Stage 3.5: Befriend the high-on-hormones watch-boy in the internet café to take printouts. The one who dreams of making love to the poor girl someday.
Stage 4: Now that you know their secret, absolutely by chance, you want to forget it like a bad dream. As soon as possible. Tell them to do so they will need to donate, some cash.
Stage 4: Politely quote a figure. Arrive at the sum using three factors. One, their socio-economic profile. Two, magnitude of the social and moral deviation. Three, the fear factor. Measure how scared the target is on a scale of 1 to 10.
Mind you, I didn’t know it was called socio-economic profile, then. But now that I finally know, I want to show off. Pardon the digression.
Now, the thumb rules.
Work alone. No partners. No revenue sharing.
Stop if you sense danger. Save your precious ass at all cost.
Accept donation in cash. Only.
It took me years to perfect the business plan. But I learnt from my mistakes and learnt fast.
For five long years, I systematically saved money in a steel trunk and kept it in the toilet. Just because it contained girly things, my sexist uncle and my dim-wittedbrother never touched it. By the way, I still get toilet-nightmares, sometimes.
My uncle finally opened a bank account in my name, when I turned twenty. The account was for my meagre savings that I had earned by giving tuition. Thankfully, he never checked his niece’s bank account statement. It’s your money, do whatever you like with it. Only that grim-looking unmarried, unsocial, middle-aged manager who fix-deposited my hard-earned money, knew how meagre my savings actually were.
Learning about people’s secrets is not a nice experience, let me tell you. It takes unexpected turns. For instance, my pretty married neighbour. No one knew that she stealthily loved her first cousin. That guy was a regular visitor to her home -- he visited once every week -- when her husband and son were not around. Neighbours didn’t have a clue. They still don’t. He is her brother after all.
And then, there was my very own mama. Who wants to visualize one’s uncle as a sexual creature? Anyway, there he was, visiting his friend every day -- at around five in the evening, without fail. Well, not exactly his bearded intellectual poet friend but his mousy, downcast wife, who turned out to be his true love. With due respect to love—true or false -- I had a challenging time trying to extract a six figure donation from him. He was so full of poetic lullabies: we share a bond beyond this world; we don’t talk, we connect and many more.
So my business plan turned into this interesting human experiment, with no harm caused. Not that it didn’t run into trouble. There were times when the target wanted to meet me. I always dodged those freaks. Later, I learnt to say no and be in the position of power. It was quite easy, actually. I just needed to scare them a bit more -- not vice versa. Also I stopped if the going got tough and embarked on a new journey with a fresh target.
On my twenty third birthday, I went to China for a year and a half. I was completely taken-in by the mere act of being in a foreign country for the very first time. After being a full-time tourist for a month or two in Shanghai and Beijing, I reached the scenic Hubei. There, a chance encounter with an old Chinese woman got me interested in the ancient martial arts. She was a student herself, amazingly agile and active at ninety five. Not to mention, she lived alone, was a spinster and sold vegetables to the locals, five days a week. She advised me to go to the Wudang hills and meet her master’s son who she said was no less gifted than his father.
I did as told and to my surprise, the master took me in. The always-in-black, soft-spoken, young master taught me atop a hill every morning -- things I had never heard, felt or tried before -- with my body and mind. He taught as much as I could receive, sometimes pushing me to absorb more.
With time, I learnt to defend myself against my opponents through Tajiquan. My opponents in battle incidentally, were also my friends. Once such friend, Andrew, a not-so-young American, who taught in a college in Michigan, told me about his fascination for Dian Xue, popularly known as Dim Mak or the touch of death. He had read about it extensively and postponed, his already late marriage (he was forty) and made his way to China to find out more.
Simply put, Dim Mak was an ancient martial art technique used to attack one’s opponent at the vital pressure points in the body with an aim to injure or kill. Death caused though Dim Mak could be instant or delayed.
It was a chance discovery, yet again. And I felt maybe that’s why I am here – to learn Dim Mak. Cautiously but confidently, I broached the subject with master. He responded with silence. Six months passed, but master remained silent.
One day, late in the morning, while I was getting ready, he asked why I wanted to learn it.
“Because nothing makes me happier than learning.” I said.
I had no idea what to say. But I thought maybe something to do with learning would appeal to a teacher. I was right.
I struggled through three hundred and seventy days -- to learn the touch of death, along with my American friend – whose fiancée left him after failing to change his mind with violent threats. She finally cancelled the wedding over a call, right after she had showered him with abuses.
On the day, I finally mastered the mysterious and dreadful, Dim Mak, I went to master. He simply asked me to leave, like I was a guest, who had over stayed her visit. My American friend stayed back to teach -- along with master.
“He needs a helping hand and I need to stay.” He said.
“But you don’t speak their language, how will you manage?”
“I’ve managed till now, haven’t I?” He said smiling.
Doctors call it CIP—Congenital Insensitivity to pain. People who suffer from this rare condition do not feel pain. Once, while giving him a back massage – that was when I liked touching him, I pressed the sensitive area on his neck. He continued to read his book and turned the page. I pressed again, he continued reading. I pressed again and again and…again. “Am I pressing too hard?” I nervously mumbled. “Not at all.” He replied nonchalantly.
I couldn’t be sure. He could be lying. One night, when he was sleeping under the influence of pills that he had taken…He always had sleeping pills in the chestnut brown bed side table. I scratched his neck, just a tiny bit, about the size of a small worm, with a shaving blade.
There was blood on his pillow the next morning. And he wasn’t sure how he cut himself. So I volunteered to clean his wound and put a bandage on it. While cleaning the wound, I pressed my index finger as hard as possible, on the wound. He continued to stare at the veranda that ended, where the study room began.
The rest was easy.
The day before boroma’s loud and chaotic Satyanarayan puja, I gave Sukanto the massage he liked to help him sleep. He was surprised but didn’t refuse.
I sat behind him and pressed at the point on his neck, just as master had taught me. He sat staring at the wall, without saying a word. When I was done massaging, he walked over to the switch board, flicked the night lamp on and fell asleep within half an hour.
Next night, I gave him shinni and went for my walk, as usual. I returned late, went back to our room and pretended to sleep. When Bhattacharjee Bari fell asleep, tired from the cleaning and worshipping, I woke up at around 1 AM to check on him. I wore my plastic kitchen gloves that I hid earlier in my wardrobe -- switched off the dimly-lit night light that barely illuminated our room and slowly walked towards the study room. I walked confidently but noiselessly. Thanks to days of practice of walking with my eyes closed. Somehow I controlled my overwhelming desire to sing Tagore’s songs, loudly.
He was lying on the ground, hands on his chest. His face twisted in pain. Saliva dripping out of his gaping mouth. He looked so fallen and inelegant, even in his crisp white shirt and pyjamas. Instinctively, I decided to beautify his death. I picked him up and placed him on the chair. I put his head on the table and wrapped his arms around the head. Taking a tissue from the drawer, I wi
ped his wet mouth. That tissue went out of the house in the garbage bag, next morning.
I wasn’t furious at his egoistic rant in the suicide letter. In fact, I found it heartfelt and spontaneous. He wrote the letter earlier on his laptop -- I don’t know when. I found it while searching his study, when he disappeared during Durga puja.
Right after I placed his still body on the chair, I took a printout on the printer, dated and neatly folded it – hate uneven folds and placed it under the crystal water jug.
He was fixated on that jug. I could never convince him to drink from a bottle – not even late at night. He wanted his jug, his crystal jug…
Plastic water bottles are toxic, Kalpana. Crystal is so nice-looking and homely. He would say, sitting on our large cosy bed – his feet covered in a soft white sheet…
2 APRIL, 2016
While drinking black coffee, Atanu looks at a bright and crowded Lajpat Nagar through the wide window of his studio apartment. And murmurs:
You were my friend. Till you pushed me in front of her. I fell on the water puddle with a thud – flat on my face. It had rained cats and dogs in the afternoon. The roads were inundated, as usual. She couldn’t stop laughing. It was a prank meant to entertain. But why me, Sukanto?
You knew I liked her. She didn’t know. I didn’t want her to know. A teenage crush is supposed to die its natural death. Rejection or acceptance is unnecessary. But that evening, she rejected me. Because of you.
After you left with her and I cycled home alone – my face covered in muddy water and my mouth tasting of bile, as the rain drummed on my head and blurred my vision, something flipped in me. I stopped believing in people. In what they said. Or did. It helps, you know… The non-believer in me pushes me to excel in my job. But then, it also pulls me back -- each time I want to lose myself in friendship or love.
I saw her passport. A RAW friend of mine, traced it through her PAN. China? Of all places. She was certainly hiding something. Did she kill you? Why else would she run away? But how…?
Boyhood is a strange phase. You never forget what you experience. Especially the rejections, insults and failures. I hope your soul rests in peace, my friend. Sorry, I couldn’t motivate myself to catch your killer. Even when the pretty girl who rejected me, long ago, shed tears in your memory -- remembering the good and the bad times… Mostly, the bad.
EPILOGUE
Meanwhile, in the Blue Room, Sagota Bhattacharjee is bent over a letter resting on the table. She reads it carefully, puts the pen down on the wooden table and brushes her index finger over some of the words. When she finally looks up at the patterned blue walls, few drops of water trickle down her cheeks and land on her lined wrist. She jumps, looks at the letter and sighs in relief. The letter is safe. The untimely moisture which stemmed from her haven’t smudged the words.
Dear Sagota,
I want you to know something. I’ve met someone. Her name is Jhorna. She has two daughters, married and happily settled. Her husband runs a coffin sized, artificially brightened-by-a-bulb-at-all-hours, over-loaded stationary shop. He sells notebooks, pens, pencils, drawing charts, erasers, brown sheets… things of those kind, for school and college kids.
I found her speaking to herself in the kitchen one balmy afternoon. “Should I stay – with my husband? Or, run to the river and let the soothing water – drip into my body and calm my soul?” She asked in a haze, looking into my eyes.
She doesn’t know how to swim. Just like me.
I pleaded her to stay.
She said she will. Only if I stayed…
And I did.
Proloy
GLOSSARY
PAN – Permanent Account Number for filing tax in India
RAW – Research and Analysis Wing. India’s Intelligence Agency
Shinni – A sweet dish prepared as an offering for god
Shutkir Chutney – Dry fish pickle
Qi Pao – One piece dress for Chinese women
Wants and Desires: A Psychological Thriller Page 12