The Game of Shadows - Sequel to Kiss of Death

Mohini Barua could still feel the weight of Mr. Sarmah’s body as it slumped to the floor, the kiss of death sealing his fate. Weeks had passed since the elite gathering in New Jersey, yet the memory remained vivid. The plan had gone off without a hitch; Mr. Sarmah, the man who had wronged her years ago, was no more. It was his fatal allergy to peanuts—delivered through her cunningly applied lipstick—that had done him in.

But Mohini wasn’t satisfied. The thrill of that night had awakened something inside her—a hunger, a need for control and power that she could no longer ignore. She had tasted blood, and now she wanted more. And in her mind, another name began to surface: Mr. Dutta.

The Barua residence in New Jersey was a fortress of opulence, a symbol of the couple’s success in the land of dreams. The mansion, with its sprawling lawns, grand columns, and shimmering chandeliers, was the crown jewel of the Assamese diaspora in the United States. Every year, it played host to the most prestigious gatherings, where the elite mingled, exchanged business cards, and spoke of their shared nostalgia for Assam.

Mohini Barua, with her striking beauty and sharp intellect, was a star hostess at these events. Her Wall Street career had earned her respect, and her looks had earned her attention. But beneath the surface, Mohini was a master of manipulation, a woman who wielded her beauty and intellect like weapons. She was aware of every lingering glance, every envious whisper, and she reveled in it. But her thoughts were far from the chatter and flattery that surrounded her.

She had noticed something different in Mr. Dutta's demeanor the last time they spoke. It was at one of these grand gatherings, amidst the laughter and clinking glasses, that he had made a remark that set off alarm bells in her mind.

"You know, Mohini," Mr. Dutta had said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "life has a way of surprising us. Sometimes, people aren’t who they appear to be. It’s funny how a single detail can change everything."

The words were casual, almost friendly, but Mohini sensed the underlying suspicion. Mr. Dutta was a smart man, and if he had started to suspect her, it could unravel everything. She couldn’t afford to let that happen.

Mohini’s relationship with Mr. Dutta extended beyond the social sphere; it was deeply intertwined with business. As a Private Equity expert on Wall Street, she advised wealthy clients like Mr. Dutta, guiding their investments with precision. But Mohini was always meticulous, and when Mr. Dutta’s subtle suspicion began to worry her, she decided to dig deeper into his personal life.

Her investigation led her to uncover the stormy relationship between Mr. Dutta's wife, Sagarika, and Gautam Payeng, a man originally from Shillong. Gautam was a striking figure—handsome, adventurous, and successful. His passions for wildlife photography, the study of primitive tribes, and his frequent trips to the jungles of Colombia, Amazonian rain forest and Africa painted him as a man of intrigue. But what caught Mohini’s attention the most was his connection to Colombia.

From her childhood, Mohini had been captivated by an Agatha Christie novel where a murder was committed using frog dart poison, a lethal substance derived from a frog found only in the jungles of Colombia. The Golden Poison Dart Frog's venom, also known as batrachotoxin (BTX), is a powerful and deadly neurotoxin that can kill a human being within 20 minutes if ingested, inhaled, or if it enters the body through an open wound. This potent poison is produced by the frog's skin glands and is used for defense against predators. BTX works by blocking nerve impulses, leading to muscle paralysis, cardiac arrest, and respiratory failure. Even a tiny amount of the venom, equivalent to two grains of salt, can be fatal. The indigenous people of Colombia have historically used the frog's venom to poison the tips of their hunting darts, hence the name "poison dart frog."

The pieces began to fall into place in Mohini’s mind. Gautam's frequent visits to Colombia and his relationship with Sagarika made him the perfect scapegoat.

With her skills as an investment banker and her training as an engineer, Mohini began to plot the perfect murder. She would use the frog dart poison to eliminate Mr. Dutta, framing Gautam for the crime. The financial benefits for Gautam, along with his affair with Sagarika, would provide the perfect motive, further distancing herself from any suspicion.

With her Electronics Engineering background, Mohini developed a small device designed to be both deadly and undetectable. This device, cleverly disguised as an innocuous object, had one purpose: to release a lethal dose of dart frog poison into the air, which would be inhaled by Mr. Dutta. The trigger? A simple spoken phrase: "Bhoot Jolokiya." The device worked with the same principle as a smart assistant device like Alexa, which gets activated with a keyword. And she programmed the device to deactivate itself after the only time it would be activated to release the poison, removing any traces to the keyword.

She knew exactly where to place this device—in the flower pot in Mr. Dutta’s office. But to remain above suspicion, she enlisted the help of an unsuspecting Cleaning Lady to plant the device, for a handsome payment, of course. The Cleaning Lady, oblivious to the true nature of the device, did as she was told. However, fate took a dark turn. Shortly after completing the task, the Cleaning Lady was tragically murdered in what appeared to be a random mugging and shooting in Camden, NJ. The incident was chalked up to a coincidence, erasing any link back to Mohini.

Meanwhile, Mohini's role as a trusted financial advisor allowed her to manipulate Mr. Dutta’s assets without raising an eyebrow. She advised him to transfer a significant portion of his wealth into an umbrella account in the Canary Islands, a move that seemed perfectly legal and advantageous. Simultaneously, she subtly steered Mr. Payeng, another client with whom she had fostered a rapport, into a similar arrangement. What Mr. Dutta didn’t know was that his death would inadvertently benefit Mr. Payeng, who had unknowingly been tied to the same account.

On the fateful night, Mr. Dutta was on a Zoom call with Mohini. The conversation was as professional as ever, with Mohini exuding her usual charm and expertise. They discussed a lucrative new deal, and everything seemed normal. As they were about to end the call, Mohini, with a smile, casually mentioned, “By the way, Mr. Dutta, you must try the new Ghost Chilly pickle I procured from Assam. It's simply exquisite. By the way, what was the Assamese word for Ghost Chilly? I couldn’t recollect it.”

"Bhoot Jolokiya" - responded Mr. Dutta.

The moment the words left his lips, the device hidden in the flower pot silently activated. Within moments, a deadly mist of dart frog poison was released into the room. Mr. Dutta, still at his desk, never saw it coming.

While the poison took effect, Mohini’s face betrayed nothing but concern. She watched Mr. Dutta’s expression change from confusion to panic as the venom gripped him. His breathing became labored, and his eyes widened in terror.

“I’m feeling strange, Mohini,” he gasped. “Something’s wrong… I can’t…”

“Oh my God, Mr. Dutta, are you having a heart attack? I’m calling Sagarika right now!” Mohini said, her voice dripping with urgency and concern.

She quickly dialed Sagarika’s number. “Sagarika! It’s Mohini. Something’s wrong with Mr. Dutta! I think he’s having a heart attack! He needs help, now!”

On the other end of the line, Sagarika’s voice was laced with panic. “What? A heart attack? Oh my God! Where is he? I’m on my way!”

Mohini stayed on the call just long enough to hear the panic in Sagarika’s voice, then ended it with a soft, reassuring word. She knew that by the time Sagarika reached Mr. Dutta, it would be too late. The poison would have done its work.

When the authorities arrived, the scene they found only deepened the mystery. Mr. Dutta’s death was initially assumed to be a heart attack, but the toxicology reports soon revealed the presence of a rare and exotic poison. The investigation led to the discovery that the poison was derived from a dart frog native to Colombia. Given Mr. Payeng’s well-known trips to Colombia, his connection to Mr. Dutta’s financial dealings, and the gossip surrounding his affair with Sagarika, he quickly became the prime suspect.

The police pieced together the financial motive: Mr. Dutta’s death would lead to a windfall for Mr. Payeng, thanks to the offshore accounts Mohini had carefully linked. Combined with the affair, it painted a damning picture.

As the investigation deepened, the pieces of the puzzle fell perfectly into place. Mr. Payeng, oblivious to the trap Mohini had set, found himself under intense scrutiny. The financial links, the affair, the poison—all pointed directly to him.

Mohini, meanwhile, was untouchable. The authorities never considered her involvement, not even for a moment. She had played her role flawlessly, leaving no trace, no suspicion. As the days passed, she watched with satisfaction as the investigation closed in on Sagarika and Gautam. They were both arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit murder, their lives destroyed by the evidence Mohini had so carefully constructed. And Mohini? She was nowhere in the picture. Her hands were clean, her name untainted. The satisfaction of executing yet another flawless plan washed over her. She had played the game to perfection, and once again, she had won.

---

Epilogue

Behind her serene facade, Mohini savored the satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed. The thrill of control, the power over life and death, had become her silent obsession.

The shadows in her life deepened, but so did her hunger for the game. She had won again, and now, her gaze turned towards the horizon, scanning for the next move in her deadly game. The world had become her chessboard, and she was the master, always one step ahead, always unseen.

She has tasted blood. Not once - twice, She wanted more of it. She began planning her next move.

Legend of the Naked Ghost at Kokrajhar

 

In the early 1960s, Kokrajhar was a sleepy little town nestled in the western part of Assam, close to the foothills of Bhutan. Unlike the bustling town it would later become, Kokrajhar was a place where everyone knew each other, and the pace of life was slow and unhurried. The town was surrounded by dense forests and streams that flowed through the landscape, giving the area a tranquil, almost mystical quality. 

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, a different mood settled over Kokrajhar. The hustle and bustle of the day gave way to a tranquil silence, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant call of a jackal. The streets, once filled with life, became empty and still, as if the town itself was holding its breath. It was at this time, in the dim light of dusk, that Kokrajhar seemed to slip into another realm, one where the boundaries between the living and the dead blurred, and old tales of spirits and apparitions took on a life of their own.

One such tale was the legend of the naked ghost, a story that would become synonymous with Kokrajhar and its mysterious banyan tree.

At the very center of Kokrajhar was a corner that everyone in town knew. It was an unremarkable spot—a small clearing shaded by a peepal tree, with a rickety wooden bench and a chai stall that served the best tea in town. But it was here that the men of Kokrajhar gathered every evening, a ritual as old as the town itself. They came to escape the monotony of their lives, to share news, exchange gossip, and engage in the age-old pastime of storytelling.

The corner was a place where time seemed to slow down. The men would arrive just as the sun was setting, their voices rising and falling like the melody of a well-practiced song. There was Mr. Narzary, the schoolteacher with a passion for poetry; Mr. Gupta, the shopkeeper who knew the price of everything; and Mr. Basumaraty, the postmaster who could recount the history of every family in town. But among them, one man stood out—Mr. Dutta.

Mr. Dutta was a man of contradictions. He was short and stout, with a round belly that strained against the buttons of his shirt. His face was perpetually flushed, as if he had just run a marathon, and his thick mustache twitched when he spoke. He had a voice that could be heard from a mile away and a personality that demanded attention. But what made Mr. Dutta truly unforgettable was his penchant for storytelling. He had a tale for every occasion, and though most of them were wildly exaggerated, he told them with such conviction that even the most skeptical listener couldn’t help but be drawn in.

Mr. Dutta’s stories were a mixture of fact and fiction, with the lines between the two often blurred beyond recognition. He would regale the men at the corner with accounts of his adventures—how he had single-handedly caught a band of thieves, how he had outwitted a corrupt government official, and how he had once saved a drowning child from the Brahmaputra’s treacherous waters. The men listened with a mixture of amusement and disbelief, knowing that Mr. Dutta’s tales were more fiction than fact. But they enjoyed his company nonetheless, for Mr. Dutta brought a certain vibrancy to their otherwise mundane lives.

As the evening wore on, the men would play cards, sip on their chai, and lose themselves in conversation. But as the clock neared nine, the gathering would begin to disperse. One by one, the men would bid each other goodnight and make their way home, leaving the corner to the night and its shadows.

Mr. Dutta was always the last to leave. He had a habit of lingering, as if reluctant to let go of the day. He would tuck his deck of cards into his shirt pocket, adjust his belt, and set off on his nightly walk home. His route took him past the old courthouse, a crumbling relic from the British era, and the towering banyan tree that stood beside it.

The banyan was a tree unlike any other. It was ancient, its roots sprawling outwards like the tentacles of some mythical creature. The branches were thick and gnarled, twisting and turning as if in a dance with the wind. The tree’s canopy was so dense that even the moonlight struggled to penetrate it, casting the ground below in an eerie half-light. The banyan had a reputation, one that made the townsfolk wary of passing by it after dark. It was said that spirits resided in its depths, drawn to its ancient roots and the secrets they held.

Mr. Dutta, however, dismissed such stories. He was a man of the world, or so he claimed, and had no time for superstitions. He had walked past the banyan tree countless times, and never once had he encountered anything out of the ordinary. But on one hot summer night in 1964, that would change.

Mr. Hazarika and Mr. Rahman were young men with a zest for life that belied their academic pursuits. They had recently completed their master’s degrees at Guwahati University and had joined the faculty of the newly established Kokrajhar College. The two shared a small rented room near the courthouse, a modest abode with creaking floorboards and a leaking roof. But what the room lacked in comfort, it made up for in camaraderie. The two men were fast friends, bound by their love of literature, philosophy, and a good practical joke.

They had been part of the evening gatherings at the corner since they arrived in Kokrajhar, and it didn’t take them long to notice Mr. Dutta’s larger-than-life personality. They listened with amusement as he spun his tales, their eyes meeting over the rim of their chai cups whenever Mr. Dutta ventured into particularly implausible territory. It wasn’t long before the idea of playing a prank on Mr. Dutta took root in their minds.

It was a simple plan, born out of the sweltering summer heat and the boredom that often accompanied it. They would disguise themselves as ghosts—naked, save for the lungis they would drape over their heads—and wait for Mr. Dutta to pass by the banyan tree on his way home. The thought of the stout, self-assured Mr. Dutta fleeing in terror was too delicious to resist.

On the appointed night, the two men prepared for their prank with the giddy anticipation of schoolboys. They stripped down to their underwear, wrapping their lungis around their heads like makeshift turbans, and covered their faces with a layer of talcum powder to give themselves a ghostly pallor. Their hearts raced with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as they made their way to the banyan tree, taking care to avoid being seen by anyone who might give away their plan.

The night was oppressively hot, the air thick with humidity. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the banyan, and the only sound was the distant croak of frogs in the nearby marsh. The two men crouched behind the tree’s massive trunk, their muscles tensed with anticipation. They didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, they heard the familiar sound of Mr. Dutta’s sandals slapping against the road, accompanied by the tuneless hum that always signaled his approach.

As Mr. Dutta came into view, his portly figure outlined by the dim light of a streetlamp, the two men exchanged a quick glance. This was it—the moment they had been waiting for. As Mr. Dutta drew closer, they stepped out from behind the tree, their bodies swaying in an exaggerated dance, their voices rising in eerie wails.

For a moment, Mr. Dutta froze in his tracks. The sight that greeted him was something out of a nightmare—two ghostly figures, naked from the waist down, their faces pale and their movements otherworldly. His heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went dry. For the first time in his life, Mr. Dutta was at a loss for words.

“Maa Kali! Maa Durga!” he gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. He took a step back, his hands clutching at the air as if to ward off the apparitions. But the ghosts only moved closer, their dance becoming more frantic, their wails more insistent.

“O Maago!” Mr. Dutta shrieked, his voice cracking with fear. His legs felt like jelly, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Was this it? Had the spirits of the banyan tree come to claim him? All the stories he had so casually dismissed now came flooding back, each one more terrifying than the last.

Without another thought, Mr. Dutta turned on his heel and fled. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, his sandals flapping against the ground as he bolted down the road. Behind him, the two “ghosts” struggled to suppress their laughter, their plan a resounding success.

Mr. Dutta didn’t stop running until he reached the safety of his home. He burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him, his chest heaving with the effort. His wife, who had been dozing in a chair, woke with a start at the commotion.

“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded, eyeing her husband with concern.

“Ghosts!” Mr. Dutta panted, his face ashen. “There were ghosts—two of them, under the banyan tree!”

His wife raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Ghosts, you say? And what did they look like, these ghosts?”

Mr. Dutta’s eyes widened as he recalled the sight. “They were naked, save for the cloths wrapped around their heads. And their faces—they were so pale, so ghastly!”

His wife stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. She had lived with Mr. Dutta long enough to know when he was exaggerating, and this story had all the hallmarks of one of his tall tales.

“Well, you’re home now,” she said, patting his arm reassuringly. “No need to worry. You’ve scared them off, I’m sure.”

But Mr. Dutta was not so easily consoled. He spent the rest of the night wide awake, his mind replaying the encounter over and over. The next morning, as the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, he resolved to share his story with the men at the corner. After all, they needed to know about the danger that lurked beneath the banyan tree.

Word of Mr. Dutta’s encounter spread through Kokrajhar like wildfire. By the time he arrived at the corner that evening, the story had already taken on a life of its own. The men greeted him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, eager to hear the details firsthand.

“Is it true, Dutta Babu?” Mr. Basumatary asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Did you really see ghosts last night?”

Mr. Dutta puffed out his chest, relishing the attention. “It’s true, all right. Two of them—pale as death, and naked as the day they were born.”

The men exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from amusement to disbelief. Mr. Dutta’s reputation for exaggeration was well-known, and while they enjoyed his stories, they were often taken with a grain of salt.

“But how did you escape?” Mr. Narzary inquired, leaning forward. “Surely, the ghosts didn’t just let you go.”

Mr. Dutta’s eyes narrowed as he recounted his tale. “I didn’t just escape—I drove them away. You see, I have a deep knowledge of ‘bhoot vidya,’ the ancient art of exorcising spirits. When they saw that I wasn’t afraid, they fled!”

There was a moment of silence as the men absorbed this new twist in the story. Then, almost as one, they burst into laughter. The image of Mr. Dutta, a portly man with a fondness for sweets, single-handedly exorcising ghosts was too much to take seriously.

“Bhoot vidya, is it?” Mr. Gupta chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. “I never knew you were a ghost hunter, Dutta Babu!”

Mr. Dutta’s face flushed with indignation. “Laugh all you want, but I’m telling you, those spirits won’t be troubling us again.”

But the men were unconvinced. They knew Mr. Dutta well enough to see through his bravado, and while they didn’t believe his claim of exorcism, there was something about his story that struck a chord. The banyan tree had always been a place of mystery, and Mr. Dutta’s vivid description of the ghosts—naked and pale, their heads wrapped in cloth—was enough to plant a seed of doubt.

As the days passed, the story of Mr. Dutta’s encounter with the naked ghosts began to take on a life of its own. The townsfolk added their own embellishments, weaving the tale into the fabric of Kokrajhar’s folklore. Some said the ghosts were the spirits of British officers who had been executed during the struggle for independence. Others claimed they were the souls of criminals who had been hanged from the banyan tree’s branches. The more the story was told, the more elaborate it became, until it was nearly impossible to separate fact from fiction.

But while the legend grew, Mr. Dutta found himself becoming the subject of ridicule. His story of exorcism was met with disbelief, and the men at the corner began to tease him mercilessly. They would greet him with mock salutes, pretending to be terrified of his ghost-hunting prowess, and he would respond with a scowl, muttering under his breath about their lack of respect.

Yet, despite the teasing, Mr. Dutta took some comfort in the fact that his encounter had left a lasting impression on the town. The banyan tree, once a place of quiet contemplation, became a site of fear and fascination. Children dared each other to approach it after dark, and even the most skeptical adults found themselves avoiding the tree on moonless nights. The legend of the naked ghosts had become a part of Kokrajhar’s collective consciousness, a story that would be passed down from generation to generation.

Years passed, and Kokrajhar changed with the times. The small town grew, its population expanding as new families moved in. But the banyan tree remained, its roots digging deeper into the earth, its branches spreading wider across the sky.

The story of the naked ghosts persisted, though it was now told with a certain reverence, as if the passage of time had imbued it with an air of solemnity. Mr. Dutta, meanwhile, continued to hold court at the corner, though his stories had lost some of their luster. He had grown older, his once booming voice now softened by the years, and his tales, though still exaggerated, were met with more patience and less laughter.

But there was one group of people who knew the truth behind the legend—Mr. Hazarika, Mr. Rahman, and a select few of their colleagues at the college. The two young lecturers had revealed the secret to a handful of trusted friends, sharing the story of their prank with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. My father was among those who were privy to the truth, and as his son, I grew up hearing the real story of the naked ghosts—how a simple prank had turned into a legend that would outlive its creators.

It was a story that was shared with a wink and a nod, a reminder that sometimes, the most enduring tales are born not out of truth, but out of imagination and a well-timed joke. And so, while the people of Kokrajhar continued to believe in the presence of ghosts beneath the banyan tree, there were a few of us who knew better. We knew that the only spirits haunting that corner of the town were the ghosts of laughter and camaraderie, the echoes of a summer night long ago.

Even now, more than sixty years later, the legend of the naked ghosts is still told in Kokrajhar. The banyan tree, its roots entwined with the town’s history, remains a place of mystery and intrigue. On moonlit nights, when the wind whispers through the leaves, the people of Kokrajhar still speak in hushed tones about the spirits that dwell beneath its branches. Children are warned not to venture too close, and the older residents recall with a shiver the night Mr. Dutta encountered the ghosts.

But for those of us who know the truth, the story is a source of amusement rather than fear. It is a tale we tell with a smile, a reminder that even the most serious of legends can have their origins in something as simple as a prank. And as the years go by, the story only grows richer, its details more embellished, its characters more colorful.

So, the next time you find yourself in Kokrajhar, take a walk past the old banyan tree. Listen to the whispers of the leaves, feel the weight of the night air, and remember the story of Mr. Dutta and the naked ghosts. But don’t worry—there’s no need to run. After all, it was just a prank… or was it?