeping up with her editing and anchoring duties at ROX News Agency.
When Zoya decided to go for a degree in journalism in college, she was warned by her friends and family about the risks of the media sector. “It’s not safe, Zoya,” some said. “There are better professions for a girl of your type,” others added. Zoya acknowledged the statements with a smile and a nod but paid no heed in her mind. The thrill of probable danger and the opportunity to see it from up close was precisely why Zoya wanted to pursue this career.
Even before she graduated, Zoya got an opportunity to work at one of the biggest media houses in private circulation. Before landing her job as the primetime anchor and editor at ROX, she built a prolific investigative portfolio at Sunprime News. She started learning hands-on the twisted ways the world of journalism worked. Some things met her expectations, others took her by surprise. But Zoya was ready for it all.
She took up the assignments that others were apprehensive to work on, starting from controversial political turmoil to gruesome murder mysteries in the remotest parts of the country. Soon, she became one of the most known faces in the industry, despite being only 20-something. Three years later, Zoya was now honoured with the ‘Best Young Journalist’ award and receiving congratulatory emails from media personalities she grew up admiring.
As an icing on the cake, Zoya was set to publish her book that she hoped was the first of many, and from what her agent and editor told her, it was going to become a bestseller in no time.
With all the success in the world, she still managed to be late for her book launch event, hosted by her alma mater, Nightingale Women’s College. When the alumni association and the teacher’s guild at the college heard about their star student writing a book of her own, they invited Zoya for an exclusive book launch event and say a few words on the subject matter.
“Sister Bovary will certainly make a joke about me being late,” Zoya thought to herself in the car and smiled, remembering fond memories from her college days. It was an honour for her to return to her prestigious educational institution after all, that too for such an event.
“Welcome home, Zoya. We have been waiting for you. We thought you might have forgotten about the event, now that you have such a busy life to live,” Sister Bovary greeted her at the front gate.
“I know Sister, I humbly apologize,” Zoya answered with a smile. She knew that hidden behind the oblique comments were nothing but love and pride that her teacher had for her.
Miriam Bovary was Zoya’s teacher for her Elective English course in college. While the main courses taught her all that she needed to know about the nitty-gritty of hard-core journalism, it is Sister Bovary who taught her how to dig deep and find out the truth hidden in any story.
Zoya was escorted to the auditorium by a couple of junior teachers and seated in the front row. After an opening dance performance by the students that once again reminded Zoya of her late teen years, the book launch event finally got underway.
“We now welcome to the stage our beloved alumnus, Zoya Shroff. We are proud of her recent accomplishments, and we thank her for keeping the name of our educational institution shining bright,” the headmistress beamed amid cheerful claps.
A deep breath.
Zoya was back on the stage where she partook in dozens of debates and extempore challenges not that many years ago. It raised the hairs on Zoya’s neck and sent chills down her spine to throw her mind back and imagine all that have happened in her life since then.
After the bouquets were received and the book cover was revealed to the audience, Zoya finally got to the main part of the evening.
“I almost forgot to bring this notebook with me today, had to climb up and down a few flights of stairs to get it. Good for my cardio, though,” Zoya joked. She hadn’t planned on it, but it connected well with the young audience she had in front of her. Confident, she continued.
“Thank you everyone for showing up for this event. It really means an awful lot to me to be able to launch my book in front of the people who moulded me into who I am. It is also an honour to be able to pave the way for those who come after me and show them that if you have a dream, you should always pursue it.
“However, today is not only about the book reveal. Nevertheless, I will hold it up once again for those who do not know, which I assume will be the majority,” Zoya spoke with genuine humility.
Zoya picked up one of the hardcovers from the table and held it up for her audience.
“I was given an hour’s time today by our esteemed institution to read out certain parts of the book. But you are pursuing a college degree, I am going to go ahead and assume you can read. If you want to know what’s in the book, you are free to buy it and I’d be only too glad to sign. If you don’t want to, I will not bore you with its details. Instead, I have a very interesting story to tell you – the story of how I got the final push off the edge to write this book. I have it all written with me, right here in this notebook. Can I do that, Sisters?” Zoya looked questioningly at the front row where all the teachers were seated.
Receiving smiling nods from everyone, she continued again.
“Great authors have often said that you cannot be a writer unless you are an avid reader. I am pretty sure they did not have murder mysteries in mind when they said that, but I have no shame in admitting that it is by far my most favourite genre. Growing up, I read a lot of Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and the likes. Today I shall start my storytelling with one of Miss Christie’s quotes that I love.
“In her book Towards Zero, Miss Christie writes, ‘When you read the account of a murder - or, say, a fiction story based on murder - you usually begin with the murder itself. That’s all wrong. The murder begins a long time beforehand. A murder is the culmination of a lot of different circumstances, all converging at a given moment at a given point.’ I could not fully comprehend the significance of these lines up until recently. I always wondered how a murder could possibly begin a long time ago. A few years ago, I found the answer to that question. Leaving that thought to be tossed and turned in your head, I’ll begin my story for tonight.
“On a very cold December night three years ago, I felt braver than I usually do and planned a sudden solo trip to North Bengal. It was a particularly difficult day at work. I had a fight with my mother the day before and we had not spoken since. I had a friend living there and he had been asking me to visit for weeks. I made up my mind.
“What I had in mind was ten days of breath-taking views, aimless wandering, gulping down momos, and catching up with an old friend I know from childhood. I’m not going to lie, I did all that to my heart’s content, and then I had plans of returning home and getting back to my usual life.
“However, destiny had other plans for me,” Zoya said, with a light shade of remembrance misting her eyes. “Plans that involved six bloody murders with an even bloodier story behind them.”
