LETTER

Dahanu is an ancient town with a long history. Located 110 km from Bombay it is a peaceful seaside town with a sprawling, uncluttered beach of around 17 km. 

Irani settlers were the first to cultivate chickoo in Dahanu. It is lined with fruit orchards and is favoured for its chickoo fruit. Many of the settlers here were Persian Iranians. Many businessmen from Bombay owned farmhouses here and its proximity to the city was a plus point. They used it as a retreat to get away from their busy city lives.

Close to Dahanu was a small village Alkapur. The sun rose high overhead on the remote village as Dhakiya (Postman) Pandurang was on his routine rounds on his cycle. Strapped across his shoulders was a cloth bag that contained letters that he was delivering. 

Tring Tring Tring Tring.

The sound of the bell on his cycle made passerby's turn their heads. It also allowed other users of the bumpy muddy road to pave way for the cyclist.

Pedalling over the rugged terrain he finally reached the tiled bungalow. Getting off his cycle he approached the paved road and started walking, cycle bar in hand, on the last few 100 yards which took him to the gated entrance of the bungalow. Opening the gate he walked on the chickoo tree lined path towards the main intricately carved heavy wooden door.

It was the farm house residence of Mr Pestonji.

Sohrab Pestonji was a businessman.

He was a fairly rich businessman.

Well educated with a degree, he had good contacts with the Bombay Administrators. India was just two decades past independence and the economy was building up. Entrepreneurs were welcome. 

Sohrab made his money in the oil business in Bombay. It was the production and selling of cooking oil. He had a small mill here that extracted oil from seeds. Rape, flax, cottonseed and soya bean were some of the seeds used to extract the oil. He along with  paid assistants worked the horse-driven mill.

Over the years he had amassed his fortune by selling oil and increased his profits by adulterating it with oil from cheaper seeds. He sometimes held back on stock to increase demand and created an artificial shortage. As he had the right contacts he got away with price increases.

He was married to Monica, a pretty Anglo Indian girl who preferred the farm house life to the city. It was five years since they married and they didn't have any kids. This depression also contributed to Monica preferring the serene lifestyle here. She insisted on staying back even when Sohrab had to travel to Bombay. 

Sohrab was  making plans to permanently shift here. He had doubts that Monica was having an affair and had hired a private detective from Bombay to investigate. Due to his doubting nature his marriage of five years was on the rocks.

His beautiful wife could not take it anymore. They argued all the time. Off lately, to avoid this, she used to stay aloof and lock herself in one of the rooms when Sohrab came down to the farm house. 

Alone in their own spaces they bided time. 

This afternoon Sohrab was expecting the post with the letter from the detective giving his observations.  Ding dong!!

A bell gonged somewhere near the entrance of the brick and wooden house as Dhakiya Pandurang, resting the cycle against his body, pulled on the rope at the door to alert the residents of the house of a visitor.

Unknown to him he had been followed and observed by a pair of eyes in a face cloaked in a dark hood. The silent unseen follower was hiding behind a chickoo tree as he saw Pandurang pull the rope. He stayed hidden. 

After a stretched wait that seemed like eternity the creaking door opened and Sohrab appeared. Looking as if he had not slept the whole night he looked irritated and very disturbed in his dressing gown.

Pandurang tried to exchange pleasantries and make conversation in English with him.  ”Good morning Sohrabji. Looks like a jolly good day today.”

Sohrab snubbed him shut without returning the greetings. He demanded in a gruff voice, ”Give me my letters.” 

The postman opened his cloth waist bag and ruffled through the contents. He pulled out two similar-looking brown envelopes and handed them to him.

Both had Sohrab’s name and addresses on them.

The stranger watched from afar as Sohrab grabbed the letters from the postman's hands and without a word of gratitude shut the door on the poor mans face. The poor postman walked back on the paved road reeling his cycle and after a few yards strode it and peddled his way tring tringing to his next destination.

Irritated at the whole damn world and a bit breathless Sohrab sat on a chair beside a table and placed both envelopes on the wooden table. 

He pulled open a drawer and started rummaging till he found it. Using the letter opener he slit one end of the first envelope and extracted a single sheet from it.

The handwritten letter was short and read :  I THINK YOUR WIFE IS HAVING AN AFFAIR. I WILL BE COMING OVER AND HANDING YOU THE PROOF I HAVE COLLECTED. PREMCHAND

Reading this Sohrab was very angry. Getting up he walked to a corner cupboard and pulled out an unopened whiskey bottle.

Bringing the bottle back to the table he dumped his heavy body back onto the chair. Opening the cap he took a long slurping swig straight from the bottle. He wiped his lips with the back of his other hand and gave out a loud burp. 

The other brown envelope lay on the table. Banging the bottle back on the table his hand now moved to the second envelope and the letter opener. He cut open the envelope and extracted again a single sheet of paper from it. What he saw shocked him.

It was a sheet that had cut out bits of newspaper and magazines stuck on them. They were assorted single letters on each bit. The bits were from mixed printed materials of varying shades of white and coloured paper and they had capital and small letters in different font sizes, colours and styles.

Each bit displaying a letter was glued firmly onto the page and the letters formed words that screamed out a chilling message.

It was a ransom demand and it was from Black Adder. 

                  

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In the last few months businessmen were terrorised by this outlaw who named himself Black Adder.

He was creating havoc in quite a few remote villages and was always ahead of the long arm of the law. The way he operated was that he would stick ransom notes to his targets and give them deadlines to accept the offer. The letters would sometimes be put directly through the doors or windows of the victims or sometimes through the post system and delivered by the postman. He got everyone confused by his varying methods.

If they accepted and agreed to pay, he would collect the ransom and leave them alone. If however, as in few cases, where people had not agreed to his demands or not paid he would carry out his threat of murder. After all, he had a reputation to keep up to.

He moved around stealthily like a shadow and was fast in his disappearing acts as well. He always targeted the rich so the poor did not need to fear him. As some of his ransom notes were in English it was assumed that he was an educated person. Probably, they thought, a frustrated graduate taking out his frustration on society. Slowly and steadily his reputation was spreading and the consensus among his targets was that it was wise not to involve the law. It was better to pay up and stay safe.          

                          ----------////----------

Sohrab unfolded the sheet with shaking hands and began to read. As his hands shook the sheet, oblivious to him, one paper bit with one letter came off loose and slowly fluttered towards the ground. The small bit of paper with this single letter settled on the wooden floor.

He read out the threat aloud to himself,

“YOUR  IFE IS IN DANGER. PAY RANSOM OF TEN THOUSAND RUPEES. TO ACKNOWLEDGE HANG A WHITE CLOTH ON THE WINDOW BEFORE SUNSET. IF I DO NOT SEE THE WHITE CLOTH I WILL HAVE TO CARRY OUT MY THREAT. DO NOT INFORM THE POLICE.

BLACK ADDER.”

Looking at the letters, glaring out from the bits or stuck paper, forming words, his eyes read what he wanted to read.  

He understood that his ’WIFE WAS IN DANGER’ and if the ransom demand was not agreed to, she would be killed. His heart leapt. This was good news for him. This was the best letter he had received in his whole life. If he did not agree to pay the ransom his unfaithful wife would die. He did not need to dirty his hands. She would be killed by Black Adder. What more could he ask for?

The best way to communicate his refusal was not to tie the white cloth. It was time to celebrate.

It was just a few hours to sunset. He continued drinking. It was his way of celebrating. Unknown to him the hooded stranger from far had seen him, reading the letter, through the open window.

He waited till sunset for the white cloth. It did not appear at the window. He had to now make his move. After all, he had a reputation to keep.

He was The Black Adder.

He stealthily entered the house and struck. One stab was sufficient to snuff out life from the  inebriated businessman. 

Black Adder slithered out as swiftly as he came. Monica, locked in her room, remained unaware of the stranger's entry and exit.

The limp body of Sohrab lay slumped on the table over the two brown envelopes and the open letters. On the floor, a bit of paper that had slipped off from Black Adders letter lay near the foot of the wooden table on the dusty floor. The bit of paper had a boldly printed letter ’L’ glaring out from it.

Black Adder had warned him -- ’YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER’ 

It was a pity that Sohrab’s mind had read the missing letter as ’W’ instead of ’L’.

The attached image of Black Adder’s ransom note has been specially created for this story.

Credit --- Google.