The Lotus Snatcher

Inspector Sharma picked up the phone even before it rang, just as the screen began to light up. A fourth body had been found, the caller announced dryly. He gulped the remaining bit of whisky and raced off to the murder site.

It was a busy intersection, just after noon. The traffic lights were not working. Police were manning traffic. Horns were blaring. Pedestrians spilled on to the streets in between the cars, like a sea sweeping in between the rocks. Hawkers were peddling their wares. Everything seemed to be on the move, inch by inch, jostling for whatever space was available.

The constable at the intersection told the inspector that there weren’t any eyewitnesses except for the street-urchin, who was immediately produced before the inspector. The constable held the boy tightly by the scruff of his neck and squeezed it harder when the inspector began asking what he had seen. The boy looked up at the inspector and smiled. He was obviously used to being roughed about.

“A black hooded rider on a black motorcycle. The tail of his coat was flying in the wind, like Batman on his Batmobile,” the urchin said.

“How do you know Batman?” Inspector Sharma asked.

“Because the NGO takes us to see videos in the shelter,” the boy answered.  “I like Batman.”

The inspector’s partner radioed from the mortuary. All of the victims had died from a single piercing to the heart, believed to be with a sharp poisoned object.

“There’s more,” the partner continued, “all of the victims have a lotus tattoo on the bum.”

The partner radioed again a little while later.

“Names of the victims in order of their deaths: Laura, Orlando, Tanya and Ursula.  The first letter of their names is beginning to spell LOTUS.  We have to find every girl in Kathmandu who has a Lotus tattoo on her bum and whose name starts with an S.”

The inspector’s head began to hurt. The minister would call, the commissioner would call. Four girls killed in broad daylight. Not an eyewitness to be had. What would he tell them? Where would he find the girl with a lotus tattoo on her bum and a name starting with S?

There are 112 tattoo parlors in Kathmandu. But only one, beyond the western edge of the city on the hill by the monastery, offers the Lotus tattoo. It is a two storied shop. The ground floor is the tattoo parlor, a white haired Monk lives above. 42 women, and only women, have gotten the Lotus tattoo.

“Five of them had it on the bum - ,” the Monk had just begun to explain.

“Yes, and four are dead. The remaining one will die soon unless we find her first,” the inspector interjected.

“They were the chosen ones.” The Monk looked down and shook his head. His hair seemed to crackle as he turned. “The time to despair has come. Ugliness is here, beauty is lost.” 

The inspector longed for a shot of whisky. Four cubes of ice, no water – just the way he liked it. He leaned back on his chair and pressed his hands against his head. The pounding subsided. He felt better.

The Monk continued talking but the inspector wasn’t listening.

“It is bad enough that I have to protect some young trash with a lotus tattoo on her bum. She’s probably running around showing it off anyway. Chosen one – my ass! Chosen to die, that’s all. Enough of this magical bullshit,” the inspector thought and suddenly charged out of his chair. 

There were three girls in the client register that had names starting with S. He began calling immediately. “Hello, this is inspector Sharma. Do you have a lotus tattoo on your bum?” he asked hurriedly. The first two girls hung up without a response. The third one hung up too. But she called right back and said “Yes”.

“Thank god we’ve found you,” Inspector Sharma said with a long sigh. “Your life is in mortal danger. Stay indoors, the police are on their way.”

She was already at the central police station by the time the inspector arrived. His partner raced up to him as he entered and whispered in his ear that he had indeed seen the lotus tattoo on her bum.

“Look, four are dead, pierced through the heart with a poisoned spear,” the inspector began even before he could be introduced. “Either you help us catch Batman or whatever that apparition is, or you’ll die. We won’t be able to protect you forever.” It was not clear she had consented or even understood the question. But that didn’t seem to matter.

He gave her a bullet proof vest to wear under her shirt. An hour later, she was standing a few meters away from the bus stop on ring road. A college bag slung over her shoulders, an ipod in her palm and headphones in her ears. Except that the ipod and the headphone was really a police walkie-talkie for her to receive instructions during the operation. She had been codenamed Bait.     

Inspector Sharma had selected the spot for several reasons. Traffic was heavy but not gridlocked. There was enough room for a motor cycle to zigzag its way through. The surroundings were clear, with two tall building on either side of the road. Four snipers had been placed in those buildings with a clear line of vision of the area where Bait stood. Half a dozen unmarked police cars were parked along the way as a lookout. The inspector himself posed as a passenger at the bus stop.       

Nothing happened for a while. Bus 462 stopped for longer than usual. Traffic slowed every time a bus pulled up at the stop. Suddenly, the walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Something is here,” the furthest lookout said. “It’s moving very, very fast.”

It appeared like a cyclone blazing down the road zigzagging through traffic - a cyclone with a destination in mind. Drivers hastily reached for their windows, rolling it up as if a sudden gust of wind might be passing through. Motorcyclists pulled down the visor on their helmets and tightened their grip on the handle bar.

It passed by the other lookouts even as they were seeking it out among the traffic. The snipers said that it was moving too fast to get a lock. “Hold steady” the inspector snarled back. It was exactly like the urchin had described - a black hooded figure in a black motorcycle with a trailing coat tail flying in the wind. In the brief instant that it stopped before Bait to take aim, four shots rang out simultaneously from the snipers. The motorcycle fell to the left and the trailing coat tail enveloped everything underneath it.

Bait was immediately whisked away. With his gun drawn and the snipers as cover, Inspector Sharma lifted the coat tail slowly. There was only a smoldering bike, headlights damaged from the fall but nothing else. The bike and the black veil that he now held in his hand was all that remained.

The next morning Bait called Inspector Sharma to tell him that the Lotus tattoo on her bum was no longer there. It had disappeared.

 “I know,” he said, “it’s on my bum now.”