Ruby spoke out her own thoughts softly. ‘It has to be that Prashant,’ she whispered close to him.’ The missing knife and the two hearts clearly point to him. His father is too old to have committed those murders. I am sure the prints on the knife will also be his.’
Hawa Singh was quiet. He had never heard of mafia men killing for the sheer pleasure of it—they always had a motive to kill. But then Prashant Singh was a deranged man. He would fit in nicely at the Sparrow facility. All locked up. He had a reason to attack Hawa Singh. He was out there and could very well be the killer.
Hawa Singh knew society would never be free of its lunatic fringe. There would always be crazy people out there—till such time as they could contain their madness no longer, and spilled out like blood in the streets.
He was lost in his thoughts when the woman came out of the room and addressed them. ‘Madam has asked for you to come in.’
They walked into the room. It was a simple office with the shelves of one wall filled with medical books. There was a file cabinet with many drawers. There was no air-conditioner or heater. It felt cold. A printer worked tirelessly, throwing out black-and-white prints.
Sudha Krishnamurthy sat behind a wooden desk peering into an old PC. She looked up at them and said, ‘So sorry to keep you waiting.’
She had a gentle smile. She looked about fifty and her hair was greying. She was wearing a silk saree. He noticed that her voice was soft and husky. She wore an old cardigan with a shawl wrapped around her. There was not much jewellery, just the plain diamond earrings worn by many south Indian women.
The way she blinked her eyes, the smile and her slightly bent posture all reminded him of Kavita’s mother. Her parents blamed him for Kavita’s death and had left Delhi to settle down in Chennai. They had neither met nor spoken since.
Hawa Singh did the introductions. He told Sudha Krishnamurthy all about the murder of Eva and the subsequent foreigner who was killed. He was trying to establish to himself that that would be the way to extract more information about Sparrow, and whether Eva had wanted to contact the brother of the Kashi Naresh, who was admitted there.
‘You must be referring to Manvendra Singh,’ said Sudha in her husky voice. ‘He is a very interesting case. A genius gone wrong. A human being turned into a cannibal.’
‘What really is the problem with him?’ asked Ruby.
Sudha smiled. ‘In here we work with the tools of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis. Manvendra Singh’s is a case of schizophrenia. He started with experiencing hallucinations, delusions, and disorganized thinking and speech. He left the fort and started living with the Aghoris where he tasted human flesh. Research has shown that cannibalism causes euphoria, once the person turns their fantasy into reality. When cannibals finally act on their fantasies and hunt down a victim, the feeling they get from eating flesh releases dopamine in the brain. That gives them a high, which they want to feel again. The cannibal’s mind then becomes conditioned to seeking out more and more human flesh to eat, and they also begin to thrive on the process of hunting down a victim.’
‘So did he attack any living person?’ asked Hawa Singh.
Sudha nodded with a sigh. ‘Many times. It was in fact his own brother, Abhay, who brought him here for a cure. Manvendra had at many times attacked the guards at the fort and bitten off their ears or noses. In one instance, he bit off a large chunk of flesh from a tourist’s face. Abhay attempted to control him, but one day Manvendra turned on him, too, and bit off his finger. Finally, he had to be admitted here.’
Ruby shook her head. ‘It’s crazy and unbelievable.’
‘You’ll have to see him to believe it,’ spoke Sudha.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hawa Singh.
Sudha replied grimly. ‘He even tried to eat himself.’
Hawa Singh took in a startled gasp of air and then slowly exhaled. ‘Do you think,’ he continued with his questions, ‘that these people might prefer to eat specific body parts? Like the heart?’
‘Well, it is believed that by eating someone’s heart, you add that person’s life to your own longevity. There are certain sects that believe that if you sacrifice eleven human beings and eat their hearts, it will make you immortal.’
‘Eleven,’ repeated Ruby in a daze, her eyes wide.
Hawa Singh had never entertained the possibility that he would encounter cannibals in Benares.
Sudha broke the silence. ‘I would like to help you as much as I can. It would be better that you meet him yourself.’
The very thought of seeing a living cannibal, who might at any moment attack her, frightened Ruby. Hawa Singh looked at her and nodded reassuringly.
Sudha pressed the buzzer on her desk and another doctor hurried in.
‘This is Doctor Binod Pradhan,’ she said. ‘He is one of the senior psychologists here. He’ll take you to the patient,’ she smiled at Binod. In a very soft but authoritative tone, she added, ‘Binod, this gentleman and lady are here to meet Manvendra Singh. They’re from the police. Please assist them.’
A bead of sweat trickled down Binod Pradhan’s forehead. He stared at Sudha and then at Ruby and Hawa Singh, saying, ‘Have you told them about him?’
‘Yes, I have. They are working on a case. Don’t keep them waiting.’
Doctor Binod Pradhan nodded resignedly. ‘Please come with me.’
He led them through the corridor into a narrow pathway with rooms on both sides. The white painted doors looked heavy. They could hear some soft voices coming from inside. There was someone singing a classical raag.
Binod smiled for the first time, wryly. ‘We mostly get cases of talented individuals who have lost their minds. We have musicians, singers, dancers, writers, painters—even mathematicians and doctors.’
He laughed a little loudly. When the laughter echoed against the walls, he quickly suppressed it.
There were a few burly men around, dressed in whites. Binod led Hawa Singh and Ruby to a door.
‘We have reached his room,’ he told them. Let me warn you right now, please do not try to go near him or touch him. He might attack you. Or he might be very gentle and nice to you. Those are all tricks played by such minds to lull victims into a false sense of security. The craving is still there. The flesh is stronger than the spirit. The craving of the flesh turns them into monsters—and sometimes into most loving creatures.’
Hawa Singh and Ruby nodded at his warning.
‘Welcome to hell,’ said Binod, and opened the door.
A human figure sat inside, his face to the wall. Long hair fell to his sides. The white walls were covered by many hand-drawn diagrams he was presently adding to. There were planets, stars, what looked like a kind of solar system, and many charts of horoscopes.
‘Manvendra,’ Binod tried to distract him from his ceaseless drawing, ‘look, you have guests. Won’t you say hello to them?’
The man didn’t react and continued to draw on the wall.
‘Manvendra Singh,’ Binod mused, ‘brother to the Kashi Naresh and the greatest exponent of astrology and Vedic mathematics, now locked up in here plays with a mind that played with him. Life is cruel.’
‘Life is pure bliss, Binod. Life is a blessing,’ Manvendra suddenly broke in.
It was like a snake hissing and talking at the same time. A voice that hunted and killed for prey.
‘You can add more meaning to your life with simple acts,’ said Manvendra, finally turning around to face the rest.
Ruby gave out a shriek and clung to Hawa Singh, hiding her face in his shoulder.
‘Ah, lady,’ Manvendra said, observing her reaction. ‘Life has many faces, and each face has many facets. You will have to learn to look at each of them. Each of them hides a different story. A story of its own.’
‘By the way, you are very beautiful. I like your earlobes. They look so pink and soft and they stand out from your face. If you permit, may I feel them.’
Hawa Singh marvelled at the man’s grotesque appeara
nce. There were long, deep cuts from his left eye down to his chin. Another tore through the nose and the cheek. One of the earlobes looked like it had been chewed away. The skin had folded up around it. The upper lip was torn, showing off his sharp, almost pointed canines. A large chunk of flesh close to the jawbone was missing, only a thin layer of tissue covering the bone.
Ruby held on to Hawa Singh tightly.
‘It seems I have frightened the lady. Don’t worry, I won’t really scare you. Why don’t you give me a hug?’
Hawa Singh gently nudged Ruby behind him, blocking the mad man’s view. He directly addressed the spectacle before him. ‘Did you know Eva Marie Cassidy, a US citizen who worked at the Vatican?’ he barked. ‘Did she ever meet with you?’
‘Eva, Eva, Eva... another beautiful lady. I would have loved to bite into those luscious cheeks. I heard that someone wanted to meet me—many do. But then they all run away.’
Manvendra shook his head remonstratively at Hawa Singh. ‘You don’t seem to be one of those. What happened to your head? You seem to be just like me. The entire body feels useless once this powerhouse fails,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘One short circuit here leads to failure. You’ve got the mark of a genius on your head.’
Binod snapped sternly, ‘It’s useless talking to him. You won’t get anything out of him. He just rambles and makes up stories.’
There was a loud hissing sound and Manvendra attacked Binod with lightning speed. He stopped right behind a red line drawn across the room, and emitted a cry.
Hawa Singh noticed the chain tied to Manvendra’s feet that allowed him only that much mobility. If it was not for the chain, he would have torn off Binod’s face.
Manvendra growled like a hungry wolf spotting its prey. The inability to reach his intended victim added to his snarling rage.
Hawa Singh put his arm around Ruby and said, ‘Let’s go.’
Manvendra started to laugh, ‘You won’t be able to stop anything you are trying to stop. It lies in the heart. You have to tear it open and bring out the life.’
He continued to laugh maniacally.
Binod shut the door. The laughter muffled. It turned to sobs. Wails.
The cannibal cried his own heart out.
CHAPTER 18
The bazaars of Benares were actually at their colourful best in the evening. The tungsten bulbs hanging from red and blue coiled wires threw off a golden hue, touching the shining brassware, silk sarees, bangles and brightly coloured fabrics on offer with magic.
The two walked from the Town Hall, through a market, past the Goshala, a charitable sanctuary for stray cows. From there, they took a cycle-rickshaw, rode through the main market of the city to reach the Chowk.
From the Chowk, they walked again through yet another market, this one devoted to articles required at showy weddings, the Kachori Galli and into Khoa Galli, the lane that sells milk products—flavoured yoghurt, paneer and condensed, sweetened milk. They were silent throughout. Each was trying to sort out the many questions that assailed them with a million ‘Whos?’, ‘Whys?’ and ‘Hows?
Night was returning to the city. So was the fog. But the sky was still clear. Hawa Singh and Ruby hoped to see the stars after so many fogged-out days.
They moved into a lane with shops selling gleaming brassware. They heard sounds of metal being beaten and shaped into Hindu icons, figurines, decorative flying swans and lamps. Finer and more complex sounds emerged from the knots of craftsmen as they painstakingly engraved metaware—to sell them off as antiques to the many gormless foreign tourists who knew no better.
The narrow lane had a warm and sharp smell of molten brass, fire and coal. Hawa Singh stopped at an old wooden door painted patchily in blue. Where the paint had peeled away, there was half-eroded wood. A heavy iron latch chain hung on it. Hawa Singh held the chain and rapped on the door.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the door. A small crack appeared as it opened slightly and an eye examined them through it. Then the door was flung open and Gaya Prasad Sharma, sub-inspector, cut them a smart salute. He led them to a small dingy room, filled with more junk than brassware. An oil lamp stood on a rickety wooden table, casting long shadows across the dusty floor.
He had called Hawa Singh to this place to interrogate a man who was caught selling a passport. The passport had the picture of the white man who was found murdered inside Kashi Vishwanath Temple.
Gaya handed the passport to Hawa Singh. It read: ‘Name: Brian Johnson. Age: 39 years. Nationality: British. Occupation: Archaeologist’. It provided an address in London.
‘Sir,’ began Gaya Prasad, ‘I have already spoken to the British High Commission and they have confirmed his identity. He worked as an archaeologist with Allen Archaeology, a firm based in London. Brian came to India two weeks back. He landed in New Delhi and from there travelled to Jaipur and Jodhpur before coming to Benares.’
Hawa Singh snapped out directions to Ruby. ‘Contact this London firm and get all the information we need about this Brian Johnson.’
He turned to look at the man crouching in the corner. His hands were tied with a rope. He was of medium height, dark-skinned, frail, with thinning hair. The hands looked rough, even from a distance; the hands of a manual labourer. The feet were dirty, the heels cracked and the toenails broken. Clearly, he was a foot soldier. The clothes were of cheap, shabby material. There was no wrist-watch. He was wearing torn rubber slippers with visibly worn-out soles. Definitely a poor man. One compelled to resort to desperate measures just to eat.
‘I have tried everything but he is not willing to reveal any information,’ said Gaya Prasad.
Hawa Singh bent closer to the man and looked him in the eye. ‘We don’t have enough time to play quiz rounds with you. If you tell us everything, I’ll let you go. Otherwise, it will be your body next floating in the Ganges.’
‘I have not done anything. I found this passport, on the roadside,’ the wretch whimpered.
Hawa Singh was about to slap him hard when Ruby stopped him. The expert FBI interrogator wanted to try out her special set of skills. She began, in a sweet and calm tone, ‘Look, we are here to help you. For that you’ll have to help us.’ Gaya translated it for him.
He cried out again, ‘Madam, I don’t know anything. I’m telling the truth. I found it on the roadside.’
Hawa Singh and Gaya Prasad looked at each other in perplexion.
Ruby bent closer to him to study his body language. She could see that the man was terrified. His mind was racing to find concocted stories to save his skin.
She had read somewhere that Buddha described the mind as being filled with drunken monkeys who jumped, screeched, and chatted endlessly. Fear, according to Buddha, was an especially loud monkey. Buddha taught meditation as a way to tame the ‘drunken monkeys’ in the mind. This man was one crazed monkey.
Ruby handed him a bottle of mineral water. ‘Drink this. You’ll feel better.’ He gulped down the water thirstily, but did not shift his gaze from her.
‘Now tell me. Did you know this man?’
He spurted out the water from his mouth onto Ruby’s face, shouting, ‘Bloody bitch, get away from me! I don’t want to answer any questions.’
Hawa Singh administered a sharp kick to the man’s ribs. He cried out in pain. ‘I know the right way to handle him,’ Hawa Singh said.
Hawa Singh looked around the room and saw a rusted half-broken steel blade on a shelf. He picked it up and looked at its sharp edge. He sat on his haunches, looking at the man as he played with the blade in his hands. ‘Do you see this?’
The man nodded nervously.
Hawa Singh put the blade right against his jugular. ‘It’ll take just one cut here to drain out all the blood in your body.’ Hawa Singh moved his hand slightly, and a fine cut emerged on the throat. It bled immediately.
‘Sirji, please, I don’t want to die. Don’t do this to me,’ the man begged.
‘Okay, first tell me your name,�
� asked Hawa Singh.
‘Kanhaiya, sirji.’
Hawa Singh smiled and looked around at Ruby and Gaya. ‘That’s a nice name, isn’t it? But our Kanhaiya is not looking like our laughing Love God, so I’m going to make him smile. Let’s widen his mouth.’
Hawa Singh caught at the hair of the half-kneeling man, jerking his head back and putting the edge of the blade to his cheek. ‘Can you feel it, Kanhaiya? How about having a permanently broad smile?’
Kanhaiya peed in his pants. Ruby backed away, holding her nose as the trail of urine meandered towards her.
‘So, first, you spat water at her face and now you have spoilt madam’s shoes. I told you I don’t have enough time. So tell me, truly, how did you get the passport?’ Hawa Singh increased the pressure of the blade. A thin trail of blood emerged.
‘Sirji, I’m just a travel guide and take tourists around the place. I met Brian saab when he came to Benares and took him on a tour,’ Kanhaiya babbled in terror.
Hawa Singh stood up with a sigh. This was a side of Hawa Singh that Ruby had not seen before. She tried to take control of the situation.
‘Which places did you take Brian saab to?’ asked Ruby.
Kanhaiya looked dumbfounded, and Gaya repeated the question in Hindi. ‘I’m telling you the truth,’ protested the man, in tears. ‘I didn’t kill him. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Who killed him?’ asked Hawa Singh.
‘I have no idea, sirji. I met him at the Benares airport and we started on the tour from there. He was more interested in historical sites. So I took him straight to Bodhgaya.’
Gaya Prasad glanced ironically at Hawa Singh and asked, ‘You took him out of Benares the very day he landed here?’
‘Yes, sir, I’m telling the truth. I swear by Mother Ganges. We took a taxi and went directly to see the Bodhi temple.’
‘Sir, that is a 2,500-year-old temple in Gaya,’ Gaya Prasad broke in helpfully. ‘It’s where Gautam Buddha found enlightenment under the sacred tree, which is there in the same temple complex.’
‘Brian saab clicked many pictures at the temple,’ Kanhaiya seemed to be eager to reveal all now, in a rush, to make up for his earlier reticence, and fearing sustained torture. ‘We stayed there at a guesthouse. The next morning I took him to Nalanda. He seemed to be more interested in the ways our ancestors studied stars and the planets.’
THE BUTCHER OF BENARES Page 13