Mr Roy: Do they know about the suicide letter? Has the family spoken to the media?
Malakar: No, sir. I have heard that despite repeated calls from the media and insidious questioning, they could get nothing from them. Except that they were all shocked and are in trauma, still.
Mr Roy: Then how did the Press think it was an unnatural death?”
Malakar: Agartala is a small town, sir. Someone must have sniffed something, somewhere. But those hounds don’t know about the suicide letter yet. There was no mention of it in the news report.
Mr Roy: Don’t talk about the letter before we can establish its authenticity. This case confounds me, Malakar. Maybe we need to approach it in a different way. It’s not a case of outright murder. There are no signs of external injury or trauma, no suspicious marks; no evidence of a scuffle -- nothing amiss in the room where we found him. He lay resting on the study table—head down, arms encircling the head to help him sleep better… It all points to a sudden but peaceful death. Like he slept in his study and never woke up. But then there’s a suicide letter. Again, it doesn’t mention the name of the killer. But the deceased says, he was forced to end his life?
Malakar: The letter says no such thing, sir. It doesn’t look like he committed suicide either. He didn’t hang himself or slit his wrist…
Mr Roy: He could be poisoned or may have consumed poison. Though I find it difficult to believe, having seen him closely. Can I have the letter please? Hmm…Interesting. Not hand written. Printed.
Malakar: There’s a printer in his study, sir. We found it, right next to him—like he wanted it to be found.
Mr Roy: Call Atanu.
Malakar: Who?
Mr Roy: Atanu is our forensic psychiatrist and Sukanto’s childhood friend. Completed his doctorate in forensic psychology from the States and now works as a consultant with the CBI. I will need to pull some strings to get him to help us. The fact that he is a Tripura boy and is at present on a sabbatical in his home town will help.
Malakar: Will this Atanu be able to work with us, sir?
Mr Roy: I’ve met Atanu. He is easy to get along with. Let him help us, until he is back serving the CBI. Ki?
Malakar: I’ll give him a copy of the suicide letter, sir, when he is here.
Mr Roy: Right. Sukanto’s letter indicates, he wasn’t happy with his near and dear ones. So let’s start with them. That kills the wild goose chase. We have to get the Bhattacharjees to chat with Atanu freely, with their defences down. A formal police investigation will only make them defensive. We’ll introduce Atanu as a friend who is there to help them cope with the tragedy. Someone they will trust.
Malakar: Then there’s his girlfriend – the one mentioned in the letter. He needs to talk to her too. I think it’s best if Atanu introduces himself. It will make them suspicious, if we get involved, sir.
Mr Roy: Agreed. Also, we need to talk to the outsiders – the ones who were close to the boy, his friends, neighbours, enemies… Plus, we’ll need to do a background check on all of them. We need to establish where they all were on the day and hour of the crime. If at all it was a murder. Check their mobiles and laptops – calls, messages, contact list, social media… What about preliminary examination?
Malakar: The report will be in our hands in a couple of days, sir.
Mr Roy: We may need to seek permission for an autopsy?
Malakar: All this because of the suicide letter? Otherwise I don’t think it indicates murder in any way.
Mr Roy: He has given us a hint in his letter Malakar, let’s follow that trail...
Malakar: A very complicated hint! By when do we close this case, sir?
Mr Roy: Why?
Malakar: My annual visit… to Kolkata with family, at the end of the year.
Mr Roy: Why do you go to Kolkata every year during Christmas?
Malakar: Not every year, sir, only when I get LTC. My sister in law lives in Santoshpur. She is very attached to Mita. And Kolkata is cooler in December.
Mr Roy: So let’s try and make progress by then. Ki?
Malakar: Thik…Ok…
Mr Roy: It’s been more than thirty years, Malakar. And, I’ve forgotten what it is like to be surprised…
Malakar: Sir?
Mr Roy: Ki bolo?
Malakar: Even his father, the late Chandrasekhar Bhattacharjee, died in his sleep.”
Mr Roy: O-oh. How do you know?
Malakar: My brother in law issued his death certificate. The cause of death is quite often genetic, sir.
Mr Roy: Hmm…let’s find out…
4 November, 2015
Atanu starts his investigation. Not as a detective but as Sukanto’s childhood friend. He talks to Mrs Sagota Bhattacharjee in her home and notices that Bhattacharjee Bari is large, beautiful and secluded.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: I’ve seen you. Haven’t I?
Atanu: You may have…I was his friend. Tell me about him… If you don’t mind…
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Why?
Atanu: I can help you find his killer.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Will that serve any purpose?
After minutes of silence Mrs Bhattacharjee begins…
Sukanto was born on a day, when the people of Agartala were seeped in divinity worshipping Mahamaya, Mahashakti-- Maa Kali. Maa…maa go...
It was the 7th of November, an auspicious day and I was in labour for twelve hours. He just wouldn't come out. Thankfully I was young. I was twenty one then and could tolerate the pain much better. He chose his time, the doctor said. My son--stubborn as always. Bless my gynaecologist; she was there the whole time. Even my father and husband were not to be found for a few hours. They had gone home to take bath, eat breakfast and prepare for the day. Bath, breakfast, and preparation when a sudden twist of fate could lead to birth or death! My doctor had a very important surgery that morning. The wife of an MLA, I heard later, was in labour too. But she came to me first, stood by my side and pulled Sukanto out, because she promised me.
I respect those who stick to their words. If you can't stick to what you said – what good are you? You are no better than an animal. Isn't it?
Look at my bouma, if I ask her what's for dinner-- she says there is ruti and chicken kosha. But what does she ask Malati to make? The very opposite. Ruti and alur dum! Not that I mind eating alu or any vegetable for that matter. After Sukanto’s baba left us, I wanted to stop eating meat, but Proloy talked me out of it.
My bouma, Kalpana, is an orphan. Ma mora meye, ahare…Well, her maternal uncle did take care of her education, but looking at the sari she wore on the day we went to see her, I could tell, they didn't give her much beyond education and food. So quite obviously, I took pity on her and sent some of my old saris through Proloy when he went to see her and check everything, before we made the trip to Kolkata. Proloy is my school friend, bosom friend, you see.
Kalpana is not beautiful, not like Suchitra Sen, no no, but she is alright. Not fair and not too dark either, but her large eyes, a well-set nose and her height--quite tall for a girl, make up for what’s missing, I presume genetically. She’s not as tall as my Sukanto. Where is Sukanto and where is she! No comparison. But she is not ugly. I would never choose an ugly bride for Sukanto.
But he needed to get married. He was going down the dark path and I couldn't just stand there and watch, hiding behind the newly curtained French windows of Bhattacharjee Bari, nauseous with impotent rage.
Sukanto was always fascinated by the dark and the mysterious. But lately, I could see he was spending less and less time at home. He was out at night… with different girls. And new friends, not the old gang I knew and approved off.
The girls--I never liked any one of them. No character, only beauty and money--all born with silver spoons. Rich phonies. I know you think, I'm overreacting. I'm not. I understand there's nothing wrong with new friends and girlfriends. Young boys are naughty and want to have fun. But this was different.
One day, my maid Malati was cleaning Sukanto'
s shoe case and she found a packet of white powder in his chocolate brown pure leather shoes, which I had purchased from Kolkata after making numerous phone calls to my younger sister-- Shiuli.
She had to visit several big shops before she found the exact colour and design that Sukanto wanted. You don’t get shoes like this in Agartala. My heart filled with pride when I saw him wear those on his thirty-fourth birthday, last year. It was a gift he cherished most. Even though he never remembered to thank his choto mashi. When I asked him to call and thank her, he insolently asked: did she pay for it? Okay, she didn’t. But she did all the hard work!
Anyway, I didn't know what to do with the packet for a long time. I was that shocked. I lay on my bed thinking and arguing the whole day. In the evening, I told Proloy and asked for his advice. I didn't know who else to speak to. Proloy suggested I question Sukanto on this. After all, it was no small matter. But I was scared of offending him. He loved and respected me no doubt. But I was nervous.
Sukanto will get angry if he found out that I touched his things, again, I thought. And he would call me a patient, suffering from OCD. Trust me, I don't have OCD. I just want the rooms to be dusted twice or if it's windy outside, thrice a day. If dusting rooms is OCD, then all women have it--more or less!
When Sukanto came home that evening, I waited for a while. I didn’t want Proloy to see us argue; I knew there would be an argument. Mother’s sense. I calmly called Sukanto to my room, closed the door so the maids wouldn't hear and as politely as possible, asked him about the packet of drugs. It’s a packet of white cement for plugging seepage at home, maa. I was tempted to believe him, he was my son after all. But my logical mind got better of my motherly affection. Why hide it in a shoe case if you want it for the house, assuming that it was a tiny bag of white cement? I asked.
My logical questioning worked. He confessed that it was cocaine but it belonged to his friend--a new friend. I remember that fellow. Long hair tied in a ponytail, not Bengali...tribal, I think. Dirty pants hanging below his sickly-thin waist, odd motifs on mostly-black t-shirts... He drove an expensive car, some teeth-breaking name…white in colour.
Sukanto never asked why I had touched his things. His forgetfulness over this obvious occurrence which had previously irritated him almost always, made me see the truth, crystal clear. That packet of cocaine was his and not that pony-tailed fellow's. And my son was now taking drugs and breaking his mother's heart by lying about it.
That was when I decided, I needed to get my son married. So I called my sister who leaves in Kaikhali and asked her if she had any suitable matches for my handsome and rich son. Of course, we are rich. My husband was running three large jewellery shops in the heart of Agartala. He was a shrewd and sagacious businessman. He moved into hotel business soon after he started making substantial profits. And before his death, five years ago, let his soul rest in peace, thakur-thakur, he was running three hotels successfully in the district headquarters of Udaipur and Ambassa, along with the jewellery shops--now successfully converted into showrooms by Sukanto. His father would have been so proud to see him fulfil his dream.
After a week or so, my sister called back and said there were a couple of girls from good, educated, affluent families who could be perfect matches. But I told her: We don’t need more money. Get someone from a poor family, someone whose dream would be to marry in a rich household, like ours.
After a long search, she found this Roy family from Dum Dum. I immediately questioned: Aren’t they Brahmins? She said, they were in fact, Brahmins. Roy was a title their ancestors received from the British for their service in erstwhile East Bengal--now Bangladesh. Frankly, I think its cock and bull, but you know how lies after being repeated over a period of time and by generations, transform into an unquestionable truth.
Not with a very open heart, I must confess, I agreed to go take a look at the girl, without Sukanto's knowledge. Proloy suggested I meet her first. It sounded like a good idea; I didn't want a ruckus at home, over a match I wasn't even sure about.
I went with my sister and Proloy to their house which was small, colourless and dirty. It was tucked next to a few other small houses, on one side of a narrow broken lane. We sat in a room which doubled up as a living room and bed room. There was one other room, which looked like a store room – the paint was peeling off the walls and the door was broken. When Kalpana came out of it, I realised to my dismay that it was her room.
She seemed quieter than girls of her age and didn’t smile without a reason. The sky blue sari with large white rose flowers looked quite good on her. For a brief moment, I had forgotten that it was my old sari. The one I had purchased on my marriage anniversary, years ago, from the oldest sari shop in Agartala.
She was silent and asked no questions, which ticked my mind yet again. So I asked in front of her uncle and a rather short and downcast younger brother, my dear, what's your name?
Kalpana. She looked straight at me when she said that.
I asked a few other questions and she answered me respectfully. Respect is a forgotten virtue in this age of Facebook and what not! Milli-- my neighbourhood friend tells me -- even women our age are sticking pictures of their families for the world to see. Borobaba – my father in law wouldn't even allow me to come out and answer the door, if an unknown man came knocking on the doors of Bhattacharjee Bari. And to think of women putting their pictures for everyone to see. Horrendous!
Atanu: What about your sister, Shiuli?
Mrs Bhattacharjee: What about her?
Atanu: Did she like Kalpana?
Mrs Bhattacharjee: She…was okay with her. See, my sister values our opinion.
Atanu: Whose opinion?
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Mine and Proloy’s. After all I need to decide who my son will marry. Not my sister.
Atanu: Right…
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Where was I…? What was I saying?
Atanu: You were saying how women your age put pictures in public domains---
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Yes…Terrible, terrible times…I couldn’t imagine doing that. You see…Bhattacherjee Bari has been our house for generations. When I was married into this house, I was a bit like Kalpana. My mother had passed away, when I was four. I was the third-born in a family of two elder brothers and a younger sister. My father was a priest and a Sanskrit tutor. We could barely make ends meet. It was my dream to get married into a house where priests were paid to do puja. In our house, it was always my father doing puja, daily, and without a reward.
In those days, it was all about good words that spread from neighbours to relatives to their friends and so on…Until villages filled with god-abiding people came to know about a so and so priest, who did puja for penance -- for a pittance. Chora hoye gelo…
Ha…Ha…Ha…Ha…Uuf…Babare-baba.
I was nineteen when I got married. My poor father was happy and distressed at the same time. For one, I was moving to a new place: I was going to Tripura. The tiny north eastern state, both he and I knew nothing about. Except that the kings of Tripura patronized Tagore, and noticed his poetic genius quite early in the day, when Tagore was young. Proloy once told me that, while walking by my side on a rain-drenched afternoon, through that red- soiled lane, which was a common shortcut to our humble homes. Tagore’s poems fascinated him. “They help me face the world better, Sagota”.
Honestly, I never quite understood that. Tagore or no Tagore, I was going to Tripura and frankly I was terrified. Thankfully, my mother was dead, so there was one less person to get worried and make matters worse.
But matters were worse, with or without my mother. I was to be married into a rich family, a business family. Marrying into a business family was inconceivable for a Brahmin girl, then. "Brahmins never do business, they teach and dissipate knowledge", my father used to proudly say, after a good day of priesting, which meant he was rewarded well with food and money. Those words always confused me. Wasn't he charging money for doing puja? Then, how were we any different from them.
But I let that pass, every time. I didn’t want to ruin his moments of happiness by asking unpleasant questions.
When it came to forestalling my marriage into a business family, however ironically, he succumbed to pressure from our crooked and interfering relatives, abstract concepts of social propriety and to the power of money.
I don’t know why my father-in-law chose me. I was a poor Brahmin girl. I didn't have a mother. I was nineteen, and I was fair and tall. Maybe if you combined these factors, you got a perfectly marriageable girl for a rich, non-compliant son. And a fertile womb to house the Bhattacharjee progeny. It was a Sunday. The day I entered Bhattacharjee Bari. I remember the day, that moment clearly. I have lived in this house for thirty years but whenever I dream of it or find it sneaking into my thoughts, it's always that morning after our marriage that appears right before me. A wintry, desolately grey, chilly morning with no one in sight. Only a few birds – shalik pakhi – three lucky ones not an unlucky one – sitting silently -- on the narrow broken roads of Kunjaban--a tiny neighbourhood in a small town. Bhattacharjee Bari was perched on one side of the uneven road, which sloped down and rose up again. There were houses on both sides, but none looked like a looming mysterious castle, straight out of Thakumar Jhuli, which my brothers and I loved to read. The house was grand but distant, static but forceful. It stood aware of its weight and history, wrapped in the grey blanket of that eerie morning.
We… I mean my brother and I always thought our lives would magically transform, just like it did in the old, tattered probably third hand copy of the book, Thakumar Jhuli that was passed on to us by our cousins, without much thought. "Old book, torn, lost the cover, first few pages are missing too-- let's give it to Tia and her brothers. Poor them, they never read enough books. Their father has a hard time procuring food and clothes, that girl is growing every month, see how tall she is... how will he buy books!" I was called Tia then, my mother named me after a green parrot which sat on the neem tree in our small courtyard for days, after my birth.
Wants and Desires: A Psychological Thriller Page 2