Kalpana: Did he?
Atanu: You don’t know?
Kalpana: Mr Roy did mention it that day…
Atanu: The police found it right next to his body. I got someone to get a copy for me. I thought you may want to see what he thought about you. It could help attain closure…
Kalpana: He sounds angry and sad. Very, very sad. There’s a word for it…in your profession?
Atanu: Depression.
After talking to Kalpana, he reluctantly steps into the Blue room.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Is it true?
Atanu: What?
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Proloy is dead.
Atanu: Yes.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: When did he die?
Atanu: Doesn’t matter. He isn’t coming back. You must understand that.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: So he left…and he isn’t coming back?
Atanu: Yes.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Thanks for telling me. I asked Kalpana and Jewel. They looked somewhere and murmured something. Those two are acting strange. They are my family now. Or what remains of my family.
Atanu: I will talk to them and tell them how you feel. You should start consulting a doctor. I know someone good -- my father’s friend. He will be happy to help.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Do I need to? Am I sick?
Atanu: Yes.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Is Proloy coming back?
Atanu: No... Sukanto wrote a letter. Here.
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Oh…
Atanu: You didn’t know?
Mrs Bhattacharjee: I-I did…
Atanu: The police found it right next to his body. I got someone to get a copy for me. I thought you may want to see what he thought about you. It could help attain closure…
Mrs Bhattacharjee: Closure from what? Sukanto will remain in the emptiness of my heart.
Take the letter back. I knew my Sukanto. I don’t need to read letters to understand him. We all get angry. Bitter. Rebellious. Some times. That never defines us, if we live a long life. And get an opportunity to change.
There was a man in my village. A friend of my father’s named Oshanto. When he was a teenager, in a fit of rage, he pushed his mother, because she had scolded him for wasting rice. The poor woman lost her balance and twisted her ankle. She couldn’t walk for months.
Oshanto kaku repented, his whole life. One day, when his mother was serving food, he told the story to his daughter and her friends. Right in front of his mother so she could hear. It was his way of saying, sorry maa.
Maybe if Sukanto lived, he would write another letter…
The Letter
If I die, then you must know… 26 October, 2015
Death is overrated. We die every day. Brutal deaths. When our dreams are noiselessly trampled. When our souls are wringed. When our vulnerable sides are crushed. We die. Honestly, how many of us really recover? How many find hope? The story of a crippled man conquering Everest--does it really inspire us in our darkest hour?
Life is difficult and it hardly gets better. Period.
You think people make your life better…or worse? They do.
My dear mother. My charming schizophrenic mother, who never admits to what she actually is. That posh, sophisticated veneer is a cover up for her true self: a looney case with no hope for recovery.
Her only friend and soul mate, Proloy, can’t speak up and save her. Pity. Because he is a character from her world -- breathed into life by her. She fooled my poor father with her claims of unfulfilled love and almost killed the man. But not me. I know Proloy doesn’t exist.
Maybe he was her friend once, in her childhood, in the village where she grew up. But an accident--he fell down or jumped into the river, not sure which one--killed him, when he was thirteen. My father told me all about it. I’m sure he told her too, but then she is not exactly into believing truths!
In her derailed mind he remained, her four dimensional friend, her confidante, her Krishna.
She trusts no one. My mother. So I was surprised when she showed a real liking for Kalpana. Their difficult childhood I believe, was the binding force. They have been lonely as kids, unloved and unappreciated. That’s why Kalpana always competed, even when there was no competition. I confess, my proximity to Shayan must have hurt her, but I didn’t want her to prove her superiority. Or anything else for that matter.
But Kalpana never looked in the mirror. If she did, she would have realised that she never loved me. She married me to get away from her no-good uncle and her vegetable of a brother. She needed to be in a different place, in a different setting and in a different situation. And I helped her get away. I couldn’t forget those eyes, silently pleading for a chance...
I was not an ideal husband -- yes, but she was no ideal wife. She can never wail at the time she wasted over loving and pampering me. Because she didn’t. She detested me. She may have liked my appearance when she saw me first. I may not be wrong in assuming that she might have found me attractive even, but she got over me in a few days.
Shayan, I thought you would be better. But you betrayed me, when you started talking to him. Why was he so interesting to you? A commoner, an orphan with no money, power or privilege. Did you feel pity for him? Or did he impress you with his sob story of how he lost his parents, his home, and everything else and worked for us-- trying his best to please us.
He was my friend. At least I thought so. I let him borrow my books, gave him my clothes, taught him to drive and drank with him. I introduced him to my friends as my “good friend” but he never wanted friendship. He remained a recluse, content with his books and in carrying out his chotoma’s wishes.
He wants his compensation now. I heard him say so to my mother. So much for gratitude.
But I’m grateful to you, Shayan. For being my friend. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I thought it would be best to remain friends, forever. Marriage kills friendship. And we know too much about each other to get married. You would judge me, after marriage -- if we were to argue and fight. And I would judge you.
Tough… to really know, someone. So let’s not get disappointed when we fail to understand. Because at some point, we have all tried to get into that murky landscape. Not worth Shayan. Nothing is worthwhile. Family, friendship, love, all words… Just a cluster of words, coined by clever minds to create an illusion, which they named as happiness.
Sadness is better I think, at least, you don’t want to keep it. And sensing our derision it stays back, and never leaves us…never leaves me.
I was so excited on the day she was born. When baba took me to the nursing home in his white Ambassador car. That hospital -- the one with the blue curtains, which was shut down due to a mishap last year, after an inebriated doctor killed two pregnant women -- smelt strongly of Phenyl and baby powder. Baba wanted me to meet the newest member in our family. I was so thrilled, I bit my tongue. But I didn’t let the tears trickle down. I didn’t want baba to see me crying.
As days passed, she grew closer to baba and maa. And moved away from me. She cringed when I tried to caress her. Scowled, when baba told me a story or maa brushed my hair. Hit me for no reason, when they were not around. Never smiled at me, but giggled with laughter when baba teased her and flung her up in the air…
You’ve a lovely sister. You know sisters are always closer to their brothers. They said.
The day they took her away, baba stopped talking to me. And maa stopped playing with me. Never picking up the comb to brush my hair. Again.
No one really saw it. My effort, my sorrow, my battles… They all choose to believe otherwise. Sukanto is an unfaithful husband. Sukanto is a disobedient son. Sukanto didn’t have the courage to stand up to his mother. Yes Shayan, I know it. I can see it in your eyes.
A rich spoilt kid, living on his father’s money…
Unsuccessful and…unloved.
Sukanto
Tricky Questions
1 MARCH, 2016
AGARTALA POLICE STATION
SP Roy and
Inspector Malakar catch up on the Sukanto Bhattacharjee case – one last time.
Mr Roy: You gave them the suicide letter, Malakar?
Malakar: Strange sir, no one asked for it.
Mr Roy: Kalpana asked that day when we went to their house. Atanu said, they didn’t like the letter. Not even Shayantika. Anyway, we’ve told them not to mention it to anyone.
Malakar: They won’t, sir. Talking about the letter will tarnish their reputation.
Mr Roy: You’re right. Give it to whoever agrees to take it.
Malakar: Are we closing the case, sir?
Mr Roy: Yes. We’ve Atanu’s report. It’s neutral. Also he needs to get back to his real job. We can’t keep him on this case any longer.
Malakar: Even with foreign degrees, Mr Highbrow, failed to find the killer!
Mr Roy: You sound jealously-happy. We don’t have evidence to build up a case for murder. It’s time to end it.
Malakar: We’ve checked his mobile, sir. He called three tribal girls—recently—last call made to two of them on 22nd October. To Shayantika—last call made on 18th October. And Ratan – last call made on 16th October. Didn’t call his wife so much—last call made on 16th October. His wife called him on 18th, 19th, 20th, and 21st -- all missed calls. His messages to Shayantika and Kalpana reassert what we already know through his letter. We checked his laptop -- videos of Hindi and English films, some pictures of Shayantika and a copy of his letter.
Mr Roy: And the others?
Malakar: Nothing, sir. We’ve checked on Kalpana, Shayantika, Jewel, Ratan, Rudro Choudhury and Milli Das. Their call history and messages. Sagota Bhattacharjee doesn’t use a mobile, prefers the landline still.
Mr Roy: Right.
Malakar: His mother is schizophrenic?
Mr Roy: Mm…but how did she kill him? Atanu showed her the letter, on my instruction.
Malakar: What did she say?
Mr Roy: She said, she knew her son -- doesn’t need to see any letter. Unusually strong for a mental patient.
Malakar: She created Proloy and tricked us. But there is Jewel, Kalpana and Shayantika? Should we keep an eye on them for a few more days? And then there is the letter...
Mr Roy: You can sit and talk Malakar…
Malakar: Ok…Isn’t it a bit odd, the way he talks about his sister in his letter?
Mr Roy: Like what?
Malakar: My brother in law tells me that the Bhattacharjees had a daughter. She died when she was one year old.
Mr Roy: O-oo... How?
Malakar: Asphyxiation.
Mr Roy: Hmm… You think someone strangled her?
Malakar: Yes.
Mr Roy: Kids do die of choking, you see… Sometimes the food they eat enters the windpipe --accidentally.
Malakar: True, sir. But the way he mentions her, like he is jealous. Siblings are known to kill---
Mr Roy: But how does this tie up? To his death. To the case in hand. I can’t be investigating a suspicious but unreported death that happened -- more than twenty years ago. Just before I retire. They will think I’ve lost my mind. The status that I’ve earned in the past thirty years will be gone. In a minute.
Malakar: But it could be a clue---
Mr Roy: To what?
Malakar: I don’t know yet---
Mr Roy: Malakar, this case is closed. We’ve been on this case for almost six months now. We can’t stretch anymore.
Malakar: But the evidence?
Mr Roy: What evidence? There’s a dated suicide letter. But the deceased apparently died in his sleep. There are no signs of external and internal injury. Maybe it was a cruel twist of fate that he planned to commit suicide, wrote a letter, decided against it, but died on the same day – just like he had planned. Or maybe he had a sick heart that stopped functioning.
Malakar: Or…someone killed him and planted the suicide letter.
Mr Roy: Good hypothesis. But who and how? Officially, it’s a death under natural circumstances and not suicide. Even though there’s a suicide note, the deceased didn’t end his life. He didn’t blame anyone in the letter for his death. On the contrary, he wrote why he was unhappy with all of them, further complicating it. So we can’t build a case for abetment either. We’ve no confessions or evidence to prove foul play of any kind. I need to wrap it by the end of this month, before I leave. I’ve Atanu’s report. It will help to close the case. I wanted to solve it…We did everything Malakar, but we found nothing.
Malakar: If you say so, sir…
Mr Roy: I thought you wanted to get out of this case and go to Kolkata?
Malakar: I did not go to Kolkata.
Mr Roy: Why didn’t you?
Malakar: I-I don’t know. Maybe I want to find out who killed Sukanto…We go to Kolkata every year...
Mr Roy: Hmm…
Mr Roy: I understand…. Did I tell you that Shayantika is getting married?
Malakar: Marriage, so soon?
Mr Roy: I think I have the card somewhere… Right, here.
Malakar: Sandeep Podder, son of Jayanto Podder? Ministerial level bridegroom, sir.
Mr Roy: Yes, influential family. The eldest son is a Member of the Legislative Assembly. Her father is applying pressure--ministerial level to close this case. He wants no trouble during his daughter’s marriage.
Malakar: Ok sir, I’ll go then…
Mr Roy: Sure, Malakar. Oh, can you get---
Malakar: Tea?
Mr Roy: Who will get me tea from 1st April?
Malakar: Boudi will.
Mr Roy: But not this promptly. Or cheerfully…
Malakar: I’ll bring you tea every Sunday, sir.
Mr Roy: There are seven days, Malakar. Seven long days in a week…
The Killer
1 APRIL, 2016
The Sukanto Bhattacharjee case is closed. Atanu has returned to his real job in Delhi. And the killer is free.
Jewel
This is my home. Chotoma needs me now, more than ever. She wanders into my room sometimes, the Blue room, her room-- the one she gave to Proloy to live in. (Of course that’s what she believes and made everyone believe). She asks, if I could go get shidol shutki from the nearby market. She says, Malati can cook a mean chutney. I ask, if she loves shutki now. After all her nose twisting and annoyance at something she had only smelt and never tasted. She says, she still despises it, but it’s for Dr Chakma, the psychiatrist who is treating her on Atanu’s insistence. Apparently, Dr Chakma has been prescribing some freaking strong medicines for good reason. But chotoma being chotoma, thinks it messes her sleep and bowels.
She thinks feeding him shutkir chutney will make him treat her with kindness. I wonder if Dr Chakma likes chutney at all. I for one, don’t. But then it’s difficult to assume that a tribal will not like dry fish, just like it’s difficult to believe that a Bengali will dislike fresh water fish.
The young doctor comes twice a month to check on her. He is a patient man and I like his easy smile and long, clumsy limbs. Her schizophrenia is not serious. In fact I’m sure no one will find anything wrong with her. But she must take her medicines. The problem with mental sicknesses is that they can suddenly get worse, without any apparent reason. He told me after a month of treating chotoma.
On most days, after he is done examining her -- late in the morning, we sit and chat for a while on the long veranda – about trivial things. There’s an ease between us. Sometimes I wonder, if I would feel the same way about my brother -- I never went back to find…
A year ago, Sukanto gave me his old mobile and told me to retain the SIM. He was buying a new one. I felt a little uneasy with the object in the beginning. I wasn’t sure if I should start forging ties with people outside this house. I’ve been so comfortable in my space. My life has been less chaotic, if not simple and I’ve been sort of…content. But when Shayantika called me by mistake -- he had forgotten to tell her about the SIM change, I felt ready to face the world outside Bhattacharjee Bari.
Hearing a woman’s voic
e from a distance, without seeing or touching her, for the very first time… It took me to a place, I had never visited before.
From that day on, she called often. She started messaging too. Two or three messages to begin with and later, I stopped counting. We knew everything about each other. I told her about Kalpana, chotoma and a lot about Sukanto. I loved sharing it all with her. We both inhabited the same world, without living in the same place. I don’t think we could have got that intimate, if we saw each other every day. But the distance, the complexity of our bond, made us long for each other with an intensity, we couldn’t fathom.
She doesn’t message me anymore. She has stopped calling me. I longed to hear her voice… Checked my mobile for her messages, every day…
Milli mashi has become friends with chotoma again. Last week, when she came to visit, she brought someone who was a slimmer and fairer version of herself. Her in-college daughter Ajanta.
She is not as fair as Shayantika or as tall. Shayan must have been around 5 feet 3 inches. Ajanta is shorter. I’m 5 feet 5 so I don’t mind. When Shayan smiled, my heart raced like a mad horse. During Saraswati puja, I would stand next to Sukanto during Oonjuli, just to watch her smile. I don’t have to try so hard to watch Ajanta smile. And her smile is lovely too.
We exchanged our mobile numbers and have been meeting since then. Ajanta was slyly beaming with joy, when I invited her home yesterday.
I couldn’t afford Shayantika. But I think I will be able to afford Ajanta. Chotoma has paid my dues with interest and put me in charge of looking after the Bhattacharjee business on a hefty salary. (Well, fifty thousand rupees is hefty to me).
Wants and Desires: A Psychological Thriller Page 10