I arranged myself with care on the worn black chair across the desk from him. Hard bits of coir stuffing emerged from all angles, and I tried to avoid being poked as far as possible.
‘Having luck with your sleuthing?’
I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I am still waiting for a few specifics, but the Prakash Agarwal mentioned in the ActNow files seems to be the same one who is dead.’
‘Good work, Reema!’
‘I still have to see if it is relevant. I hope it gets me somewhere. What about you?’ I asked, breaking a biscuit to dip it into the small cup.
‘I’m working on a very interesting case now. It is a case filed by an NGO against a brothel owner from Sonagachi. Two teenaged girls were rescued from there a few months ago. Evidence is strong. The girls too are willing to testify,’ he said.
Contentment spread across Santosh da’s face, and I was filled with wonder. ‘Santosh da, could I ask you how you have stuck to this sort of work? Weren’t you ever tempted away by money?’
‘It isn’t so bad. I do get paid. Not as much as my colleagues who do corporate cases, or civil cases. But I make enough for my needs.’
‘And you never wanted more?’
‘Reema, let me tell you how I live. I eat simple food at home. I don’t drink, smoke or have any other bad habits. I travel in buses. I live in the house my father built thirty years ago. It is small and I don’t have the money to paint it, but it puts a roof over our heads, and I don’t have any loans and I don’t have to pay rent. My wife teaches and tutors and her salary is enough to help. My daughter is in a convent school where the fee is very low. What do I need money for?’
‘What about retirement?’
‘I don’t intend to retire. I have managed to save a little over the years, for when I can’t support my family anymore. But I hope never to be idle.’
I envied his simplicity, but I knew that no one’s story was ever quite so straightforward. ‘Why did you become a lawyer?’
‘My father was a lawyer. At first, I took it up because it was expected of me. And then I realized that it is also what I love doing, in my own way.’
‘What do you love about it?’
‘The same thing I think you love about your job.’
‘Which is what?’ From one infidelity case to another, I had lost track of my motives.
‘It helps me make sense of the world, Reema. To understand it. To set things right where I can. And to help people who are helpless.’
It sounded so noble coming from Santosh da, who had stuck to his convictions. He was too good to see that I had hardly remained as true. Even when I was practising full time, I was busy breaking up more marriages than I cared to count. Hardly the kind of help Santosh da was talking about.
‘But tell me, why are you worrying about all of this now?’ he asked.
‘I have been given a choice. I either join the magazine full time, or I cut back so much that I more or less lose my source of income.’
‘I see.’
‘So now the question is: am I willing to give up on being a detective altogether?’
‘If you don’t take the job, what would you do?’
‘I could continue to write and freelance for a larger number of publications, but that is likely to be so time consuming that I might as well join Face. Or I could put in everything into one more effort at making my agency a success and take every case that comes to me. Either way, the uncertainty will force me to give up my flat.’
‘And you don’t want to do that. Can’t you move back in with your mother?’
‘Santosh da, you haven’t met my mother.’
‘No, no, that’s true,’ he said with an endearing earnestness.
‘So that is where things stand.’
‘It is a hard choice. But I think there is one other option. You could look for a job with an established detective agency. It would give you a platform to do the work you enjoy for some time and then, later, when you have more contacts, perhaps you could start on your own once again?’
‘I had tried that when I first came back to India. I didn’t have much luck.’
‘But now you’ve had a few years of experience. Why don’t you send out some applications once again? You could speak to Terrence.’
I did not relish that particular thought. ‘There are others as well.’
‘In Calcutta they are the best.’
‘Perhaps it would make sense to look outside Calcutta.’
‘It would be very bad to lose you.’
I smiled and drained my teacup. ‘Thank you, Santosh da, for the advice.’
‘Reema, just remember that you have too much intelligence to waste it doing something you don’t love. And if you follow your instincts, it pays off in the long run.’
‘I hope you are right.’
I pondered and fumed through the four-kilometre walk home. Either way, the choices before me were not happy, but meeting Santosh da helped pull me out of myself for a moment. It also gave me the calm to put into perspective the other piece of news Devika had delivered: Dr Mitra was not at all pleased at my digging around. In my experience, that was evidence enough that I was onto something.
I entered my living room to find Amit sitting on the couch reading Dylan Thomas.
‘How was your day?’ he asked.
‘How very domestic of you,’ I said, handing him a bag with two chicken rolls that I had picked up, mine long since tucked away. ‘Egg-chicken. Just like the old days.’ I heard the edge in my voice. I needed to relax. ‘Want a drink?’
‘Why not?’ he shrugged.
I walked over to the cupboard where I stashed my liquor. My supplies were dwindling, and it seemed unlikely that I would have the spare cash to replenish them soon. I poured myself a vodka tonic.
‘What do you drink nowadays?’ I asked.
‘Not particularly fussy.’
‘I guess you have abandoned your opposition to intoxicants.’
I guess I have,’ said Amit, coming up behind me.
I turned and found him standing a little too close. ‘Here you go,’ I said.
He took his glass and raised it in a salute. We sat down at the dining table.
‘Have you heard anything new?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘And you still don’t want me to try to make contact?’
‘Not yet. Anything from the police sources?’
‘Not much. But I don’t think we should expect anything good to come of this. We’re waiting around for something to happen. When it finally does happen, believe me that it will be bad.’
Amit narrowed his eyes at his ice cubes. His glass was empty.
‘Help yourself,’ I said.
He stood up and poured himself another drink. ‘I need to get back to work. I can’t afford to lose my job.’
How ironic that Amit and I had ended up in virtually the same position after all these years. Both of us practically penniless. Both of us with dreams that had betrayed us.
‘Why did you give up on your poetry?’ I asked.
‘Why do you think?’
‘Money?’
‘Of course.’
‘You used to say none of that mattered.’
‘I used to not know what put food on my plate.’ He stood up and leaned against the wall, glass in hand. ‘When I realized there was no market for poetry, I thought I would write songs. I told myself they were the poems of today. But then I lost my words somewhere.’
‘You didn’t lose them; you gave up on them.’
‘True, perhaps. You were always so uncompromising in your honesty. Some of us aren’t so strong. We need stories to hide behind. The best stories we even believe ourselves. Then we run out of luck one day and discover our subterfuge. That is a bad day. Leaves us with nothing. Nothing but the poverty of broken hope.’
‘The truth, Amit. When the lies are abandoned, you are left with the truth. And that is something worth building on.’
He tilted h
is head and watched me, refusing to drop his gaze. ‘How is that you haven’t changed at all?’
‘Who says I haven’t?’
‘You didn’t sell out.’
‘Who says I haven’t?’ I repeated.
‘You may be writing to make ends meet, but you never stopped being yourself.’
‘That’s not how it looks on the inside.’
‘Then you aren’t seeing straight. Just look at us. I have come to you, and you have let me in. You are helping me, but you won’t bullshit me. No empty platitudes out of your mouth. And no accusations.’
‘I thought you might prefer it that way. So why is it that you sound angry?’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for what you are doing. But just once, it would be nice to see you crack. Just once.’
‘Funny way to show your gratitude.’
‘How can you even stand to look at me?’
He watched me with eyes suddenly angry. I stood up and refilled my glass, gathering myself with my back to him. When I swung back around, I was ready for his gaze.
‘How can you not hate me after what I did to you?’ he continued.
‘I’ve moved on, Amit. It’s quite simple.’
‘Why are you helping me then?’
‘Would you prefer it if I didn’t?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘I don’t see why I should.’
‘Because I need to know. How are you so able to forget when I can’t?’
He backed me into a corner, blocking out the light. I couldn’t breathe. He raised a hand to run it through my hair and brought it to rest on the nape of my neck. I felt his hand tighten on a handful of curls, stopping just short of pain as he tugged my head back.
‘You remember this, Reema?’ His fingers were on my mouth, tracing the outline of my lips. But there was nothing sensuous about it. ‘I couldn’t get enough of these lips.’ He brought his mouth down on mine.
‘Amit, stop,’ I said, jerking away.
‘So beautiful. Even when you were angry. And now there is nothing there? Even the other day when we kissed, you were impassive, cold.’
I raised my arms and shoved against his chest. His grip on my hair tightened.
‘You used to love me.’
‘Stop it.’
He ignored me. ‘So soon to forget.’
‘You are the one who forgot,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
‘That’s a lie. For four years you left me on my own. Did you ever think what you were doing to me?’
‘I didn’t ask you to cheat on me.’
‘But you gave up on us for some fancy foreign university. You explored the world while I endured a mother whose every word was about a dead husband who had left us with nothing. Who looked to me for every emotional need.’
‘You never said any of this to me before … ever.’
‘A good woman would have known.’
‘A good woman?’ Between those words and being pinned to the wall, I felt my anger rise.
‘Yes, a good woman.’
‘Like Aloka?’
He didn’t reply.
‘I didn’t take you for a man who likes his woman docile and primed to put her husband before herself.’
‘Shut up!’ he shouted, tightening his grip on my hair.
‘Let go.’
Silence.
‘Why are you doing this, Amit? I am only trying to help.’
‘And I asked you why! Why are you helping me?’
‘I am helping you because of what once was. Not what is, or what I hope it to be. I am helping you because I am not willing to taint twenty years of memories with hate. But we are over, Amit. Now get your hands off of me.’
He released his grip and I pushed him away. I went into my room and locked the door. Never again would I let Amit see me cry.
seventeen
The next morning, I arose and found Amit sipping coffee on the sofa. Once again, my cup was waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Good morning,’ I replied.
No apology. No explanation. No offer to leave. He seemed quite at home in my living room, as though nothing really could faze him—not his wife’s abduction, not his behaviour the night before. All traces of the spark I had loved in him seemed gone; Amit had allowed himself to grow into the very worst version of who he could be. The dreams of a poet are bound to be fragile, but I hadn’t thought Amit was so ready to be broken.
I retreated to my room with my coffee and sent a text message. I quickly showered and changed before leaving the room again.
There was Amit, still on my damn couch. I was beginning to think that he had become attached to it like resilient mould.
Halfway through breakfast, I heard footsteps. I peered out the window and, as orchestrated, saw my landlady approaching my door.
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘My landlady is here. You need to go inside.’
‘Where?’
‘The bathroom. Stay there till I tell you to come out.’
Amit complied and I slipped on my shoes and went outside.
‘You wanted to see me, Reema? I just got your message,’ said Mrs Banerjee.
‘Yes, thank you for coming at such short notice.’
‘How have you been?’
‘I’m well. What about you? And Mr Banerjee?’
‘It hasn’t been too good. The doctors are hopeful but the treatment is so harsh.’
Mr Banerjee’s cancer had been detected in time for a positive prognosis, but it was still early days yet.
‘Your rent for the month,’ I said, handing her the envelope. ‘I’m sorry it’s late.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Reema, there is actually something I think we should discuss.’
Here it was. The conversation I had been sidestepping for months; and now I had opened the door to it myself perforce.
‘You’ve been staying here for so long now, my husband and I are happy to have a tenant like you. You’ve taken care of the place, which is why we haven’t raised the rent before. But now it is really time for a hike. With Mr Banerjee’s health the way it is, we have no choice.’
‘I understand. What kind of an increase are you looking at?’
‘At least 20 per cent. It has been so long, and Mr Banerjee’s treatments are so expensive.’
‘I know, Mrs Banerjee. I understand, and I really appreciate the warning.’
‘I can also see that you’ve had trouble paying the rent of late. I know your contract is till the end of the year but if you’d want to leave before that, I’d understand.’
‘Thank you for the offer. I think for now I am okay. I may have to take you up on it soon, though. Are you sure you don’t need the extra funds now? If so, I can move out.’
‘There is no rush, Reema.’ I gave Mrs Banerjee a hug. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Banerjee got into her car and drove away. I watched her turn the corner before walking back into the living room. It looked like my decision regarding full-time employment at Face was being taken out of my hands. If I valued the freedom of living on my own, I would have to take the offer. If I valued my professional freedom, I would have to give up my place.
I took a moment to compose myself. ‘You can come out now,’ I finally called out to Amit.
He emerged, unfazed even at having to hide in the bathroom like a schoolboy playing hooky and sat back down on the sofa.
‘You need to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘The landlady has heard rumours and has made it clear that she doesn’t expect her place to be a co-ed facility.’
‘How typical.’
‘Maybe, but she is a lovely lady who has been kind to me over the years. I don’t want to abuse her trust.’ I felt no guilt at the lie.
‘Where will I go?’
‘Anywhere but home. And not to your mother’s place either. You could stay with another friend, perhaps? How about the one you have been vis
iting?’
I saw a bleak look creep into his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘I know some place I could go.’
He began to pack the few things he had brought with him. It didn’t take long.
‘You can stay till the end of the day, I suppose,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I should go.’
At last, a hint of ego fighting back.
He stood by the door, poised to go. ‘You’ve been,’ he began haltingly, ‘you’ve been good to me.’
‘Amit—’
‘No, it needs to be said. I’m sorry about last night.’
‘What we need now is for you to take care of yourself. I am still on this thing. I just can’t have you here, not now.’
‘Reema, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Be safe, Amit, don’t do anything stupid.’ I leaned forward to kiss his cheek, but he jerked his head so my mouth grazed his. As he reached for my arm, I stepped back. I closed my eyes, shook my head just a fraction and, as I forced myself to look into his face, I could no longer keep the sadness from my eyes—or the pity.
Amit didn’t miss it and, as he opened the door to leave, in the cleansing light of day I saw the faint edge of desperation that had hung over him since this business began drop away, replaced by a hard glint of anger.
And there was nothing more I could do for him.
A moment later, Uncle Kumar called.
‘You, my dear, seem to be onto something.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have in my hand a copy of the register recording the complaint filed in the police station by the girl Prakash Agarwal had assaulted.’
‘That was quick.’
‘You have the New Market police station to thank for that. The official complainant was Samir Sinha. His daughter, get this—Mallika, aged fifteen—had been molested by a shop owner at a New Market store. Their residence address was listed as 15/1/13 Chetla Road. That could not be far from Sharma Sweets.’
Mallika Sinha. She would be about forty years right now. In all probability, married, name changed.
‘Could this be your Mallika Mitra?’ he asked.
The Masala Murder: Reema Ray Mysteries Page 17