Anamika Part III Written by: Amrevis

The taxi cruised through the long driveway, lined with palm trees jutting from immaculately landscaped gardens, and got parked under Hotel Fiona’s sprawling portico. A turbaned gateman opened the taxi’s door for Anamika. As she gingerly stepped out, the huge glass doors presenting an uninterrupted view of hotel’s lobby, held her transfixed. The view touched her in a strange way; it invoked feelings of eerie familiarity. Had she visited this hotel in the past? She could not remember.

A bellboy turned up to take her handbag. But she wouldn’t let him have it. The handbag was the only possession she had and she didn’t want to part from it for even a moment. “I will carry it myself,” she said stubbornly. Air-conditioned air hit her on the face as the gateman pushed the glass doors open.

In the center of the lobby there was a fountain, bright with a dazzling array of light painting rainbow hues on water cascading over statues of mermaids and other mythical sea creatures. A series of chandeliers dropping from the vaulting ceiling reflected stunningly on the pools of water in the fountain and on the gleaming marble floor everywhere around it. Light music wafting through the air added to the atmosphere of richness and beauty.

Beyond the fountain there were sitting arrangements for the guests, followed by a series of theme restaurants. It came to her in no time that fried fish, a specialty of one of the restaurants, was her favorite dish at this hotel. When did she eat fish here? Was it a month ago or a year? An oblong reception counter, manned by three statuesque beauties, stood silently in one corner of the lobby.

People were all around her, some at the reception counter, a number of them lounging on the sofa sets, a group of Japanese tourists were filming the waterworks display at the fountain, while others walked briskly on the flawless marble floors. A corridor ran in one direction, somehow she knew that the corridor ended with a series of elevators.

Walking down the corridor she found the elevators. She had gone up and down in them many times, she was certain of that. It was an unnerving feeling that she was situated at the periphery of the world she once inhabited, yet she could not become part of it; she could not because her place, her identity, her past life was still unknown to her. Her head throbbed with pain.

“How are you, Miss Rose?” she turned to see a man smartly attired in a black business suit walking in her direction.

Behind her were two or three women waiting for the elevator. He is talking to someone else, she thought. Anyone of those ladies could be Miss Rose.

But he stopped right in front of her.

“Ar…are you talking to me?” she stammered.

“Naturally,” he said with a bright smile, “It is a pleasure to have you here.”

“What did you say?”

“It is a pleasure to have you here,” the man echoed, eyeing her quizzically.

“No what did you say before that, when you were approaching me?”

“I think I said how are you.”

“You also said, Miss Rose,” she gasped, “you called me Miss Rose.”

Bewilderment was now becoming apparent on his face.

“Of course.”

“Is my name Miss Rose?”

“You are Miss Rose,” he said nervously.

A monumental sense of relief dawned on her. At last she knew her name. “And who are you?” she asked. “How do you know me?”

“I won’t let you pretend that you don’t know me, Miss Rose.”

“But I am not pretending,” she snapped. “I can’t remember who you are.”

“Why I am the hospitality manager of this hotel, D’Souza, Bunty D’Souza,” he said, sounding hurt by her contention that she couldn’t even remember him.

The name Bunty D’Souza rang no bell. “Oh,” she muttered. “When did you last see me here?”

“I don’t remember exactly, it could be a month ago. You were with Vikram Kapoor.”

“Vikram Kapoor!”

“Yes, he is waiting for you in your room.”

This was another revelation for her, that she had a room in this hotel and that someone was waiting for her there.

“Mr. Kapoor walked in barely half an hour ago,” Bunty said, “when I met him in the lobby he told me that you will be arriving shortly.”

How can anyone know that I would come here, the question seized her mind. An uncanny feeling caught up with her that the there was danger lurking nearby. Those who were hunting her had followed her to this hotel.

But she had to meet Vikram Kapoor, to find out what she could from him. “Where is he?” she asked.

“In your usual room.”

“And which one is my usual room?” she said tersely.

“The presidential suite on the seventeenth floor,” he said.

She was inside the elevator rising up at a steady pace. Her eyes never left the display panel stuck above the elevator’s exit. The numbers changed continuously. …Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, by the time it was sixteen, her nerves were already on the edge, her body taut to face any threat that may await her at floor seventeen. The elevator stopped. Its wide portals slid apart.

Stepping out she took a quick look on both sides. The emptiness of the long corridor interrupted by statutes celebrating the gaiety of the female form and paintings belonging to the genre of modern art made the place seem more like a gallery. Down the corridor was the presidential suite. On its ornately carved door was hanging a blunt, ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.

But she didn’t care whether she disturbed or not. She turned the knob and pushed the door open. First shape she noticed was his, a man who sat on a wooden chair in the center of the large room aglow with light. He was bald, his clean-shaven face set with a cruel scar stretching from his left eye to the neck, his bulging muscles easily apparent under the loose bathrobe he was draped with.

Threat was palpable in the way his hands were concealed under the folds of the bathrobe, and his feet were half-tucked into cotton slippers. She knew that he was tense as a steel spring, ready to wreck mayhem on anyone and anything at a fleeting notice. Closing the door behind her, she stood facing him.

His fleshy red lips spread in an evil grin, his foxy eyes unblinkingly monitoring her, he said, “I knew you would come.”

“How did you know?” she said huskily.

“Because you are searching for me,” his face seethed with anger, “You are here to kill me. Aren’t you?”

“Why should I want to kill you?”

“You can’t get Abu unless you get his foot soldiers.”

“Who is Abu?”

“You know him as well as I do.”

“I don’t remember who he is. I don’t even remember who you are.”

“You can’t talk your way out of this one,” he gnashed his teeth.

“I lost my memory after I was shot in the head. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who Abu is. I don’t even know who I am.”

“You make a great story,” he snarled, “Even if what you are saying is true, I can’t let you live. With or without memory you are still a dangerous, proficient killing machine.”

She knew that he was about to attack. “Wait,” she said with a frantic gasp, “Who is trying to kill me…”

“Does it matter who pulls the trigger? Abu wants you dead. He has many henchmen like me, like you, who kill at his command.”

“I never killed at his command. I am not a killer.”

“You were his best hit man, before you fucked up. Now he wants you dead. He has chosen me to do the job.” She detected a flicker of a movement at his feet and moved away just in time as the slipper shot forward from his right leg and struck the wall. Concealed within the slipper was a hunting knife.

Throwing off his bathrobe, dressed only in a colorful Bermuda pant, he jumped up from the chair. His appendages were exposed to her eyes, the metal claws fixed to fingers of his hands and the sharp knife he held between the toes of his left leg glittered like silver. He swung his leg slashing the air millimeters from her face, she moved back, but the leg kept coming, slicing and dicing the air, drawing ever closer.

With her back against the wall, she picked up the flower vase lying on a table and swung it at him. It took him barely a moment to maneuver himself out of the way of the vase, but a moment was all she needed to get out of the precarious position. With a high somersault she landed into the center of the room. He was attacking her as soon as she was on her feet. His hands fitted with sharp claws came very close to tearing her face into shreds. She gave him a sharp kick on his groin, it must have been painful for he screamed, but the pain itself couldn’t stop his attack.

His claws found her arm, tearing the skin, drawing blood. Another sweep of the claws brought them to her chest, her shirt was ripped at places, and the claws were starting to tear through the flesh on her bosom when her hand caught his. She threw him back and wriggled away from him. Both of them jumped to their feet at the same instant. His left leg described a wide arc, the knife it held would have ripped her stomach but she vaulted backwards on hands and legs.

In the fruit bowl on the shelf was a sharp stainless steel knife. Instantly her hand was on it, she slashed with it. He had already thrown his leg at her, now it was too late to withdraw. Her knife ripped his Achilles tendon. With a second slash she cut a deep gash on his chest. Face contorted with pain, he staggered backwards. She deftly juggled the knife in her hand. “You can still give up. I am not here to kill you,” she said. In reply he gave her a murderous glance and rushed into the adjacent bedroom.

She went after him. In the middle of the huge oval bed lay a gleaming sword. He picked it up and turned on her with a vicious yell. She deftly avoided the first blow, and the second, when he swung the sword for the third time she was ready for him. As she ducked out of range of his sword, the knife in her hand ripped through his abdomen, neatly spilling out his guts. For a moment he stood frozen, as blankness of death slowly encroached upon his face. She gave him a final kick making him fall face downwards on the blood and gore that he had spilled moments ago.

Now that her assailant was dead, it was time for her to take care of herself. Her injuries were superficial. In the bathroom she washed her wounds with water and after dabbing them with after-shave, she bandaged them with strips of cloth so that the bleeding may stop. She was surprised when she found in the bedroom cupboard a whole range of female clothing, all of her size. The dress she was wearing was torn and bloody; she discarded it and changed into another dress.

A wallet lay on one corner of the bedstead with a bunch of keys. She picked them up. The wallet had a bundle of cash, three credit cards and a driving license. The credit cards were in the name of Vikram Kapoor but the driving license was made in the name of Binny Narela. “The mystery deepens,” she muttered looking at the dead body lying in a pool of blood. “Is he Vikram Kapoor or Binny Narela?” She quietly tucked the wallet in her pocket.

It was time for her to make a move, her next destination would be the address listed on the dead man’s driving license. She checked her appearance in the mirror for one last time before coming out of the presidential suite. In the lobby she bumped into Bunty D’Souza. “How was your meeting with Vikram Kapoor,” he said.

“As usual, it was an absolute delight,” she smiled demurely. “Can you do one thing for me?”

“Sure.”

“Vikram is taking a nap. Please make sure that no one disturbs him till morning?”

“I will leave instructions at the reception.”

“Do that. Vikram really needs to rest,” she simpered.

Bunty D’Souza marched to the reception to deliver the instruction that the guest in presidential suite was not to be disturbed. She came out of the hotel and took a cab from many that were lined along the driveway. To the driver she read out the address given in the driving license of the man she had just killed. In less than fifteen minutes the cab stopped in front of a swanky seven-story building.

Through the glass window she looked at the tall facade of the residential building, whose foyer was emblazoned with the name Paradise Towers. To her surprise this building was as familiar to her, as Hotel Fiona had been. “I have been here before,” she muttered to herself.

“I am sure you have been here before,” said the cab-driver, “this is your home, isn’t it lady.”

She realized that she had been musing loudly. “Yeah it is,” she said quickly. “How much do I owe you?”

“50 Rupees.”

She paid and stepped out of the taxi. Inside the foyer there were two elevators but both were hovering between 6th and 4th floors. She pressed the buttons to summon an elevator and waited. The sound of barking caught her ears and she turned to see an elderly woman, holding on leash a small Labrador. “Hello Madhuri,” the woman said brightly.

She had almost convinced herself that she was Rose, but now this woman was calling her Madhuri. So which one was her real name? Was she Miss Rose, or Madhuri or someone else? “Ah you know me,” she said with a degree of hesitation.

“Just because you have been out of town for a month doesn’t mean that your neighbors should forget you,” the woman with the Labrador said brightly, “See even my Mickey remembers you.”

The dog was throwing his paws at her, merrily barking all the time. She bent down and patted the animal on its head.

When the elevator arrived and they were inside it, Anamika asked, “What is your floor?”

“Fifth, of course,” said the woman, raising her eyebrows. “Where is your husband?”

Anamika gasped. It seemed unbelievable that she was a married woman. But who was her husband? She could not even remember his face or his name.

“Were you traveling with your husband?” the woman said.

“Yeah,” Anamika said hastily. “He will be here soon enough.”

The lift stopped at the fifth floor, the woman stepped out with her dog. The lift’s door closed again and moments later it was at the seventh floor. Anamika came out. The plaque on the door said one word- Joshua. She took out the key ring, she had brought with her from the hotel. It fitted perfectly into the keyhole.

She stepped into the flat; guided by some hidden instinct her fingers found the switchboard on the wall and she threw the electricity on. In the dense cloud of light that descended she looked around to take stock of the immaculately furnished room.

On a showcase standing in one corner was a framed photograph of her smiling cheerfully in the arms of a man, the same man bald man she had killed at the hotel. On the bottom of the photograph a caption written in flowery English read, “Honeymoon in Goa”. Her blood curdled.

Had she killed her own husband? The conundrum was getting murkier. If he was her husband why did he attack her so viciously? But why did the hospitality manager of Hotel Fiona call her Miss Rose? She could not be Mrs. Joshua and Miss Rose at the same time? More importantly, there was no way she could have married the sadistic goon who tried to kill her at the hotel.

She examined the photograph closely. She knew that it was not a fake. Around the house there were other photographs placed on shelves and tables, in all of them she was with the same man. She was consumed by a feeling of sinking down, down into the miasma of an unfathomable mirage. Mrs. Madhuri Joshua or Miss Rose! Who was she? Or was she destined to remain Anamika for all her life. Her mind screamed for an answer and her body ached in pain. It was time for rest.

Continue to Part Four

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