JFK Promo Video
JFK…A dying mans last word… A plea, an accusation or a clue? That’s what the police couldn’t figure out. What they did know was that they had serial murders in broad daylight, and just one weak suspect…Jatin F Karunamoi, the dead man’s best friend.
Jatin is no hero, he's an unemployed 50 year old, desperate to find a job and restore his dignity. But his only hope for this lies in him finding the real killer. As he jumps headlong into the mystery he has little idea what he's getting into…a hunt for the faceless murderer.
Each step Jatin takes to unravel the mystery brings him closer to insanity as he encounters unimaginable situations, devious characters, intrigue and…death.
In this fast-paced thriller set in Kolkata, debutant novelist Jhangir Kerawala brings the reader face-to-face with the ugly underbelly that looms large beneath the bright lights of urban India.
About the Author
Before plunging into the creative field, Jhangir Kerawala, a commerce graduate from Kolkata, paid his dues for almost ten years as an accountant and then went looking for adventure and travel, by making a lateral shift into sales.
After five years of selling refrigerators he knew that the streets he traveled had a story to tell and that he had a story to tell.
After experimenting with a comic series, cartooning and short stories for children, JFK is Jhangir’s debut into the world of novels.
Praise for JFK
"A fast paced edge of the seat thriller." - Simply Fiction
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Excerpt from JFK
The old man tore down the dark lane, desperately seeking refuge. Thanks to the clouds overhead the night was pitch dark, and that’s what, he thought, would help him evade the two pursuers.
He noticed them first an hour ago and knew they were after him. It was after dinner while he was sipping on his tea at a road-side shop that he first noticed them hanging around a paanwalla shop across the street. Their furtive glances towards him had warned him they were not casual strollers. One of them was big and strong. The other, a little older, was short and slim.
There were others at the tea shop so he knew he was safe till they were around. He had called for another cup of tea hoping he was mistaken and the two were just harmless loafers and would soon be on their way. But after thirty minutes, he knew he was in trouble. When the tea shop owner prepared to close down at well past midnight, the old man became frantic.
He was quite familiar with the old part of Kolkata that they were in, so he decided to take the two on. He left the tea shop in an unhurried manner, zipped into a smaller road, ran around a corner and hid amongst a group of street dwellers settling down to sleep. These groups are visible only to the night birds. They are the homeless poor, the ones who survive the hard days in the city’s unforgiving streets, the ones who toil under the merciless sun and wait for the police to bully them at night. But now was their quality time when they sit together, share the day’s problems with a last biddi with friends, before uncontrolled sleep takes over.
The old man covered his head with a piece of cloth he carried on his shoulder. A minute later he saw them rush into view. They didn’t pay attention to the group of street dwellers and disappeared into an alley. Five minutes later they returned, the short one gesticulating vigorously and barking orders. They separated and charged off in different directions. He thought he had given them the slip so he decided to take the opportunity and get away from the area as quickly as he could. Ensuring the two were out of sight, he left his open sanctuary. He cautiously moved back towards the tea shop and then half-walked, half-ran towards the place where he lived. All went well the next few minutes and just when he thought he was safe, he spotted them once again.
He was already panting hard and knew he couldn’t keep up with it for long. Now he wished he hadn’t opted for the lonely dark lane as it worked in favour of the pursuers too. A well-lit, busy area should have been his first choice. But it was too late to change his plans and he would have to now depend on his imagination and luck to escape.
But who were they? He had never seen them before. Was his own pursuit for the man he loathed, discovered? But how? He had shared his secret with only one man, and he was sure that man wouldn’t set him up. He was good at reading people and this man, though he knew so little of him, was one he was sure he could trust. Considering the immense faith he had entrusted in him, he had to be trustworthy. He had literally placed his life, and the peace of mind of his entire family, dead or alive, in his hands.
And tomorrow was D-Day. Fifteen years of pure, undiluted hell was going to end tomorrow. Fifteen years of denials, of homelessness and sacrifice. Fifteen years…and revenge would finally be his.
But first, he had to escape these two.
He heard their footsteps pick up speed and realised they had cornered him at the loneliest part of the street. There was no one else to be seen on the road, but them. Where were the street dwellers in this part of the city? He could have at least found some refuge, some strength amongst them. Not a door was open or a light on. He tried drawing the attention of someone indoors by suddenly hollering aloud. But no one bothered. Another drunk returning home.
The old man started running as fast as he could, beyond his capability. But he was no match for the younger pursuers. Soon he bent double, gasping for breath. They were now just twenty feet away. In desperation he lunged at the nearest door and started banging on it, screaming, “HELP!! Somebody help me!”
Before he could continue, two strong hands grabbed him and pulled him away into a side ally. The big man pushed him to the ground and holding his shirt collar shook him vigorously. The short man stood nearby, a gun in his hands.
“Dadu, why did you make it tho difficult for yourthelf?” said the short man with a pronounced lisp. “You knew we’d get you.”
“Wh…who are …you?” asked the trembling old man, the whites of his eyes showing clearly in the dark.
“Not important,” said the short man. “The quethion ith, who are you? And why do they want you killed?”
KILL? So they are his men. God! Please don’t let me die tonight. Please let me live to see tomorrow…and justice. I’ll gladly give you my life thereafter.
“My name is Ram Prasad Yadav,” the old man stammered. “But why do you want to kill me? I don’t even know who you are.”
“Orders,” said the short man, bending down to let the old man see his ruthless face. He rested the gun on the old man’s head, letting him feel the weight, and repeated his question. “Juth tell me why you are tho important, and who ith this man who wants you out of the way.”
“I…I…am not sure…what you are talking about.”
“You want it rough? You thall have it.” He signalled to his friend and the big man delivered two powerful blows on the old man’s face.
Blood gushed out of his nose as the old man tried getting up. A sledgehammer blow on his neck and he slumped back to the ground. Half unconscious he tried opening his eyes. He saw the big man pull out a knife from his pocket and cut a deep gash across his face.
“Stop it! Please stop this,” the old man pleaded, putting his hands to his burning face.
“Just tell him what he wants to know, and you’ll suffer no more,” the strong one advised.
The old man just couldn’t figure out what they wanted. He had already told them who he was, and they must also know who sent them after him. So why the rough stuff? Just kill me, if that’s what they were supposed to do.
“I…I…don’t understand? Why…”
“Juth give me the name of the man who wants you killed, and why?”
The old man thought quickly as the two villains hovered above him. “If I tell you, will you let me live for a day? You can kill me thereafter.”
The two laughed. “Okay,” said the short man. “You have a deal.”
So the old man said it all. It took him fifteen minutes, but he had so much to say.
A moment later the short man shot him through the head.