Bollywood Storm Book I: New York

By N.K. Johel

Bollywood Storm is a lyrical and mystical murder mystery, set in Bollywood-style.

With a dash of Kill Bill thrown in, this novel will not disappoint those readers expecting action; it’s also a meditation on self, identity, ego, intimacy, sensuality, spirituality, privilege and loss; and it’s got five song and dance numbers in it, too.

The mazza of this story unfolds in two Books, spanning two continents

Elanna Forsythe George
is a Boston born, New York forensic scientist who takes on only cold cases, stone cold dead cases. She solves mysteries in unusual ways with her accidentally acquired, para-mystical abilities. Her cases come to her a few years after high-powered mainstream investigations, police and legal proceedings have all failed, and there's a dead end. But she doesn't take every case.

Book I: New York
Elanna is hired by the Bollywood starlet Simryn Gill to reopen the case of Rajesh Sharma, a Bollywood director who died of a supposed heart attack two years previous. Although it appears a simple heart attack, there is no drama, no gossip and no controversy anywhere in the Bollywood media. Somewhere, in that odd, conspicuous silence, Elanna smells a big rat.

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Praise for Bollywood Storm:
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“It’s a book about mysticism, possessing vast imagination, and delivered up with an incredible amount of skill."

Sheri-d Wilson, Poet & Educator. Winner: The USA Heavyweight Title for Poetry, ffwd Readers’ Choice award, Best Poet (2007-2012), CBC Arts Top Ten Poets in Canada.

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Her words yield a world around the reader, a story so detailed it reminded me of Victor Hugo, one of my favorite authors. A fresh take on the supernatural crime genre, N.K.Johel not only introduces Bollywood to new readers, she does it with flare!”

Mani Amar, Director, Producer, Filmmaker, Winner of the New York Sikh International Film Festival Award, Best Documentary.

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“[Like a Bollywood] musical, Book I is a rich, spicy masala of action, suspense, noir crime thriller, music, song, dance, comedy and romance, the paranormal and various religious and spiritual traditions, all painted in a full, multicultural palette . . . ”

Jim Bratone, Artist, Filmmaker, Designer, living in Arlington Texas.

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Mystery lovers, rejoice! ... ‘Bollywood Storm’ by N. K. Johel brings a dash of intriguing Eastern mysticism to the genre.

Publisher’s Daily Reviews

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• Language: English
• Publisher: EFG Publishing
• Release date: Apr 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9780991797707

N.K. Johel

N.K. Johel is a third generation Sikh-Canadian as her grandfather, who was born in the 1860's or so, emigrated to North America during the first decade of the twentieth century. Yet due to many complex historical happenings, she did not begin to learn English until she started primary school. She gravitated to art, music, writing and theatre during her school years in Lake Cowichan. As a young adult, she moved to Nanaimo to study theatre at Vancouver Island University, and then to Vancouver to study painting and fine arts at Emily Carr Institute of Art and Design. Her interest in literature developed informally. She credits Toni Morrison's Jazz and Michael Ondaatje's Running In The Family as the works that rekindled her interest in writing.

Book preview

BOLLYWOOD STORM

(An Elanna Forsythe George Mystery)

A Novel in Two Books by N K Johel

BOOK ONE: NEW YORK

Scenes

Prologue

1. The Call

2. The White Goddess

3. The Falls

4. Bhujangen in Buffalo

5. Murder & Roses

6. Zeke at the Teahouse

7. Suraj: ‘The Sun’

8. Sergeant Martin's Last Stand

9. Special Delivery

10. Bicky

11. Sisters

12. Red Carpet

13. Bollywood Knights Bollywood Daze

14. Abedabun: Sight of Day

15. Bollywood Knights Bollywood Daze, Part 2

16. Minoj: ‘Love, Springing from the Intellect’

17. The Chamcha

18. Rajesh: ‘King of Kings’

19. Rakesh: ‘The Moon’

Coming Attractions

Credits

For Simryn

and for B, a Desi

*** Hum tum ek kamre meins band ho, aur chaabi kho jaaye **¹ (from ‘Bobby’)

** (Translation: What if you and I are locked in a room and the key is lost?)

Prologue

Who would have believed at the age of thirty-three, I would become a desi? I never would have believed that my being would speak in rhythm.

Dhoom-a Daka Laka Laka!

Dhoom-a Daka Laka Laka!

Dhoom-a Daka Laka Laka!

Now my hips groove to a bhangra beat. Everything I look at and everything I do is different. I always looked at life and thought I knew what it was. But now, Life emanates inside me and meets Life-Out-There on a different turf.

Dhoom-A Dhoom-A Dhoom Dhoom!

Now, I walk to the beat of a different drum. A dhol.

What’s a ‘desi’? you ask?

Well, someone told me once, the mazza of a story is in the telling.

The Call

It was a Sunday in April. Around 10 AM. I was engaged in my regular Sunday morning practice, a meditation that blended Sivasana, contemplative prayer, Vipassana and some more esoteric forms. That’s when her call came. Deep in my contemplation, I let the call go to my service.

Her name was Simryn Gill. She was an emerging Bollywood actress, a starlet.

She needed my help.

Nandita Chandra gave me your number. . . .

The name she dropped got my attention, so I returned the call right away.

She said she wanted me to investigate a case that was closed two years earlier. I assured her people often hired me for just that purpose. But I also informed her, I don’t take every case that’s offered me. I needed details before I made my decision.

She told me some of her story.

Two years ago, during the Bollywood Film Festival in New York, Rajesh Sharma, a renowned director and winner of multiple Golden Bhujanga awards from The Film Writer’s Association of India for best adapted screenplay, was found dead in his hotel room, supposedly from a heart attack. Miss Gill was the first person to go into his room after the cleaning staff found him, and she observed some very interesting non-uniformities before the police arrived.

The bed sheets weren’t wrinkled at all. . . .

The way things looked, Ms. George, it was as if they wanted us to believe that Mr. Sharma showered, changed into his pajamas, got into the bed and pulled the covers over himself, then he closed his eyes and–poof!–‘Sri Maharaj kol vassin chalae gia si’ . . . he transcended or something.

The clincher for me was this, there were no wet towels in the bathroom.

That detail must have been either overlooked or not considered at all during the initial investigation. I asked Ms. Gill if a cleaning woman might have removed the towels.

No, no, no. . . . The woman was terrified. She didn’t touch a thing.

This was interesting. But I had to wonder. Why is this case so important to you?

The voice over the telephone hesitated.

I won’t elaborate over the phone, she said. I’m concerned for my safety.

She asked if I could come to Niagara Falls, where she’d rented a motel room.

I said I would consider it.

I dove into research.

Two years ago during the festival, several floors of the swank hotel where Rajesh Sharma was staying were reserved exclusively for Bollywood actors, directors, technicians, publicists, producers and the Indian media. The police report stated that most of the guests on the fifteenth floor, where Sharma’s room was located, said they returned to their rooms either late that night or early the next morning after the gala party in the ballroom downstairs. Most said they didn’t see anything unusual, but six or seven others claimed they saw the director go to bed early, right around 10 PM.

That many people on exactly the same page?

It seemed suspicious.

I called Ms. Gill back and she confirmed my doubts. She told me that she’d seen one of the supposed witnesses at the party and not upstairs at 10 PM. His name was Gary Dhami. But, she added, most things he said were questionable anyway because he was such a ‘chamcha’.

I didn’t know much Hindi, but I knew that word meant a spoon.

I secured autopsy results from a New York lab, along with some leftover blood and hair samples from Sharma so I could conduct my own tests. The results showed a small presence of alcohol and traces of cocaine. But it was clear he didn’t die of an overdose, the levels in his system were too low. Miss Gill added that he exercised every day, ate nutritious meals, and took immaculate care of himself. More reason to believe his demise was not a simple cardiac arrest.

India’s popular media stated repeatedly that Mr. Sharma had died peacefully in his sleep. I watched interviews on the internet of all the famous Bollywood actors paying tribute to the man. They spoke eloquently of the idjit, the honor, that Sharma had brought to the industry, and commended him for all the talented people he’d discovered and thrust into the spotlight, including Karishma Chawla, the hottest new Bollywood sweetheart.

‘May he rest in peace’ was the common refrain of every article, interview, video and television and news report on Sharma. The frenzy of shraddha and praise made it seem like everyone in Bollywood wanted the matter put to rest quickly. Everyone, that was, except Simryn Gill, who was hardly a blip on the Bollywood blog or V-log radar screens. There were very few solid leads, but Ms. Gill had said she was willing to pay me what I ask. That didn’t matter. I don’t take a case unless I’m intrigued. And I was getting intrigued. Something mysterious was calling me. There’s nothing I love more than solving a mystery, especially when it involves murder.

I called Ms. Gill back later that night.

I told her that before I could accept her offer, I would have to know why she cared so much about the case. It was strange that I couldn’t read her motives over the phone. I can usually tell if it’s money, spite, jealousy, lust, or revenge. Yet, somehow, even as she continued to insist she wouldn’t elaborate over the phone, I could only sense an honorableness in her quest.

Well, my intuition–or my lack of one–about Ms. Gill was one reason I took the case. But there were three others.

First. Nandita Chandra, the friend who referred her to me, is someone I would trust with my life. If she gave out my number, it meant the case was important.

Second. Even with Ms. Gill there to help them, the police investigation had been a joke.

Third. Come on! A famous Bollywood director dies alone in his bed in his pajamas on a Saturday Night? That’s an event. The Bollywood Press were on the scene and they should have been upstairs swarming all over Sharma’s room within minutes. Doing their job. Digging up dirt, real or imagined. Yet somehow, the story came off everywhere in the Indian media as only mundane and unfortunate, a simple heart attack, and not a soul around Bollywood was willing to whisper anything different. In fact, no one talked about Sharma at all, even over the Internet or on gossip-rag grapevines, except to laud his accomplishments and contributions. He was ‘a celebrated and integral part of the Bollywood machine’. And that was it. Nothing more. There was no controversy. No gossip. No drama. Somewhere in that odd, conspicuous silence I could smell a big rat. There were too many smooth edges, especially for the entertainment business.

And that’s why I agreed to drive the seven long hours from New York to Niagara Falls the next day. Because that’s where I come in. I sniff out large, rather well-hidden rats.

You see, I solve mysteries in unusual ways.

Let me tell you about myself. My name is Elanna Forsythe George. I work as a Forensic Investigator in New York City. And I have paranormal abilities. My passion is murder. I specialize in what some people call ‘cold cases’. It may sound romantic to you, like it’s all X-Files meets CSI, but I won’t kid you, it’s a tough way to get a conviction.

I work independently. My cases come to me a few years after the high-powered mainstream investigations, the police, and legal proceedings have all failed and there’s nothing left but a dead end. By the time they get to my door people have tried all the other options like contacting the JoJo Psychics and various channelers. But JoJo’s aren’t cops, they don’t know how to act on their impressions. Regular police don’t know what to do with the stuff a paranormal can uncover either. They don’t have the touch and feel, and they don’t know that I do.

So, how do I operate, you ask?

I’m quietly affiliated with an organization called Nomads. I’ll tell you this much. They don’t follow the regular rules because of the special ways they investigate. I joined because, like them, I don’t follow rules and regulations very well, and I don’t much like working with people who do. Nomads are skillful investigators, operatives and administrators, often in respected law enforcement or government positions, who have extraordinary abilities or knowledge. Many have paranormal gifts. Others aid us. We are what regular law enforcement would call ‘freaks, renegades and weirdos’.

If they knew about us.

And that’s a good reason to keep it quiet.

I came across my ‘gift’ when I was an undergraduate Forensics major at the University of New Haven. Now, when I say gift, I don’t mean it came out of the sky on a silver dish. Far from it. I was driving home from Martha’s Vineyard one rainy September night after another dull summer in my parents’ townhouse, when I came across a brutal car accident. I was the first person on the scene so I had no choice but to stop. I reached for my cell phone, called 911 and made an immediate report of the incident. Then I grabbed my flashlight, my first aid kit from the car trunk and followed the flashlight’s beam to the wreckage. What I saw chilled me to the bone. You’d think a forensic scientist, someone who’s seen so many grisly crime scenes, would grow impervious to the shock and queasiness. I’ll never get used to it. The day I do is the day I’ll have outlived my usefulness in this job.

In my flashlight’s beam I saw the battered body of a man. I reached for my cell phone to call 911 again. "Hello, this is Elanna Forsythe George. I reported an accident a few minutes ago. I want you to know the situation is critical. The driver was ejected through the front window and is now impaled on a branch of the tree he ran into.

"Yes. I am serious.

"Yes, he is still alive.

No. No one else is here. I’m the only other person on the scene.

As I got closer to the man, I could see his eyes following me. His mouth was closed tight as if to say something would confirm the nightmare was true. He looked down to where the tip of the branch protruded from his stomach and then back up at me. He was clearly going into shock. I climbed onto the smashed hood of the car and threw the Mylar blanket from my First Aid kit over his body, only partly to keep the rain off. I remember praying to God that my First Aid training would not fail me now.

"Hey buddy. It’s okay. I’m here with you.

You’re going to be alright, I said.

You can bet he was far from all right. But that’s what the instructors told us to say. Thankfully, the man’s body was mostly resting on the vehicle so there was no further pressure from the weight to cause him pain. In that respect, I guess you could say he was lucky. I remember being frantic, but still thinking he could possibly survive this. I’d heard of people living through stranger accidents. Suddenly, I felt dizzy. I took in a deep breath and exhaled.

An ambulance will be here soon, I said.

I tried to keep a regular stream of chatter going and got busy taking vitals, letting the man know what I was doing as I went along. As stupid as it had sounded in class, it was keeping us both calmer.

I’m just going to take your pulse now.

It was weak and fast.

I put my hand on his forehead and thought it felt less cold and clammy than a few minutes ago. His breathing was less erratic. I took the next step and asked him his name.

He opened his mouth and spoke. Martin. Martin Johnson.

How old are you Martin? I asked mechanically.

Thirty-one.

Are you married?

Yes.

What’s your wife’s name? I asked, trying to keep in steady eye contact.

He grimaced as he smiled. Her name is Marla.

A woman’s face flashed in my mind.

A beautiful face.

Brown eyes and hair.

A smile.

I blinked hard and shook my head. Ah, do you have any children, Martin?

The light in his face was magnified and his breathing eased. We have two children, Tara and Evan.

I imagined a boy and a girl. The girl’s hair was blond like Martin’s; the boy, the spitting image of the woman. I was feeling more than a little disconcerted. Just then, I heard sirens in the distance.

I turned to look down the road, wondering if they would make it in time.

What’s your name, Miss?

I looked back at Martin and saw a peacefulness in his eyes I hadn’t seen before or since.

I smiled.

Elanna, I said.

Elanna. That’s a lovely name, Elanna. Would you do me a favor, Elanna?

Sure. Anything.

Would you go and tell my family I’m sorry I died and left them?

I hesitated.

No, no. You’re doing fine, Martin. You’re not going to die. You’ll pull through and see your family soon.

Martin shook his head. Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I think maybe I’m right on this one.

When the ambulance arrived, I still was cradling Martin’s head, listening to his words that strangely seemed to be coming from nowhere. Outside or inside my head, I couldn’t tell.

"Tell Marla I will always be standing right next to her

"Tell Tara she will be a doctor

Tell Evan he will be a teacher . . . like me.

Later, I watched as the firemen were sawing off the branch from around Martin’s body and putting him on a stretcher, and Officer Jones of the local police was looking skeptical, as he scribbled in his notebook.

He shook his head, increduously.

Are you trying to tell me Mr. Johnson was alive when you arrived on this scene? Did he reveal the cause of the accident?

Well, no, I didn’t say anything at the time. But I’ll tell you now. The steering wheel locked just as I was rounding the corner. That’s why I plowed into the tree. Pity I wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Was I still caught up in the moment? I could be. . . .

"Imagining it? Do you think you imagined everything I said? You go ahead and try to deny that I’m here talking to you. I’m dead but I’m not gone."

I swallowed hard and turned to look the officer straight in the eye.

Mr. Johnson said the steering locked as he was coming around the corner. That’s why he hit the tree at such high speed.

Officer Jones stared at me incredulously. He shook his head.

I don’t know, Miss, the state the body’s in and all that loss of blood, it would be hard to believe he was ever conscious enough to tell you anything.

He flipped his notepad shut. Pity he wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

The next day, Officer Jones called to inform me that defective steering fluid lines had been discovered in the same year and model of the vehicle Martin owned. The press release was sent to the media the day before, the same day as Martin’s accident, and a recall for Martin’s vehicle had been issued nationwide. As a result, Martin’s family got a sizable settlement in spite of the fact he wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

Now, let me tell you something, I know as well as anyone that a professional investigator must end all relationships with a victim and their family as soon as an incident is resolved. But let’s face it, this was a unique situation. I literally couldn’t get Martin out of my head. He kept hounding and badgering me to go see his family. My nights were becoming long and restless and I was unable to focus on my work in class. Hell, if talking to his wife would help, I would, but I thought I was just being foolish. Besides, even if Martin was telling me all these things, what proof did I have? In essence, I thought, I’d be telling her things I’d imagined Martin said after he was dead.

I come from a conservative family who consider ‘subjective’ experiences a product of a distressed mind. Nobody would believe this! I tried to ignore the thoughts and the prodding, thinking eventually it would all go away. But it didn’t. After six weeks of failing to rationalize the problem, I resigned to do what Martin wanted me to do . . . whether I was out of my mind or not.

I looked up Martin’s phone number, took in a deep breath, and made the call.

Marla was apprehensive. She didn’t know why I wanted to come over and talk about her husband’s painful last moments. At my insistence, however, she finally gave in. The children will be visiting Martin’s mother on Thursday. You can come by at four o’clock.

I told her that would be fine.

After I hung up the phone, I found myself pondering all the details of the accident, and feeling anxious about what I could possibly say to Marla.

Then I noticed something.

Martin’s voice had stopped nagging me.

I was dumbstruck. A million thoughts dashed through my head. Perhaps this was a manifestation of my stressful course load, combined with the fact that I’d witnessed a brutal car accident? Maybe, I was just freaking out. I mean, come on, people don’t just fly out of cars, become impaled on trees, then continue talking to you for weeks afterwards as if they were still . . . alive.

Did they?

I paced around my room and wrung my hands. I couldn’t stop my thoughts long enough to get it together. I threw a pillow down on the floor and sat down, hugged my knees and rocked back and forth. I had to think. Maybe I’d just call Marla up and tell her I changed my mind. Or, maybe I wouldn’t go at all. But how could I do that to her after what I’d put her through to set up the meeting?

I pressed my palms against my temples. I felt quite sure I was going crazy.

FINE, I said out loud. If I’m crazy, they can put me away— after Thursday.

Before Thursday rolled around, I got it together and made up my mind that hearing Martin’s voice was only a reaction to the stress. But I decided to go see Marla anyway, if only to tell her what Martin had passed on to me before he died. Or maybe, I would just say he loved them.

Yeah, I told myself, you could do that.

Thursday afternoon.

For some reason, I decided to wear a denim jacket and jeans with a brown T-shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw someone quite different looking back at me. I chalked it up to my choice to dress informally. I almost always wear suits or high-end casuals. My parents had always emphasized the importance of grooming and appearance to project the right image. Being the only child of a senior partner in Boston’s most prestigious criminal law boutique and a renowned professor of eighteenth-century English Literature, the image my parents felt would serve me best often translated to my schoolmates as ‘ice cold bitch.’ Perhaps it was the clothes, or my personality, I don’t know. In any case, I was always too focused on my goals to pay attention.

At four o’clock sharp, I arrived at their house on Crescent Street. I rang the doorbell. Stepping back, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass door and wondered again why I looked so unfamiliar. Before I could focus on my reflection, the door swung open. Marla’s brown eyes looked back at me and I drew in a sharp breath.

I stepped back and blinked hard.

It was exactly the same woman I saw in my ‘imagination’ the night Martin died.

Hello. You must be Elanna. Please come in. . . .

It’s been many years since that day with Martin and Marla and I’m somewhat sketchy about the details of what happened. It was also very personal, and that kind of information is not something anyone but man and wife should be privy to. I can tell you this. After I crossed the threshold into their house, Martin began to speak to Marla. There was nothing I could do to stop him. It was as if I’d suddenly been tossed into the back seat and Martin was driving.

Marla was beside herself with horror. How dare you come here! . . . Talking like that! . . . .  How. . . ? How do you know these things?

I watched from somewhere inside myself as Martin managed to calm Marla down and explain. When Marla realized that it was really Martin who was there with her, her husband, she burst forth into his arms and started crying.

Martin soothed her as he held her close. They held each other for a long time. Seeing as I was only the vehicle through which Martin was attaining his closure, I tuned my attention away as much as possible from the conversations and events that ensued. I picked up some of it. They talked about the children, the schools, her job, what the finances were like. Things that married people talk about. The rest is no one’s business.

The hours passed, and in the early morning of the next day, Martin said it would be time to return my body.

Marla wept.

Martin reassured her there was nothing to be afraid of. Really, Marla, the afterlife is even better than it’s cracked up to be, he quipped. It’s really quite beautiful. You shouldn’t concern yourself about me.

Before he left, Martin asked Marla for a coffee, exactly the way he likes it, three teaspoons of sugar and lots of cream . . . YUCK! I mean, I like my coffee black and strong. But there was nothing I could do about it. Martin leaned back on the sofa and enjoyed every drop. The memory of the taste still sends convulsions through my body.

A few minutes after he put down the cup, Martin was gone and I was back in control. I was confused and more than a little embarrassed. Marla hugged me and thanked me for what I did. I assured her, it wasn’t voluntary.

She laughed and apologized for her husband.

. . . that man always gets what he wants.Then she smiled, as she held my hand. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Elanna, please call me.

At first, I was hesitant and only called Marla when Martin had a message. Over time, those two people connected me to a home inside myself I didn’t know I had. It was the beginning of a new way of life for me.

I began to care a lot more about people.

The White Goddess

I’m a driven person. Raised by driven people. It’s a driven world out there and sometimes things happen. People get out of control and do regretful things. Murder. And sometimes they get away with it.

Me?

I like solving puzzles. Most cases I take on are tough, and it helps to have an intuitive edge. On the other hand, natural ability without discipline is like an ocean without a map. I began a lifelong journey to get to know myself well enough to relax, surrender to the life force, and navigate through my experiences. Of all the situations I have been involved in, nothing was as strange as the incident with Martin Johnson and Marla. It was the first time and I didn’t know what was happening. I was scared. After that, I looked for answers. The problem was I didn’t even know what the questions were, never mind who to ask.

Throughout the rest of that year and into spring, I kept getting random impressions and messages about people all around me, as I was walking down the street, in the cafeteria, the library, everywhere. It was disturbing. I couldn’t concentrate on my studies because of the noise in my head, like static from a radio station. Exams were a nightmare as I tried to focus past the buzzing thoughts of all the other students in the hall. I became stressed out and my grooming began to slip. I