FATAL HELP

 FATAL HELP

 

The cosy little nook in the garden was where Deepak retreated during the day in search of peace of mind. He had been troubled lately by a string of uncalled-for incidents that began when one of his colleagues at work, Mr P, decided to help him out. It so happened that Deepak was looking for some domestic help for his overburdened family. Mr P. was in the business of supplying labour to interested parties. He ran an NGO that specialised in this activity. “Trust me, Deepak, I’ll solve all your problems in a jiffy. I know just whom to send, who will take care of all your worries,” said Mr P to Deepak one fine morning. “Thank you, Mr P., for all your help,” said Deepak.

 

And so it happened that weekend, Mr P. delivered a somewhat overzealous-looking girl to his doorstep. Although Deepak immediately had misgivings, against his better judgment, he decided to try her out and keep her for a week. He soon discovered that the girl was of no help to him and was ill-mannered and rude in every way. As he was about to dial Mr P, he was struck on the head from behind and lost consciousness.

 

When Deepak finally regained consciousness, he had difficulty focusing. His head felt heavy, and he strangely felt violated. He could hear voices in his head, speaking gibberish, mostly thrashing and cursing. One of these voices he immediately recognised as that of the rude girl Mr P. had brought to his house. He quickly realised that the girl had come back with her family and had somehow infiltrated his skull, now living in his head rent-free.

 

And thus began Deepak’s ordeal. But wait, where was Mr P.? Mr P. was nowhere to be found; it seemed he had disappeared from the face of the earth. Deepak didn’t know who to ask for help. He knew approaching the police would be futile, as they seemed complicit in this act. The family of five or six then went ballistic, finding Deepak alone in his predicament. They took turns torturing him, repeatedly attacking his head and other parts of his body. This was accompanied by the choicest abuses, which they hurled at him, jeering, mocking, baiting, and literally driving him up the wall with their torture tactics. As he doubled over in pain and humiliation, Deepak’s thoughts turned toward Mr P. He felt anger take hold of him and swore that if he ever got out of this ordeal, he would make Mr P. pay.

 

Deepak’s days were now spent in isolation, held captive by this murderous crowd of nitwits. They laughed at his predicament and routinely tortured and abused him. Day by day, they grew bolder, realising they could get away with anything, and that no rescue was coming for Deepak. They began threatening and blackmailing him. Deepak’s days faded into a haze of pain, discomfort, abuse, and humiliation.

 

Meanwhile, in a picturesque corner of Singapore, Mr P. was teeing off on a round of golf with his business associates. He then headed for a massage parlour, where a couple of young masseurs gave him a relaxing massage. Mr P. chuckled at the thought of his business in India. His connections with the government and authorities ensured he had no accountability for his actions. He could not be questioned or tried in court. He had long mastered the art of manipulating the system for his benefit. Whistling a tune from a Bollywood song, he headed to a swanky restaurant with his business partners. “Hi there, Sir, welcome,” said the smiling waiter as he took Mr P.'s hat and coat. “You look pretty as a punch, your usual table, Sir?” Mr P. smiled, smoking his pipe and biting into the delicious food prepared by the nosy little cook.

 

 

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