THE BUTCHER OF BENARES

by MAHENDRA JAKHAR

  It sounded like an ordinary chore he had to carry out at the chemists’, so no one took any real notice of his departure. Dom Raja wiped the ashes from his face and walked away. This time, Hawa Singh followed him.

  He tailed him through narrow streets and bazaars till they came to a temple. Sanjeet went behind it into a small broken-down brick structure, plastered with mud. There was a small iron door to it, and a dirty little board hung over it—‘Dawakhaana’, it read.

  Hawa Singh followed him inside, to be met with a mist of heavy smoke. He could smell ganja and knew at once that this was one of the opium dens of Benares.

  There were many locals, labourers, a few foreigners who had gone there to experiment with local drugs, a couple of eunuchs who tried to extract money from the smokers. Hidden in the crowd was Kanhaiya. Hawa Singh at once recognized the tourist guide who had taken Brian Johnson, the archaeologist, to Gaya, and later tried to sell his passport.

  Dom Raja took his regular chillum and began to smoke. His eyes became droopy and he was soon lost in the embrace of marijuana. A loud Bollywood song started playing in the background. A few locals, all of them drugged, started to swing and sing along.

  Sanjeet saw Hawa Singh walking towards him, but didn’t react. He held out his chillum instead to Hawa Singh with a big smile.

  Hawa Singh went straight up to Kanhaiya and sat close to him, putting his arm, as if with affection, around Kanhaiya’s neck. Kanhaiya looked up and tried to run, but he needed a bull’s strength to escape that grip.

  ‘Kanhaiya, you disappeared. I asked you not to leave Benares,’ said Hawa Singh, tightening his arm around the guide’s neck.

  ‘Sirji,’ Kanhaiya stuttered wildly, ‘I never left.’

  ‘I asked you for something else. I wanted you to find out about all the people that Brian met in Benares.’

  Kanhaiya licked his lips in fear. Hawa Singh tightened his hold further, causing Kanhaiya to squeal in pain.

  ‘It doesn’t take much time to die. I’ll make sure you are cremated on Harishchandra Ghat. You will go directly to heaven. Find moksha.’

  ‘I don’t want to die, sir, and that’s why I cannot open my mouth.’

  ‘Your choice, Kanhaiya,’ said Hawa Singh, evenly.

  As his grip turned into a vice, Kanhaiya was soon out of breath and started to flail his legs. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he cried.

  None of the visitors to the opium room noticed them. Hawa Singh acted like he was playing a game with a long-lost friend. He laughed and thrust the chillum at Kanhaiya’s mouth.

  ‘Last chance, Kanhaiya. I want only the truth.’

  Kanhaiya licked his lips, took a long drag on the chillum and exhaled the dense, acrid smoke. He leaned closer to Hawa Singh, his eyes darting round the room to make sure there was no one watching them, and whispered hoarsely, ‘Sirji, Brian had met with Prashant Singh, Suryadev’s son.’

  Hawa Singh sat there in the swirling smoke. He was sure the madman with a love for peculiar souvenirs was involved in the killings, somehow. ‘I’ll check on him myself,’ he told Kanhaiya.

  The wretch swallowed uneasily, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down. ‘Just don’t go there today,’ he managed to gasp. ‘If you step in, they will kill you.’

  CHAPTER 30

  The white marble bungalow floated like an iceberg in a sea of mist. There were a few trucks lined up outside, waiting to be let in. He could see the barbed wire barricade above the wall had been raised further, since the time he had jumped in.

  There had been talk that Suryadev Singh had discovered the loss of one of his precious souvenirs—a human hand—from its jar. The guards on duty had told some strangers over a desultory chat that the dogs found one on the lawn and had ripped it to shreds. Those guards were never seen again.

  Hawa Singh moved steadily through the thick bushes lining the wall. He sneaked a lift from one of the trucks going in, clinging to the underside of the chassis, and was safely home.

  He saw a crowd of human bodies out in the chilling night. There were shivering naked boys and girls, and another group of totally nude women who tried to hide their shame with their hands. A group of naked men stood apart quietly.

  There was something about being naked in public. It stripped one of all humanity and showcased one as a piece of meat. It was like severing a person’s soul from his or her human body, leaving a shell of flesh and bone.

  Hawa Singh ran out to take cover behind the wall. From there he studied the place. There were armed guards all over, and the trucks were bringing in masses of more men, women and children. The guards forced them to strip and stand out in the open. There was no chance he would make it himself, out of there, alive.

  He was unarmed in hostile territory. He missed the Colt. He turned away in pity when the guards beat the naked women into standing straight in the cold, and in their shame. He realized the bullies wouldn’t hesitate to shoot any of these innocents who didn’t toe their line.

  He saw one of the guards pinching the nipple of a young woman. She resisted and he butted her with his rifle. She was bleeding from her head and could hardly stand. The other women rushed to help her to her feet.

  The helplessness of one kind of people brought out the animal in the other.

  The Ghost quickly merged into the darkness, and waited.

  The gate was closed to the stripped-down human mass. The doors of the living room opened and Prashant Singh stepped grandly out. He was dressed in finery. His shoes gleamed in the darkness. He carried a horse whip in one hand.

  Prashant walked up to the group of children. He examining them one by one pointed at the chosen ones with his whip. Those little ones were asked to stand aside.

  From there, Prashant walked up to the mass of women and pointed at the stronger-looking ones. He moved on to the men and asked them to turn, show their legs and backs. This time, too, he chose the sturdiest.

  Then, Prashant addressed them all coolly. ‘All the chosen ones will work at our coal mines while the others will work at the collieries, loading coal.’

  These were workers illegally rounded up from villages in UP and Bihar to work at Suryadev Singh’s mines. They would be paid minimum wages and forced to work long hours. They didn’t figure in any official government count and no one bothered if they went missing.

  ‘Enough of all this!’ shouted one of the desperate men. ‘You killed my son and now you want to kill us!’ Hearing this, the guards rushed up and threw him to the ground. Prashant took the rifle from one of the guards and pointed it at the man.

  ‘Once you come to me, you all become my slaves. Only your death can free you,’ said Prashant calmly.

  The men, women and children cowered under his words with wide open eyes. They no longer had any voice of their own. They were just pairs of hands and legs and uncomplaining backs to carry the burdens of the coal mafioso.

  Prashant tightened a finger around his gun—and a shot rang out in the air. Hawa Singh had snatched a rifle from one of the guards and aimed it straight at Prashant. The bullet ripped through his hand, flinging his gun, useless now, to the ground. Then, Hawa Singh came forward so he could be seen.

  ‘Kill him!’ Prashant screamed at the guards. There was a volley of shots around Hawa Singh, but he had already run and ducked behind a wall. He aimed and shot down two guards running towards him. From there he ran behind the line of trees, bullets whining after him.

  Prashant said under his breath, ‘Bloody Hawa Singh! You won’t get out of here alive.’

  Hawa Singh fired, killing another guard, and sprinted to one of the cars. It was Prashant’s favourite car, a red Ferrari.

  Hawa Singh got in to it and sped it around the grounds firing without cease. The mass of men, women and children huddled together in fear, surrounded by gunfire and death.

  The guards riddled the Ferrari with their shots, infuriating Prashant further. He grabbed the nearest gun and fired another volley of shots at Hawa Singh. In his attempt to manoeuvre
the car, Hawa Singh rammed it into one of the trucks. The Ferrari turned into pulp.

  It took fifteen minutes for the police vans to arrive and another half-hour to break through the heavy gates of the bungalow. Hawa Singh had called up Sub-inspector Gaya Prasad from one the cell phones dropped by the guards running helter-skelter.

  While he waited for relief, Hawa Singh had rapidly set fire to two of the trucks standing in line, all the while narrowly dodging a hail of bullets that whistled close past his ears. There was one that sliced his cheek open, leaving a fine line of blood.

  The police surrounded the entire place. Hawa Singh held Prashant by his collar and threw him into the police jeep. He instructed Gaya Prasad to ensure a safe passage to all the would-be victims back to their villages.

  The Ghost had a lot to say to the Madman.

  Hawa Singh sat in the jeep and barked a further order to Gaya Prasad before departing. ‘Sharma, I want that Kanhaiya in the police headquarters. Right now!’

  The jeep moved out of the bungalow, Prashant bellowing impotent curses from its floorboards. Even as it was leaving, the media vans rushed in, mouths open to grab their greedy bytes.

  Even before the premeditated and thoroughly timed attack, Hawa Singh had brought in the newshounds to the police station and presented them with the story of their lives. Many careers—journalistic and otherwise—would be made out of it. The pictures of the unclothed mass of people, the illegal guns, dead bodies and burning trucks would make for a great front-page splash.

  The hounds attacked the place with their cameras and pens. They surrounded Sub-Inspector Gaya Prasad Sharma, the new national hero.

  ‘It’s only in B-grade films and comic books that the police posse arrives late. As soon as we got the information, the police team barged in and took control of the situation,’ Gaya Prasad proudly told the reporters and cameramen jostling for his attention.

  Flashes. More bytes. Furious scribbling. Camera. Action.

  Story.

  *

  ‘I’m not the Butcher!’ shouted Prashant Singh for the hundredth time. But there was no one there to listen. He turned around to see the still silent figure of Hawa Singh. One moment, he was nowhere to be seen, and now he was there. Prashant was confused.

  Some said that Hawa Singh knew the art of standing inside a room, having already shut the door behind him, and at the same time knocked on it from the outside.

  *

  ‘Where have you brought me? I want to be taken to a police station,’ protested Prashant.

  It was a room filled with cardboard boxes, dusty sacks, broken parts of vehicles, old furniture and a pile of old newspapers. The slightest movement made the dust fly up. The walls were damp and there were no windows. A heavy door was locked from inside. No way out.

  Hawa Singh hadn’t taken him to the station. He had dumped him like a sack of coals instead, in a warehouse close to the police headquarters. He knew Suryadev would try to have political pressure applied from higher-ups to get his son released.

  But this way, there was no official record of his arrest. Prashant Singh would remain in public oblivion. Till Hawa Singh decided to bring him out.

  ‘Now tell me all that you said again,’ said Hawa Singh.

  Prashant said, through bared teeth, ‘Just wait till my dad gets to know about this. You’ll be cremated right here in Benares.’

  Hawa Singh smiled affably and counted off the facts on his long fingers. ‘First, the knife with which I was attacked in the mist came from your personal collection of antiques. Second, there were two human hearts in jars placed on convenient shelves in that cupboard in your palatial house. Tell me, where’s the third?’

  Prashant laughed humourlessly. ‘Oh, so he has struck again? Which means you found out fuck all about his identity and decided I’d make a nice scapegoat. I’ll say it again. I’m not the Butcher.’

  ‘What about the two hearts in the jars?’

  ‘Those were collected by my grandfather, B.P Singh. I have nothing to do with them and I have no idea whom they belong to,’ shouted Prashant.

  ‘The archaeologist from London, Brian Johnson, met with you. And then, he too, was killed. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘Just because I met someone, and he happened to die soon after, doesn’t mean that I killed him. I met him at an auction in New Delhi. He was an archaeologist, a historian, and showed an interest in my collection.’

  ‘How come the knife was missing from your place?’

  ‘Someone could have stolen it.’

  ‘You mean it’s so easy to break into your heavily guarded bungalow?’

  ‘If you broke in, anyone could,’ was the insolent answer. Hawa Singh greeted that with a short laugh.

  ‘Who is more religious, you or Suryadev Singh?’

  It was Prashant’s turn to laugh. ‘Don’t give me all that psychobabble. I’ve told you I’m not the killer.’

  There was a knock on the door, a coded one that Hawa Singh recognized. He opened it, and Ruby walked in.

  Prashant leered at her. ‘The FBI sure has some awesome agents,’ he observed, looking her up and down.

  Ruby ignored him and took out a file from her briefcase. ‘We matched the prints on the knife and on the axe with Prashant’s fingerprints,’ she detachedly announced to Hawa Singh. ‘They don’t match.’

  Hawa Singh nodded without expression, his mind immediately abuzz with new considerations.

  ‘We have also got the report about the specimen that you sent to Delhi. The tissue doesn’t match that of the first two victims. The report says that the specimen belonged to the heart of some wild animal, probably a wild boar.’

  Prashant roared triumphantly. ‘See, I told you. Now you have nothing against me.’

  ‘I had asked Gaya Prasad to bring in Kanhaiya,’ Hawa Singh said to Ruby. It was a rhetorical question.

  Ruby looked at him with wide eyes. ‘Kanhaiya is dead. On my way here, Sharma informed me that he found him with his throat slit from ear to ear and his tongue cut out. It’s sort of a punishment for opening his mouth.’

  This time the Madman laughed hysterically.

  CHAPTER 31

  Suryadev Singh couldn’t remember a more dismal, grey and depressing dawn in his life. The newspapers and television channels carried the news of the massacre inside his bungalow. The stories that emerged described him as a mafia don—there was no shred of doubt that his political image had been ripped apart. There were exposés on his illegal businesses—unlicensed coal mining, smuggling of arms, trafficking of men and women, enforced child labour under the most appalling conditions and past incidents of mining accidents due to sheer and callous negligence.

  A few of the villagers who were interviewed testified against the Singhs, saying, ‘Both Suryadev Singh and his son Prashant killed innocent tribal people and burnt their villages to take over any land that bore promise of deposits of coal and other minerals.’

  Shortly after, Hawa Singh formally arrested Prashant Singh and let the newshounds loose on him. Prashant cowered behind a conveniently produced head-wrapping while the flash bulbs gleefully feasted on every feature of his that was visible. Suryadev Singh, similarly hooded, was arrested, too, and dismissed from his political party. The reign of the top coal mafioso had come to an end, said the media with absolute certitude.

  Hawa Singh knew better. He couldn’t recall that a single politician had ever been convicted in his country. Even if the crimes were heinous, the bigwigs always found ways to wriggle out of the grip of the law. All this show of arrest and imprisonment was a smokescreen for the people and the media. Once they got hooked to another scam or scandal, the politicians quietly came out of the woodwork—their prisons. Many went to ‘recover’ on long vacations in Europe and came back to make public appearances as totally reformed men.

  It was hoping against all hope that the prison walls would keep Suryadev Singh long enough inside. Hawa Singh was no optimist, not after all those years of being a
policeman. He’d learnt, the hard way, that the judiciary of the country was in a shambles. The laws of the country were more than a century old, formatted by the British Government. The judges were piled with hundreds and hundreds of cases which took years before they could be heard. There was no time for justice, quickly delivered. The country seemed to be hanging on that last thin thread—Ram bharose, God’s will.

  It was the media, if any, who, pronounced judgements now, right or wrong. But Hawa Singh acknowledged that the press, just like the police, were a necessary evil. They were both watchdogs. Watchdogs—often ill-equipped—of an increasingly frustrated and frequently violent society which had begun to take serious note of the goings-on around them.

  Or begun not to care.

  Hawa Singh thought of Kanhaiya. No one knew about his family. Where had he come from? Had he any relatives? A home? A life? Nothing. He was only twenty-three years old—and dead.

  Kanhaiya was one of the millions who spent their entire lives as vagabonds, seeking shelter in railway stations, in street corners, on traffic dividers and under bridges, abused physically and psychologically from their infancy to their usually unnoticed death.

  Deprived of food, education or means of livelihood, they turn to delinquency. Those ‘rescued’ in their early years find themselves serving futile terms in juvenile homes under even more appalling conditions and, by the time they are adults, have turned into monsters.

  And none of us cares enough, thought Hawa Singh bitterly. It is we who breed criminals. It is society itself that has become their secret sanctuary, from which they will emerge at will only to wreak revenge and havoc back on it.

  *

  As if the prevailing chaos wasn’t enough, a guesthouse owner in Benares had come forward to report that one of his foreign guests had gone missing. Hawa Singh and Ruby hurried to the two-storeyed, bright-yellow building close to the banks of Ganges. The sign outside said ‘Rudraksha Guesthouse’.

  The owner, Brahm Dev, an ex-wrestler as it turned out, was a devotee of Hanuman and had vowed to lead a celibate life. He was of stocky build and small height, five feet three inches in all. He had read about the murders of white foreigners and didn’t want to invite trouble. When his guest didn’t return the night before, he lodged a police complaint.