by Monabi Mitra
‘Tomorrow? Impossible! I do have a job, you know!’
‘I forget! Only you work, the rest of us gad around trees or sign silly slips of paper and lead frivolous lives best forgotten.’ After she had said it, she at once felt foolish, childish, and cursed herself for falling into his trap. To earn Bikram’s respect, one had to meet thrust with parry, answer his remoteness with amusement. But for how long, a voice in her screamed. Then she sneezed, and with the sneeze came a cough, and Shona, who was proud and dreaded compassion, most of all from Bikram, said she would talk later and disconnected.
He gave her five minutes to recover and then rang back. This time, his voice was pleading and hers harsh. ‘Have you asked Dr Niyogi to check up on you? It’s a long weekend, and he might be out, you’d better get him on the phone quickly.’
‘I will.’
‘I’m sorry, Shona, I was being unnecessarily rude, I don’t know what’s come over me.’
‘It’s that Nisha Bose thing, isn’t it? I see it in the papers; your Toofan Kumar must be driving you quite mad.’
‘That and other stuff also. I don’t mind work, but somehow, this time, it’s all so wearisome, nothing’s falling into place, and I’m losing my temper all the time. I can’t cope anymore.’
‘Yes, you can. Your work is your refuge, Bikram. You know it and so do I, and it’s the central purpose of your life. Without the Nisha Bose thing, it would have been all idleness and that would never do for you.’
‘That’s not entirely true.’
‘Where’s the lie?’
‘My work is central to my life, but doesn’t give me a purpose. Someone else gives me that.’
‘But that someone else does not require plotting, organization and methodology and so, I suppose, is not half as absorbing.’
Bikram could picture the laughter in her eyes as she said this, and suddenly, the green slatted bench on which he was sitting seemed to dissolve into nothingness and, along with it, Toofan Kumar and Nisha Bose and Montu Mondol and the football match and his office with its brown files and red tape. He said, ‘I know a discreet little garden house in south Calcutta which overlooks the river and has an excellent cook. Can you drive me up there tonight, Shona?’
The only spot of business that Bikram had set up for that Sunday was a meeting with Raja prearranged by Ghosh. It was 4 p.m. and a thunderstorm was brewing. The afternoon was unnaturally still and black clouds were bunching up over the southern skies. Sweat dropped off the nose with annoying regularity, and clothes stuck damply to one’s back.
Bikram parked his car near a dingy one-roomed restaurant called Scoop overlooking the barges and walked leisurely along the Circular Railway track. The smells of smoke and horse dung mingled and he slipped in through a tiny side gate and strolled on to a patch of grass over which towered the steel pylons of the second Hooghly Bridge. At the end of the patch stood a stately arch, with ‘Erected to the Honour of James Prinsep by his Citizens’ lettered on it in black. Bikram took a deep breath and looked up. An owlet, its eyes shining, peered down at him from the top of the Ionic columns. Bird and man surveyed one another curiously. Then a familiar puffing sound behind him announced Ghosh.
Raja was so surprised by Ghosh’s announcement that the DSP sahib might want to meet him that he had spent a sleepless night. Afraid that he might overdo something, he had abstained, from whisky as well as from his girl of the week, and spent all morning at the barber’s. Accordingly, when Bikram arrived, he saw a dapper young man with an air of innocence about him, wearing Levi’s jeans and a crushed cotton shirt with the top button undone and a pair of glares tucked stylishly into his pocket. Both looked at one another approvingly, for though they did not know it then, they were in many ways alike and this was to be the start of a long friendship. Ghosh, with his usual grasp of situations, had gone away.
Bikram and Raja leaned against the iron fence that separated the railway track from the Prinsep monument. Cars and buses roared beyond, a bell chimed sleepily somewhere and a cell phone rang insistently in the pocket of one of a pair of lovers sitting on the grass.
‘So, Raja, you were afraid that day at Angel Nursing Home. You’re looking in perfect health now.’
Raja grinned. ‘With luck, Sir, I met you, and that other sir there, gruff though he is, with a heart of gold. You, of course, I had heard of from everyone.’
‘Really! And what does everyone say?’
‘That you’re different!’
‘I wonder how?’
‘I think I know how. You’re a dangerous enemy but a good friend, and though policing and sympathy do not always go together, in you I think I can find both.’ Raja, with his great gift of the gab, warmed to his subject. ‘I will give you good tip-offs, Sir, you can always count on me. After all, you did save my life.’
‘Don’t be dramatic, Raja. I didn’t snatch you from the jaws of death.’
But Raja, who had made up his mind to worship Bikram, would not be drawn away so easily and spent two minutes gushing about the raid. Bikram, itching to look at his watch, waited for the right moment to begin the real interview.
‘Tell me about the border. What’s happening now?’
‘Currency notes, Sir, in bulk. Made in South-East Asia, and coming in via Bangladesh. You should see those notes, Sir, they are so good, a genius must have made them. And the network’s expanding. Babul’s a big player in the business but bigger ones are born each day and if Babul’s not careful, he’ll get left behind soon.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Cows, as usual, smuggled out from our side. And drugs, Sir, especially medicinal ones.’
‘Cough syrup and things like that?’
‘Cough syrup’s old-fashioned.’ Raja grinned, almost as if to chide Bikram for being so hopelessly out of date. ‘A kind of powder’s hot stuff now. They use it in cow and dog medicine but, I’m told, if you spike a drink with it, the girl won’t remember a thing.’ Raja winked. ‘The next morning, you’re up and away before she realizes what’s happened.’
‘Date rape,’ muttered Bikram.
‘Sir?’
‘Just remembering the name. How does it come in?’
‘All kinds of ways. Packed in the handlebars of cycles was the last I heard of it. And it goes out from here too, powder and readymade tablets, good market for it all over. Some things never go out of fashion,’ finished Raja with relish.
A steamer hooted urgently on the river. The sky was almost black now, and a wind had sprung up. Bikram hated dust storms. They choked his throat and made him cough. And one thought constantly nagged his mind: should he take a chance with this man? He thought for a while and, in an inspired moment, decided to confide in Raja.
‘Here’s a small task for you.’
Bikram described Buro and how Mistry had seen him one morning at Shiv Ram Prasad Tewari’s residence. Would Raja tail him and see what he was up to?
Raja’s face lit up in eagerness and his eyes glowed with happiness. When Bikram had finished he stood up and looked at him solemnly. ‘In a week’s time, Sir, I will get you all the information you need to finish this man off and send him to jail forever.’
‘Very good! I wish you luck. How much do you need for expenses?’
Raja suddenly looked stern.
‘Do you think I could ever take money from you, Sir, who has saved …’
‘But you’ll have to follow him, hang out in shops, drink tea …’
In the end, Raja was prevailed upon to take a thousand rupees as token wages.
They exchanged telephone numbers. A sharp wind blew and Bikram looked up at the sky anxiously. Then, just as suddenly as he had summoned Raja for this long-awaited meeting, he ended it.
‘Be careful Buro doesn’t notice you,’ he said over his shoulder as he began to walk towards the gate.
‘Notice me, Sir, Border Raja?’
‘He might be Border Buro for all you know,’ said Bikram as he hurried to his car.
Bikram was not driving his offic
ial Tata Sumo but a private unmarked vehicle, a steel grey Maruti Suzuki Swift, small and sleek, that he kept for his other life. The car was full of the debris left behind by a man who loves to drive: mineral water bottles, cushions, flashlights, chargers for his cell phones, an extra pair of sneakers and a spare pair of rubber sandals and, at the back, a policeman’s helmet, a shield and a constable’s stick. There were a couple of CDs too, with ‘Shona’ scrawled on them in black marker pen, and inside the dashboard was a pouch containing clips, sunscreen lotion and hair bands. Barely had Bikram adjusted the seat belt than the first call arrived. ‘Sorry, Sir, it’s me, Raja, sorry for bothering you so soon.’
‘Tell me.’
‘You didn’t, I mean, you didn’t ask me anything about my past life, my family, my childhood and things like that.’
‘Your past is your own, unless you choose to share it with me.’
‘But I do! You went away so soon today, perhaps another meeting, I mean, you could get to know me better, I mean, I could be betraying you.’
‘I trust you,’ said Bikram and rang off. Then, taking care to save Raja’s number—the man was the indefatigable sort who would ring many times a day—he jammed his foot down on the accelerator and roared off. Everyone in the office spoke of Bikram’s driving. Once behind the wheel, an alter ego took over and Bikram gave himself up to speed. Most of the traffic sergeants on duty knew him and looked the other way when he jumped the lights, shaking their heads sadly and remarking that something terrible would happen one day. Twice, on the highway outside the city, Bikram’s car had turned turtle and he had survived. Shona refused to let him drive and took the wheel herself when they went out. So the steel grey car shot past an astounded Raja and it was only a minute before Bikram reached the west gate of Raj Bhavan and had to pull up unwillingly for an ambulance to pass by.
The storm would break any minute. Leaves and empty packets were being lifted off the ground and swirled around. Outside the massive iron gates, on the deserted pavement, sat a beggar with a red weal on his face, shielding a flame. Around him were scattered bits of cardboard and pieces of foil, and a bundle of rags. The flame sputtered and refused to light but it finally relented and the beggar leaned over for his slice of nirvana. Then the lights changed and Bikram moved on.
Bikram accelerated away from the light but the euphoria was missing and he felt uneasy. The image of the beggar kept dancing before his eyes and with it came a profound uneasiness and a sense of irritation. What was it that he was missing? He frowned: a room and a computer, and a caterpillar smoking a hookah. Then, suddenly, the cursor clicked and he could see Robi Bose’s computer with a picture of a cannabis leaf downloaded from the Internet, and he could almost hear the boisterous partying downstairs and a puzzled Tara wondering what was going on as Nisha Bose stared astounded at this sudden interruption to her rave party. A young girl in a salwar kameez, jaywalking happily on the road near the China Bazaar, almost lost her life as the grey Swift bore down on her and whizzed past, a handsome man with one hand on the wheel and shouting into a cell phone held in the other.
13
On May Day, Toofan Kumar threw a party. It was part therapy and part image-mending exercise for Toofan. The weather was hot and muggy already and the winter vegetables at New Market had grown limp and expensive. His wife objected, ‘What’ll I feed them, Tuff? The fools in the kitchen can’t think beyond cholay and paneer. And bell pepper and zucchini are so expensive. Couldn’t you have done this in Jan. or Feb.?’ But the months of January and February had been a whirl of parties and picnics, weddings and engagements, not to forget, book launches and art exhibitions. And yes, of course, Robi Bose had been alive and Toofan Kumar’s reputation undented. Besides, May Day was an important holiday in Calcutta’s calendar, and Toofan Kumar was anxious to reinforce the impression of being in on an important facet of Calcutta’s social life. There would be a Bengali bureaucrat or two who, though retired, would be flattered at being remembered and could secure Toofan enviable transfers. Perhaps a reporter too, who might be prevailed upon, with generous quantities of Scotch, to write kindly of him. There would be some friends from the club, others from his golfing set and still others who owned various businesses and were rich. The booze would be good and Mrs Kumar’s dinner wholesome—results, after all, of expensive seven-day Lebanese and Mongolian cooking classes.
In the days before the party, Toofan Kumar was restless and discontented. Partly because the Robi Bose case was getting on his nerves but more so because, after all the planning, the party still seemed ill timed. Because nothing of note was happening in the city, the newspapers kept filling inside columns with updates on the Robi Bose case. And since the case dominated mindspace, the socialites he’d invited were bound to discuss it, and Toofan Kumar feared his evening would turn into an open debate on police inefficiency. From the club, he made two frantic telephone calls, one to the electrical wing of the Public Works Department to inquire if they were sending an electrician to his residence and the other to his residence to find out if they had. The Kumars had sought to make their box-like police department flat more attractive by rigging up expensive air conditioners in every room and the wires, incapable of supporting such mighty ambitions, frequently tripped. When the additional commissioner in charge of crime and murder rang up about the Robi Bose case, Toofan Kumar listened absent-mindedly and fidgeted impatiently. Yes, yes, the newspapers were getting out of hand. Certainly, there would be developments soon. Yes, a narco analysis if necessary. Oh, bugger Bikram and his crew!
On the morning of the party, Toofan Kumar went to the club to swim and play golf and to stay discreetly out of his wife’s way. Mrs Kumar was at her injured best and, between shouting at the maid and the cook, had asked him to have fun and stay out for lunch, and tea if possible. As he heaved himself into his car, Toofan Kumar suddenly remembered an evening many score evenings before, when a young and bashful Mrs Kumar had cooked and prepared all day for a dinner for the superintendent of police and how, clad coyly in a sari, she had served her first guest with trembling hands.
At 5 p.m., Toofan Kumar raced back home and inspected the arrangements. The house was stuffy with the smell of pakoras and kebabs, and Thakur, Toofan Kumar’s bodyguard, henchman and jack-of-all trades, rushed to open windows and air the drawing room. The staff soon began scurrying about with terrified expressions on their faces for Toofan, unmellowed by whisky, began rasping out orders and recriminations every burdensome minute. They ranged around the servant’s room with tense foreboding and wondered whether it would be safe to slip out for a cup of tea.
The first guest to arrive at the standard party time of 9 p.m. was Mr De. Mrs Kumar muttered a frosty hello, seated him on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, then vanished into the kitchen. But Mr De was too excited at being invited to mind. Months of sycophancy had paid off. He was beaming all over as he chose his drink and settled down for a long evening. Make new contacts, he thought happily, collect visiting cards, and all will go well at the shop. If only one could take photographs!
The doorbell rang. There were loud greetings from the door and Mrs Kumar trotted out her warmest hellos. Two fat men waddled in, followed by two fat ladies, both in wrap around skirts and sleeveless tops in which their bosoms bobbed energetically. The bell rang again and again. More men and women crowded into the room and greeted one another. The room swam with salwar kameezes, slacks, skirts, cocktail dresses and at least one exotic dress. I got it tailored in Darjeeling, said the wearer proudly, so comfortable!
By 10.15 p.m., the room was full. Chairs had been pulled out and little groups had formed. Cliff Richard’s voice wafted sensuously over the gathering and mixed with the smells of kebab and cigarette smoke. Almost inevitably, the subject of Robi Bose came up.
‘How do you protect yourself from your servants?’ asked someone loudly. ‘You feed them, rear their families, create fixed-deposit accounts for them, but they’re never happy. Turn your back once and they’ll stab yo
u.’
‘He wasn’t stabbed, Malti, just drugged. And whoever killed Robi did him a favour. Not much of an existence, really, staying abed when the most fantastic parties went on in his own living room.’
‘Obviously! I was being metaphorical when I said stabbed. And he was never left out of parties. Nisha took him along everywhere and was most patient with him. More than I would ever be with my hubby.’
‘There’s a poor cousin in it too, right? She used to keep Robi company now and then. Perhaps she did it.’ An earnest young girl, her bobbed hair a throwback to the 1920s, put aside her fork and drained her beer.
Parry Prakash began, ‘You mean someone from Nisha’s circle of admirers helped bump him off? I wouldn’t put it past the woman. It’s amazing how people would do anything for her.’
‘Parry, what are you saying!’ Mrs Parry Prakash had been following her husband’s tipsy misadventures and decided to interpose before further damage could be done. ‘We’re talking about Nisha, Parry, how could you even think of things like that?’
‘Oh Mr Kumar, who do you think it was?’ cooed Dolly Dewan. In her Darjeeling dress and with her face plastered with make-up, she looked rather incongruous. Dolly was fluttering towards Toofan Kumar because she had her eyes on a dashing young officer whom Toofan was mentoring.
‘Well,’ began Toofan Kumar ponderously, ‘it’s all very complicated. The young cousin, as Sheeba said, did have an argument with Robi over that house of theirs. There was trouble over succession and all that, so she could be the one. But they have a lot of servants and we’re not forgetting that, in spite of the fact of death, nothing valuable was stolen.’
Parry Prakash decided to take another shot. ‘In any case, you can make the servants the killers. You cops can beat them up and extract all kinds of confessions.’
‘And solve the case! Convenient for all concerned save the maid’s family.’ Malti Mehta, who occasionally dabbled in an organization that looked after aged and out-of-work prostitutes, said this with some malice and enjoyed seeing Mrs Kumar’s discomfiture out of the corner of her eye.