break rules. He suddenly wondered what had caused a young, intelligent man like Nandu to become a hardcore criminal. He thought of the few times he had flirted with the idea of indulging in petty crime in his youth and sighed with relief at having never crossed that dangerous line.
Virkar gunned the Bullet back into action; the soaring phut-phut-phut of the bike was music to his ears as he rode towards Prabhadevi onto Mahim Causeway and turned off to the Western Express Highway to the right. At that time of the morning, he cleared the twenty-four kilometre distance to the Dahisar check naka in fifteen minutes flat. Riding headlong against the wind invigorated Virkar’s troubled senses and he was ready for the refreshing jolt of the early-morning ‘Nescoffee’ sold at the small shacks by the check naka.
There, sitting amongst flatulent truck drivers and half-asleep transporters from every corner of India, Virkar finally felt the belligerence inside him melt away. As he let the final drop of the strong, sweet, dirt-brown liquid trickle down his throat, Virkar was ready to face the media backlash that the first rays of the sun would bring, wrapped in fresh newspapers.
12
N igel Colasco had stepped out of his house after five days, but even after an hour on the streets, he was getting increasingly restless because of the constant police presence around him. However, he was still greeting everyone he met with his customary smile that stretched across a face that had been weathered by years of exposure to the sun. After all, he was a supremely genial man who had acquired the enviable reputation of being known as a patient and intrepid crusader for the rights of slum children.
Having grown up in a devout East-Indian Catholic family in Bandra, Colasco had developed a passion for charitable work at an early age. Under the tutelage of the priests of his parish, he had spent years in slums and nearby villages, giving hours and hours of his time and resources to every lost cause. As an adult, he had come into his own and established his NGO while continuing to dedicate his every waking hour to the upliftment of the deprived and weaker sections of society. But for the past five days, he and all his actions had become the subject of intense scrutiny and speculation in the media. Why was Nigel Colasco the Compass Box Killer’s next victim? Nosy, self-propelled media ‘investigators’ had sifted through each little sinew of his body of work in the courts and slums of Mumbai. Overzealous TV anchors were thrusting their mikes towards any mouth that was willing to let its tongue wag. Even the watchmen, car cleaners, dhobis and maids from Colasco’s neighbourhood near Mount Mary Steps in Bandra were not spared in the hope of any grain of ‘exclusive’ information that they might unearth about him. Unfortunately for the media, Colasco’s clean life and straightforward dealings did nothing to help spin the rumour mill that could feed the media frenzy. To the great disappointment of channel crusaders, Colasco, now in his mid-forties, had had a perfectly strait-laced career that had begun with an assistantship at a small labour law practice firm and thereafter moved towards him taking up the cudgels for the downtrodden as an extension of his charitable work. They had come flocking to him as he began spending his free hours by working in the myriad slums of Mumbai. Soon, what was an avocation had become a full-time vocation as Nigel opened the NGO, Slum Baalak Suraksha. The plaudits that his stellar work earned in helping slum children get educated and find employment had led to Nigel becoming a familiar face at government offices. The somnolent officials were only too happy to help someone who was doing their job for them. Awards and accolades swiftly began to adorn the cabinets in the reception area of his office while his simple home in Bandra became a pit stop for every visiting foreign dignitary who felt it was their moral
Virkar gunned the Bullet back into action; the soaring phut-phut-phut of the bike was music to his ears as he rode towards Prabhadevi onto Mahim Causeway and turned off to the Western Express Highway to the right. At that time of the morning, he cleared the twenty-four kilometre distance to the Dahisar check naka in fifteen minutes flat. Riding headlong against the wind invigorated Virkar’s troubled senses and he was ready for the refreshing jolt of the early-morning ‘Nescoffee’ sold at the small shacks by the check naka.
There, sitting amongst flatulent truck drivers and half-asleep transporters from every corner of India, Virkar finally felt the belligerence inside him melt away. As he let the final drop of the strong, sweet, dirt-brown liquid trickle down his throat, Virkar was ready to face the media backlash that the first rays of the sun would bring, wrapped in fresh newspapers.
12
N igel Colasco had stepped out of his house after five days, but even after an hour on the streets, he was getting increasingly restless because of the constant police presence around him. However, he was still greeting everyone he met with his customary smile that stretched across a face that had been weathered by years of exposure to the sun. After all, he was a supremely genial man who had acquired the enviable reputation of being known as a patient and intrepid crusader for the rights of slum children.
Having grown up in a devout East-Indian Catholic family in Bandra, Colasco had developed a passion for charitable work at an early age. Under the tutelage of the priests of his parish, he had spent years in slums and nearby villages, giving hours and hours of his time and resources to every lost cause. As an adult, he had come into his own and established his NGO while continuing to dedicate his every waking hour to the upliftment of the deprived and weaker sections of society. But for the past five days, he and all his actions had become the subject of intense scrutiny and speculation in the media. Why was Nigel Colasco the Compass Box Killer’s next victim? Nosy, self-propelled media ‘investigators’ had sifted through each little sinew of his body of work in the courts and slums of Mumbai. Overzealous TV anchors were thrusting their mikes towards any mouth that was willing to let its tongue wag. Even the watchmen, car cleaners, dhobis and maids from Colasco’s neighbourhood near Mount Mary Steps in Bandra were not spared in the hope of any grain of ‘exclusive’ information that they might unearth about him. Unfortunately for the media, Colasco’s clean life and straightforward dealings did nothing to help spin the rumour mill that could feed the media frenzy. To the great disappointment of channel crusaders, Colasco, now in his mid-forties, had had a perfectly strait-laced career that had begun with an assistantship at a small labour law practice firm and thereafter moved towards him taking up the cudgels for the downtrodden as an extension of his charitable work. They had come flocking to him as he began spending his free hours by working in the myriad slums of Mumbai. Soon, what was an avocation had become a full-time vocation as Nigel opened the NGO, Slum Baalak Suraksha. The plaudits that his stellar work earned in helping slum children get educated and find employment had led to Nigel becoming a familiar face at government offices. The somnolent officials were only too happy to help someone who was doing their job for them. Awards and accolades swiftly began to adorn the cabinets in the reception area of his office while his simple home in Bandra became a pit stop for every visiting foreign dignitary who felt it was their moral
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