It was something out of the world—the plan. When I first heard it, it sounded amazing. We were in South Chennai – on the beach at Kottivakam—Chinna and me—and this idea of kidnapping occurred. It was not like the Marina beach, all crowded all the time. Perhaps the only sound there—waves lashing—gave us that idea. It appeared a great idea at first, however, Chinna said afterwards, ‘Pocchu-da!’; which however we didn’t find out till it had all been done.
The bungalows there, independent houses, were richly decorated and quite stylish. Facing the sea, they towered over villas. Even the apartments there, which were rare, were spacious and built for the wealthy. The inhabitants were rich, classy, casual and content—a mix of businessmen, software professionals and popular Carnatic musicians. Businessmen didn’t stay there with their families; they visited and stayed for a few days; software people there were young couples and childfree; but musicians lived there and prided themselves on their houses. In fact, they would never leave the houses.
Chinna and I needed a lump sum to pull off a bank heist at North Chennai. All we had at that time between us was a mere one lakh in rupees. We needed another ten lakhs to buy the tools necessary to open modern technologically secured safes and other electronic locks. We discussed it sitting on the stone slab by the beach. The evening sun was pleasant; and the stress-less time brought out the best plans in our heads. In all our kidnapping experience far and wide in the state, we knew that this was a quiet place not much known in the city and easily gone unnoticed. The roads were big and trees on both sides of them hid many a walker there. Big houses with huge gates and securities who never stirred out made the place still and quiet. No neighbor cared for the other. Even if someone was murdered and they raised an alarm, it would go unnoticed. One never knows what goes on in those houses. Maybe they are smugglers, we reasoned out. Maybe other illegal activities too happening there, we said. So, how would it matter if we did that and made a few lakhs. We were not going to kill or do other such despicable activities. The police station was not near and even if so, only constables populated it.
We chose a boy of ten as our victim. We had seen him before at the beach. He was quite a talkative boy and argued over what constituted the baked salad—the Italian vegetable, Artichoke—with a friend of his while walking back from a hotel they had visited earlier. We had followed him. Chinna said that if a boy talked as much or more than a girl, you know he is naïve. That was good. His father was a Carnatic performer; not that we knew what Carnatic music was. As a kid, I had just heard it on the radio when my grandma was listening. The only explanation she gave was that it was the music Brahmins made. Being an old-fashioned woman, she revered them. But, I couldn’t care less. They were the same to me as anybody else. In fact, the thing I knew of Brahmins was that they were a nervous bunch who lacked any courage of any sort. The father, they called him, Sanjay Parthasarathy, was a reputed singer who had traveled the whole globe. I guess he earned in dollars, something even software professionals in the country didn’t get. Ten lakhs would be nothing to him. Even if we asked twenty, it would not burn a hole in his pockets.
Towards the south of this high class area was the East Coast Road stretching till Pondicherry. After five miles was a row of desolate bungalows at Palavakkam. If people coming to this beach were sparse, the other beach at Palavakkam was completely desolate. Much land between those bungalows was vacant with only a small room at the end of the site built for the watchmen. Chinna knew a watchman who had gone home for holidays and given him the key to stay there.
We chose a Tuesday to do the job. Even if the beach was sparsely crowded on weekends, it was still risky. Weekdays were really the right time. After watching the place on Monday, we set out to do it the next day. The kid was playing cricket with his friends on the road. It was dusk during the cold December season. It grew dark very fast. Although the time was five, it was starting to grow dark. We waited till the boy went to pick up the ball in a deserted plot near the road.
“Hey, little boy, you must be tired playing all the time. Have a chocolate,” said Chinna.
“Get lost, “he said and hit Chinna on his left cheek.
“Don’t you worry, Chinna, we will raise the ransom,” I said, getting into the driver seat of the autorickshaw.
Chinna took an obscure black-colored cloth bag from his pocket. The kid tried to run. Chinna ran faster and ahead of him. He put the bag on the kid’s head and covered his face. The boy put up a fight biting Chinna on his hand. He shrieked at the top of his voice. Chinna grew nervous and closed his mouth with his hands. He bit Chinna’s fingers. He started kicking him too. Chinna overpowered the boy and caught his hands and lifted him. The kid kept kicking him everywhere—especially on his groin. Chinna bit his lip and rushed into the waiting auto. I accelerated and drove it as fast as I could. I knew all the shortcuts and didn’t touch the main road where traffic policemen observed all the vehicles. We took him to the room. Chinna stayed behind. I drove the auto back to my friend’s place and returned to him who let me use it when I had requested it to go on a jolly ride. Then, I walked back to the room picking up some barotta and kurma on the way—for the kid as well.
Chinna was applying some lotion on his wounds, scratches and bite marks. Sitting on a cot covered wearing a dirty lungi, he was watching water boil away on the gas stove and the boy banging on the steel cot to the rhythm of the water boiling. The room was a small one with a cot at one corner and an old television on the opposite corner. Adjacent to the TV was a gas stove and some utensils. When I went to turn the stove off, he took up a stick and cautioned me against going there.
“Hey, don’t turn it off, the sound of the speed, at which the water boils will change,” he said. I was shocked. Could a boy of ten speak so clearly? I wondered. He really seemed intelligent.
“Don’t worry,” said Chinna, “He means no harm.” Chinna rolled up his shirt sleeves and examined the bite marks.
“Heck, no, he seems an intelligent kind of boy,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s alright. When you were away, he was teaching me to drum on the chair here. He knows all kinds of patterns. I was swayed by his rhythmic sense. In fact, he even made me dance to his drumming. He made me repeat after him: ta ki ta for three; ta ka di mi for four; ta ka ta ki ta for five; and so on.
I looked at him banging away on the cot. He sure seemed to be having a great time. He liked it here, amidst the dank smelling things in the room, dirty clothes hanging on the clothesline, and dirtier walls. It was funny how a rich kid living so clean and dapper can get bored with unending cleanliness and feel happy to be dirty. Sure, he was having great fun teaching Chinna the rhythms.
“Hey, Krishnan kutty,” he called Chinna. I looked questioningly at him. “What the heck!” I yelled.
“No bother,” said Chinna. “The boy said I look like his uncle, Krishnan kutty and so he calls me that. His uncle is a mridangist and I seem to be drumming as well as him, it seems.” Chinna’s voice had some pride.
He gave me a name too—Ambi—another uncle of his who was reticent and never forthright. Though I didn’t like the reasoning, I liked the sound of the name. The name was rare and used by Brahmins. It sounded better than mine—Pandi.
After we had tea, we took him to the beach there and showed him some catamarans. He played cricket with the fishermen boys while we watched some damsels cooking fish. He didn’t make any effort to escape. He liked the fisher folk, the danky room and us too. When we spread out the barotta packets back in the room, he sat quiet for some time and prayed. He relished the barotta and kurma, I wondered if his mother ever cooked. He gulped them down in mouthfuls; and his eyes were wide and watery. Perhaps the whole ordeal made him badly hungry. Then, he broke into a long speech broken only by more drumming and teaching rhythms.
It went like this: “I like this place a lot. I am having a great time here. My mother never lets me go out; even if I had to stay at a friend’s place, she doesn’t agree. I am glad I am here; that way I don’t have to go to school. I don’t have to do homework. My mother makes me study all the time. There is some test or the other always. Oh, it is so tiring. I have a pet dog. Shall we bring him here too? You know, I saw a large rat in my house yesterday, but this room is so compact and clean. Give me more kurma. I like those boats. Can we go in them tomorrow? Can we eat fish? The beach here is so much better than the beach near my home. My father wears diamond earrings gifted by grandfather. Why are your eyebrows so thick? Ramesh got beaten by me today at school. He must have complained. Good, I don’t have to go tomorrow and get punished. Frogs were croaking all over that village. Can we catch them tonight? Can we go fishing tomorrow? Can we borrow nets from them? I will also teach you to make pizzas and pastas. You know, Sarika has got six fingers. Why is it so silent here? Why are you watching this boring program? There is a better one; I’ll tell you all about it. Do you have a cook coming in tomorrow morning? Ask her to make my favorite dish—pal payasam. Tomorrow early morning I will teach you both sa ri ga ma.”
In between all this babble, he would inspect the utensils in the kitchen corner. He would sift through the leftover vegetables that had gone dry by then and attempt to name them. He would remember that it was time to practice his music lessons and sing them at the top of his voice. When he sings high notes, it would make Krishnan kutty shiver. He had Chinna terrorized from the start. He had a thick and strong voice that roared when he sang. If he practiced quietly, it was a quiet roar and when he hit high tones, it was like the roar of a victorious lion that had killed its prey and now all set to eat it.
“Shark king! Would you like to go back to your home?” I asked. After the little walk to the fisherman village, he called himself the Shark king and insisted we too call him so.
“Why?” He said. “You don’t want me here?” he started crying. “I don’t want to do homework. I don’t like to get up early in the morning and practice music. I don’t like to take bath early and pray. If I make even one mistake, my father will get angry. Sometimes he would thrash me for not singing to the right pitch. I don’t like school. Please don’t take me home. Ambi, please don’t take me back home, will you?”
“Don’t worry,” said I. “And, definitely not right now. You can stay here for some time. You’ll get good food and ride in the boat.”
“That’s great!” said he. “I have never had such fun in my life. We will definitely go riding on the boats, won’t we?”
He wouldn’t go to bed even when it was eleven. We picked up the dirty cloth covering the cot and laid it on the floor. The cot was not wide enough for the three of us. There was a noisy table fan that the kid was fiddling with. He had not seen a table fan. Perhaps his house was fully air conditioned—the one that changed its temperature according to body temperature. He ordered us to lie down quietly. He would fix the plug into the socket and switch on the table fan. His hands were not able to reach it but he was adamant. After a few attempts, he managed to fix it right. He also switched the light off promptly and lay between Chinna and me. He was quiet for some time but his energy got the better of him. We knew he would not run away but had us awake for more than three hours. He would jump and sing at the top of his voice. He would show us how rhythmically he jumped. He would jump in a pattern and ask us to identify. At last we fell asleep. I had a troubled one and dreamt that I had been kidnapped by a Carnatic family and made to sing under whiplash.
I woke up hearing a loud shriek. It was so high-pitched I couldn’t believe even now that it came from Chinna. I had never heard Chinna yell in pain before. He was a leader, the gang leader, now just leading a gang of two. He had a bass voice and barked commands. But, now under reduced circumstances, he had taken even to whining. But a feminine shriek was farfetched. It was not a great omen to hear such noises at the start of the day; more so that which wakes one up.
When I got up with a start, I saw Chinna wearing a veshti (not the lungi we were used to), holy ash on his forehead and sitting cross-legged in a humble way and a bent chest, singing something incomprehensible. The boy had got up early. He slept late but got up early. He was sitting in front of Chinna and had a cane in hand. The kid waved the cane in front of Chinna’s face to make him beat his right hand on his thigh to that rhythm. I had never seen Chinna humiliated so much in our gangster life. Chinna has gotten to that low a level that even a kid is able to wield its cane on him and was visibly scared. It was the fear that drove him to do that. He had picked up fear after his bosom friend and trusted lieutenant had cheated him.
I made a swift stride towards the duo and took away the cane from his hands. The kid was adamant at teaching me, but I told him that if he didn’t sleep then, I would take him to school. He didn’t feel scared as I had expected. He was unyielding. Only when I said I would also learn the music, he calmed down. I had to lure him with trips on the boat and fish fry. There was a lot of such luring talk I had to do to get him to cow down. At last, I managed to get him back to bed and catch a few winks myself. But Chinna didn’t sleep. He didn’t even close his eyes. The kid terrorized the gang leader—a big wonder I still couldn’t digest.
Day breaks late in the December month. If in summer, daylight floods in by five thirty in the morning; in December, there is some light seen only at six thirty or so. The music session had started at five, an unthinkable hour when we used to get back from night time robbing sessions. Here, the musicians start off their activities at that time. Strange routine people have, I thought. I learnt one thing at that time that one should not try to rob a musician’s house as who knows, he may be awake at four too.
I got up at six thirty. The kid was sound asleep. Chinna who was having a tea asked, “Why did you get up so soon?”
“Well, my stomach hurts and I cannot continue sleeping.”
“You liar,” said he, still shivering, “You are afraid that the kid would start caning you, isn’t it?”
“Stop it, Chinna. What has happened to you? From when have you started fearing even children? Don’t you remember those days when you were such a tyrant?”
Chinna went into nostalgia. His face got sadder and he went and sat crouched in a corner. Now, he would start on to a self-pitying mood and waste the whole day.
I had to change his mood. So, I gave him motivational talk. He began responding to it, thankfully. He stood up and bared his chest and said, “What a tyrannical kid is this? Do you think its parents will give money to have it back?”
He was sliding back again. I had to say something positive. “Parents like such kids. In fact, they dote on them. Isn’t this kid their only child? They will surely want him around, no question about that. A son and an only child—what more can we ask. Now, why don’t you wake him up and help you cook some breakfast while I make a survey of how the family is facing the fact that its child is missing.”
So I took a bus to Kottivakkam beach. There was no direct bus to the beach. I had to go to the bus stop at Palavakkam, which was more than a kilometer from the beach—walk all the way upto the bus stop—wait for the bus—actually that was not much of a problem; any bus coming here would go there—just two or three stops—then walk another mile to the beach house of theirs. Morning near the kid’s house was more silent than our own deserted dwelling. There was no flurry of activities. There was no police vehicle. There was no crowd thronging that place. It was as peaceful as an ashram. The misty morning was cold but that didn’t deter me from making a few rounds about the place to check on reactions.
When I took a peep at the kid’s house inside the large gate, there was no forlorn feeling I could observe. On the contrary, the servant had drawn the morning Margazhi kolam. Lights were on like it was a celebration and not a bad day. Singing was heard. It was the same sa ri ga ma that the kid sang. There was some kind of instrument sound too. A middle aged woman was pouring coffee in a tumbler. Her hair was wet and she had worn a towel on it and tied it up on her head. Maybe she is the kid’s mother. The father, the musician was singing. Was there anybody else at home? Perhaps they had not yet discovered that their little child was now in the folds of rowdies. It looked like she was not going to drink that coffee, probably there was some elderly person at home and she was giving him that. The coffee smell hit my nose— wonder what coffee was that, so strong. I decided to go back to the dwelling and have tea. We only have tea. That’s cheaper.
I again went walking to the bus stop and took a bus back there. It seems like a bus is fast and saves time. But for distances of two or three bus stops, it is better to walk and that would be faster—saves on bus waiting time. I knew the shortcuts but felt lazy to walk. After all, we have got hold of the golden-egg laying-hen. Why not spend a few rupees for the bus ticket?
It was at least an hour since I had left. When I approached the dwelling, I heard the same song. As soon as I opened the door, the kid had again managed to hold the cane and begin teaching the song to Chinna. The boy’s eyes were all wide and he seemed more threatening than teaching. Chinna looked like the scared deer the lion kid was going to pounce on.
“He poured water on my face to wake me up during the rare moment I had slept off,” said Chinna still shivering. “What’s more, he said, his mother would do it when he slept longer in the mornings. Do you have a knife or any weapon?”
I took away the cane from the kid and stopped all the singing session. “How dare you meddle with this bhagavathar? No one dares stop a singing session and a sacred one like teaching music session. Be careful.” He said waving his hand in lieu of the cane.
We made tea and gulped it hot. Only when some hot tea went through the gullet, was I able to say something. I sent Chinna out to fetch some breakfast from a tea shop nearby. We could have bought tea also instead of making it here. But I didn’t have a vessel to bring tea. If we asked for three teas, it might arouse suspicion. Although we took him yesterday to the fishermen village, it was a sparse part that we went to. Had we gone to the centre of the village, people would have talked. I took the kid to the beach for his toilet. Then, we walked by the village side again and the fishermen had already gone fishing. Although it was chilly, they left very early—before dawn—into the sea. The kid was sad that he missed the opportunity to be on board a fishing boat. So, I changed its mood by hinting breakfast.
Chinna brought back idlis and dosas. The kid was not too keen on eating. For him, it was the same fare as at home. So I had Chinna buy some bun and butter biscuits to be had with tea. The kid relished the poor fare. He wanted barottas but that was not served for breakfast. I also had Chinna buy some puttu sold at tea shops especially near fisherman villages. He had it with sugar and banana.
After breakfast when the kid was amusing itself with the sand near the dwelling, I told Chinna, “I went there and was surprised that there was no worry yet. It was too peaceful for words. They may not yet have discovered him missing. Maybe they thought he was over at some aun’”s or friend’s house. Anyway, they may start suspecting when they don’t see him home today. So, the best time to call up would be tonight and we can get the message of ten lakhs across to the father.”
Just then I heard loud drumming. When I went out, the kid had a broken aluminum plate in hand and made some beating noise. He went collecting thrown aluminum plates on the sand. He had twigs in his hand and went drumming the plates. He liked playing with the sand. His face and dresses were all sand. My mother never lets me play with sand, he said. Testing his aiming skills, he threw a plate at us. I ducked but it hit Chinna on his head. The fat kid had force. His fat arms were actually strong for a kid. Maybe he drums a lot. Chinna passed out. He made a noise like the sneeze of a cow and fell staggering on the steps. His head fell straight on the sand and made a thud noise. I immediately pulled him up.
“Doesn’t this kid look like a small version of Lord Yama?” He asked.
“Take it easy.” I said. “Breathe deep for some time and you’ll get back your senses.”
He folded both his hands and pleaded with me. “Please don’t leave me here with this pest.”
I ran out into the sand. The kid saw me and ran faster. I chased after him. The little kid ran into crevices that adults could not think of. With its nimble feet, it ran everywhere. It was right in front running but always a few steps ahead. My adult strength was compensated by the kid’s agility. It took at least ten minutes of chasing before I could lay my hands on him. He made me really angry. I caught him at last and shook him till he screamed. A slap on the mouth silenced the scream.
“If you run around like this and hit Chinna, I’ll send you home straightaway.” I said. The boy began sobbing. All my hard hits had only ended up in him sobbing and not crying. His sobs were not genuine. He was only trying to plead.
“Please, please don’t send me home. I didn’t hit Chinna, it was only for fun. But, he also hit me when you were not there. Please don’t send me home. I promise I will not hit. Please.”
“Ok and behave yourself.”
“Can I also teach one song to Chinna? Please. It’s my favorite song and my father taught me that. I get a chance to teach only here. At home, everybody teaches me,” he said.
“I don’t know what song you’re teaching. Ask Chinna and if he agrees, do so. Only both of you will be here today. I am going outside.” I said.
I took the kid to Chinna and said that everything was ok. The boy smiled at him and told him not to worry. As a concession, he would teach him a song he had already heard of and not something totally new. He began interviewing Chinna.
“Tell me a song you know.”
“Vaadi muniyamma un kannule mai.” Chinna sang.
“I have not heard it. Some song that is more Carnatic,” he said.
“What is Carnatic?” Chinna asked.
“They will sit and sing. They will shake their heads and sing sa ri ga ma, all that.” I butted in.
“Oh, that. Those Iyer people sing.” Chinna replied.
“Not Iyer people only. Other people also sang. Mother said. But, they left it. Now, only Iyer people are singing,” the boy said.
Both Chinna and I were astonished at the kid’s expert knowledge to argue and make a point at this little age. Family, I said. Family and genes make a lot of difference.
“So, is it like that film, Sankarabharanam?” Chinna asked.
The boy was thinking. He said after some time, “Ok, I don’t know much about it but I can understand the type of songs you have in mind. I am getting an idea. Give me some time. I’ll start the teaching.”
I took Chinna aside. He was still shivering and didn’t like the whole thing. Why do I have to be the one to be with this little pest? He asked. “You know me, Pandi. You know what a great gang leader I was. We robbed successfully in rain and shine. I led that great train robbery down south too. We did so many things together and did everything victoriously. But now I am losing my nerve, thanks to this little kid. I am not able to tolerate this pest any longer. Please don’t leave me with this pest long. Please, I beg you.”
I said, “I’m going over to that beach near his home and keep a watch today. We need to check out the beauty of our work—how people are taking it. But before that, let us write down what we have to talk to the father, Sanjay.”
I continued, “I’ll be back for lunch. Keep this boy as amused as you can. Don’t get into any fights with him. I can see that you may not be able to handle, if he tries to run away. So, accept his superiority. Treat him as your leader and just bide your time.”
Before we were further disturbed by the boy, we set out to make the terms of the message clear. Chinna and I got some paper and pen while the shark king ran out into the beach to check the remaining boats. Chinna looked very upset. When I asked him what the matter was, he pointed to the kid. Who will pay ten lakhs to get this kid back? He asked.
“I agree that he is the only child and an only son. But he is a pest. For all you know, his parents may be his victims. They may only be feeling happy that somebody took him off their hands. If we urge them to pay ten lakhs, they may send the police after us and make an agreement to make us proxy parents for life.”
“Chinna, you are just too nervous right now. Probably it is not the right time to talk,” I said.
“All I am saying is let’s lower the ransom,” he said.
“What’s the figure you have in mind?”
“Five lakhs,” he said.
“That’s too low. I’ll not agree,” I said blankly.
“Ok. Six.” He said.
“No, that’s not on. It’s really low,” I said.
“Well, seven.” He said.
“No”
“Eight”
“No”
“That’s not on, Pandi. Give some respect to my words. I was the leader once, right? If it is not eight, it is nine; what’s the big difference?”
“OK. Fine. Eight, it is, then,” I said, “I am not happy with the lowering. Remember you said, these rich musicians can afford even twenty lakhs, now we are reducing from ten.” I didn’t see Chinna change his mind. So be it, eight then.
So, to satisfy Chinna, I finally accepted. We tore a paper from an old notebook and set out to write it. Only if we have it wr