The Nemesis Games
Arindam Chattopadhyay
Translated by Subhadeep Palit
A Pakistani Prime Minister arrives in Kolkata on a state visit. The men who really run his country have sent him there to die.
Full Synopsis
When the Prime Minister of Pakistan writes to his Indian counterpart, asking to stand penitent before the city of Kolkata's brand new monument to the mother tongue, it reads like an act of grace. Instead, it is the opening gambit of his own assassination, ordered by the shadow network that actually runs his country. As the historic visit approaches, a disgraced Indian spy is pulled out of hiding for one last mission; a rookie Kolkata reporter chasing a cover-up stumbles onto a conspiracy far bigger than a politician's fall in the bathroom; a Lahore sub-inspector investigating a faceless corpse discovers he's been a pawn all along; and ordinary lives — a schoolteacher, a courier, an engineer — turn out to be threaded invisibly through a plot two nations will end up paying for in blood. Nemesis is espionage played like chess: patient, ruthless, and run by men who see people as pieces, right up until the last, unbearable move.
Rights.aboutAuthorHeading
Arindam Chattopadhyay is a Bengali author and poet born in Kolkata, India, on September 3, 1981. He writes novels, thrillers, and poetry in Bengali. Some of his notable works include Shatranj, a suspenseful thriller novel published by Biva Publications, Ekti Mithye Ghotona Obolombone, and Hemke Na Lekha Chitthigulo, along with various poems published in literary platforms and newspapers like Dainik Bangla.
Excerpt
Chanesar was a minuscule halt station. A small UP and DOWN platform each somehow saved the day. Both platforms were covered in weed and housed a plethora of reptiles. The rusty iron cage had nearly shed all of its tin cover. Scattered on the rail lines, as far as eyes could see, were discarded plastic packets, sanitary napkins, and rotting carcasses of animals. Beside this mountain of rubbish and this putrescent environment, had grown slum settlements, apartments like pigeon holes, beauty parlors, tailoring shops, cheap English medium schools for children, and fast-food shops. The station stood between Karsaj and Karachi Cantonment. The trains of the Karachi Circular Railway had passed through it till 1999. The KCR somehow managed to run from 1969 till 1999. After that, proposals to reinvigorate the line were submitted many a time. At one point, it had been decided that Gadap in the north, Kiyamari in the south, Dhabeji in the east and Hab in the West would be brought in its ambit. But somehow, it was always postponed due to a lack of political will and economic interest. Finally, in 2017, the Pakistan Federal Government had allotted 2800 crore rupees to that end. Since then, Chanesar had become busier. Surveyors, a few cranes, a site office, and quarters for the surveyors had cropped up during the last couple of months. As the engineers had not yet arrived, The labourers and daily wage workers used some of those empty quarters during their lunch and snack breaks. No harm in that. Nobody was breaking any law. The labourers had entered today after the Johar namaz. The clock said12.50 in the afternoon. Only the basic structure for the site office had been erected so far; four walls, two small windows, one door and one tin roof. The doors and windows hadn’t been fitted out yet, so one could see a lot of the room from the outside. Even so, the two feet couldn’t be seen from outside. Perhaps because they were adjacent to the wall to left of the door. It was Manzoor who first noticed them. A few droplets of water always managed to enter Manzoor’s ear canal during the ablutions before the prayers. Getting them out was a real pain. It was no different today. When Manzoor entered the room while picking his ear and sliding his head to the right, Bilal, Rowshan and Hafiz had still not arrived. In his attempt to get the water out, Manzoor shook his head a little too vigorously. Whether it was because of the shaking or the angle of his head at the time, Manzoor’s head spun, and his vision followed the pair of legs to find a body lying on the floor. The body did not look like a corpse as such; it could have also been some drunkard sleeping it off in a random corner. Tattered jeans, cheap chappals with worn out soles, a lot of red thread from some dargah twined around one wrist, and a wristwatch on the other one. Skin browned by the unrelenting sun. It was when Manzoor saw the head, or what was left of it, that he realized without a doubt it was no drunk. What was lying there was a corpse. The head had been completely smashed with some heavy object. Some of the brain had splattered on the wall nearby. It was impossible to make out the face. In place of where the head had been, there was a crumpled mass of bones and blood. His stomach churned as soon as his eyes fell on the face. Unable to hold himself, Manzoor vomited copiously on the rough floor. “What happened to you?” The sound of his retching brought Bilal running into the room. Bilal’s nerves were stronger. He might get a little flabbergasted, but that was all. The others rushed into the room and helped Manzoor to a corner and splashed water over his face. ‘We should not touch anything, or they’ll be trouble. Let the Police come first.’ One of them opined. ‘Shut up, you cunt. Look at the corpse. This looks like Faruk Lala’s gang. Which goon from Chanesar Goth have the police ever arrested?’ said Hafiz Akram. His language was foul but what he said was true. Sharia Faizal was right in the center of the city. Chanesar Halt was only few yards from Chanesar Goth. On both sides, unremarkable, discolored, white houses of concrete and stone lined the street. Between them meandered a narrow, uneven street. The police raids had been going on since 2007-08. A couple of unimportant members of the gang had been caught. Others went into hiding for a few days and came back to commit the same crimes again. Drugs, women trafficking, murders…. Chanesar Goth was living proof of how crime and barbarism could swiftly spread their seed right in the middle of urban civilization. It embodied the adage that the tree of crime flourished well in a soil full of malnutrition, lack of education and poverty. ‘Back off, motherfucker. It isn’t our job to worry about all this. If we keep quiet after seeing a corpse, a murder, the dastardliest of sins, Allah wouldn’t forgive us if we hide our knowledge.’ Bilal raised his voice. ‘But Bilal Bhai, we are just laborers. The police will only take us into custody if we inform them. Wouldn’t it be better if we call Super Sahab?’ ‘Rowshan bhai is right,’ Manzoor had finally recovered and found his voice. ‘Fine then, let’s do that,’ Bilal agreed reluctantly. The police harassment thing couldn’t be dismissed.
