The Fraudulent Message

May 2024, Varanasi, India

Karna Ray welcomed the chimes of the alarm clock at 5 am. The formal act of waking relieved him from the pretense of sleeping. Doctors attributed his insomnia to his loneliness and abstinence, two maladies which he chose not to cure. Wakefulness had been his steady companion since he had left Angola some fifteen years ago. Fifteen years, three months and five days to be precise, he noted ruefully, as he entered the count in the notebook he kept under his pillow. It was a ritual he practiced daily in the morning after rising. To remind him of his crime.

An old ceiling fan dangled from the ceiling. Its noisy rotation circulated little air and provided scant relief from the sweltering May heat. The walls badly needed a coat of paint. Patches of plaster peeked at various spots. The only pieces of furniture in the room were the bedstead, a wooden chair and an old writing desk on which were stacked a pile of books on Vedanta philosophy. Besides the books, his only other possessions - a few shirts and trousers - hung in a wall cabinet whose doors had come off, and a pair of worn-out sandals lay by the entrance.

Karna stifled a yawn, swung his legs off the bed and placed his feet on the floor. Fighting his fatigue, he walked up to the windows and pulled aside the worn-out drapes. The view of the Ganges River was the only redeeming feature of the gloomy room. It was what motivated him to lodge permanently in this dilapidated motel near the famous Dasaswamedh Ghat. The bulk of his paltry salary he earned as a Math teacher went toward rent. He put on his thick black glasses to get a better look.

Karna’s humble abode contrasted with his aristocratic upbringing. The scion of a wealthy trading family of Kolkata, his father had disowned him for a crime he had committed a longtime ago in Angola, a country in Southwest Africa. A misdeed for which he had to leave that country in disgrace. The painful memories of his ignominious past still haunted him. He would never forget the brutality of the Angolan police and the taunts of his colleagues! And treachery of the person he had trusted.

Karna opened a diary on his desk and stared at a photo concealed inside. Another ritual he observed religiously as a permanent reminder of his humiliation. His phone beeped. A sardonic smile formed on his lips when he read the message about a huge credit to his account which was obviously untrue. He made a note to visit his bank after school to admonish them about their weak systems.

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When school ended, Karna walked into his home branch of the State Bank of India and introduced himself. He was bemused at the receptionist’s response. “Mr Ray, we called you so many times!” she exclaimed.

Karna pulled out his phone from his pocket and queried his brows at the fifteen missed calls. “Sorry. My phone was silent. Any problem?”

“Mr Pandey, will see you,” she said animatedly and hurried him to the manager’s glass cabin.

Mr Pandey, a swarthy man with a thick mustache beamed when the girl announced Karna’s name. He scrambled onto his feet, resting his hands on the desk for support.

“Kindly take a seat, Mr Ray,” said Pandey and turned to the receptionist. “Tea and biscuits.”

A bewildered Karna pondered the reason for this unusual hospitality. It was after a very long time that a bank official accorded him so much respect.

When the girl left, Pandey said. “Mr Ray. We can recommend some excellent investments for you.”

“Investments?” wondered Karna. I hardly have 500 rupees (five US dollars) in my account.

Mr Pandey paused to look at a paper on his desk. “Ms. Ana Paula from Angola visited us yesterday.”

The words stunned Karna. His senses numbed. How can the mere sound of the name I want to detest make my heart race, he wondered. A visible excited Pandey informed, “She has transferred 2 million USD to your account. Did you not receive a message on your phone?”

The words produced no impact on Karna. He adjusted his glasses and peered intently at the piece of paper that Pandey gave him. The note said that Ana Paula was put up at the BrijRama Palace, a swanky hotel, less than a mile from his decrepit lodge.

WC 740