by Anirban Bose
TWENTY-SEVEN
Murder? How…when…who…what…where? A thousand questions popped up in Adi’s head, like bubbles in boiling water. He sat in the rear seat of the jeep with Sam, Pheru and Jagdeep while Rajeev and Harsha sat next to Toshi’s uncle, who was now driving like the wind. They exchanged anxious glances without saying a word as they raced down the mountains.
They hoped Toshi’s uncle would expand his statement to an explanation. But he was a different person now – not the perfect gentleman who had escorted them around town. His face was full of fear as he drove like a maniac, running from something that they felt afraid to ask about. In the bizarre silence that followed, no one dared to ask what had happened, afraid of invoking what they didn’t know and discovering their culpability in someone’s death. Their hearts were dark with an illogical fear of the unknown, as they rode along silently, preferring the reassurance of an uneasy ignorance, and maintaining a wretched normalcy with their conspiratorial hush.
Only after they had crossed the border into Assam did they stop for a quick meal in one of the small food stalls next to the road. The original plan had been to spend the day in Mokukchung, but with this sudden turn of events, they had a whole day to kill before boarding the train from Guwahati early the next morning. Jagdeep had to catch his return flight from Dimapur. No one was sure of the plans for that day or their whereabouts, and no one dared to ask.
As they lounged in the small roadside stall, an article in a newspaper caught Adi’s attention. He picked up a copy and began reading through it.
Govt. Hospital Strike Ends
(From the News Service) Bombay, Maharashtra: A spokesman for the Maharashtra Association of Resident Doctors (MARD) today declared an end to the three-week long strike that had crippled services in the J.J. Group of Hospitals. This followed an agreement between the doctors and the representatives from the State Health Ministry. The outcome was widely expected after the sudden reversal of the hospital administration’s stance on the impact of the strike, following the death of Mr Adil Mohammed Sheikh, the local ward municipal corporation leader, who died after being shot at and taken to the hospital for emergency surgery. Incidentally, Mr Sheikh had been involved in the initial dispute with the resident doctors that had precipitated the strike. His death led to questions being raised in the State Assembly for over six hours, ending with the opposition staging a walkout. Opposition leaders have voiced serious concerns about the hardships facing the common man as a result of such a strike. In a further embarrassment for the ruling party, the health minister, Shri Bhaurao Damane, today conceded that the dean of J.J. hospital, Dr M.M Bhandarkar, had supplied him with false figures about the outcome of the strike that downplayed the mortality rates. He has issued a suspension order against Dr Bhandarkar and stripped him of his title. He has also conceded to the opposition demand for an all-party commission to look into the allegations of neglect and mismanagement in the services provided in public hospitals across the state.
Adi read the article again and again, each time deriving some more joy from same paragraph. In one of the most bizarre twists of destiny, the corporator whose arrogance had led to the strike, had now resolved it by his death. Adi marvelled at the divine justice of the bullet that had torn through the corporator’s heart and finally given the strike meaning. In death, the municipal corporator had finally done his duty to serve his constituents.
Adi laughed. Oh…the irony was delicious!
The other big news was the dean’s suspension. Pheru was the last man standing. But his exam was to take place in two days, and in two days they would be in Calcutta, 2500 kilometres from the exam centre.
Then Adi had a brainwave. He turned towards the rest of the group, waving the newspaper like a flag and shouting, ‘Pheru, Pheru…the strike is over, man! And the dean has been suspended! You can actually take your Pharmac exam and pass it, man. You can go on to Third MB and to pediatrics…’
Pheru and the others read the article through while Adi brought Toshi’s uncle up to speed on the developments in JJ hospital preceding their trip. Pheru’s hands began to shake as he read the article over and over.
‘Pheru, the only way you can make it to the exam is if you fly there using Jagdeep’s ticket!’ said Adi.
Pheru’s eyes widened with anticipation and he turned to look at Jagdeep.
‘Sure, man,’ said Jagdeep, even before he was prompted with a question. ‘If I can be Toshi’s brother, so can you. I’ll give you the ticket and you can check in as Jagdeep Singh.’
Pheru lifted Jagdeep in a bear hug. Then he began to laugh and shout, ‘I’ve beaten him, man! I’ve fucking beaten him!’
The mood had changed dramatically from the sepulchral silence of the morning to one of boisterous hope. Everyone partook of Pheru’s happiness as he pranced around, pumping his arms in the air repeatedly and grinning from ear to ear. Even Toshi’s uncle seemed to relax a bit and decided to drive to Dimapur to let Pheru catch his flight. Only Rajeev and Harsha were a little restrained in their demonstration of joy.
They reached Dimapur in the afternoon. Pheru got off with his faithful suitcase. He was delighted to discover that there was an evening flight to Calcutta, from where he could take a late flight to Bombay that very night – two days ahead of his exam.
His check-in was smooth. He returned to say his goodbyes
‘Use the two days to revise as much as you can, Pheru. This time you’ve studied…you’ll definitely pass.’
‘Good luck, Pheru!’
Adi mulled over the developments as he watched Pheru disappear into the crowd, finding justification, albeit poetic, in the interpretation of the brotherhood of a Sikh like Jagdeep, a Muslim like Pheru and a Christian like Toshi. He was sure the airline officials would see it differently: indeed, if they found out, they would call it fraud. But such a perfect adjudication to so many different problems made it impossible for him to believe they were doing something wrong. He smiled to himself…like beauty that exists in the eyes of the beholder, faith, after all, is in the interpretation of a believer.
Toshi’s uncle drove all through the night. They reached Guwahati early the next morning. The Kamrup Express was scheduled to pull into the station within the hour. Wearily, they started unloading their stuff.
As Adi was collecting his bag, he overheard Toshi’s uncle telling Rajeev, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be all right…we’ll take care of it…’
Adi was even more puzzled. Why was Toshi’s uncle reassuring Rajeev? Take care of what? What was going on?
Then, as he turned, Adi noticed Toshi’s uncle reach into his pocket, pull out the crumpled ball of paper he had collected from the bungalow, and dump it into one of the wastebaskets on the platform. Adi waited for him to walk away before heading towards the wastebasket and shoving his hand into it. Adi’s heart began to beat like a drum while his fingers felt around for the paper in the pile of trash. He managed to retrieve it and quickly shoved it into his pocket without stopping to scan its contents. Luckily, no one caught him in the act. Then he followed the rest of them onto the platform.
Soon their train arrived and they found their seats easily. The final goodbyes with Toshi’s uncle were strained and artificial. A sense of relief rather than sadness marked the loss of each other’s company. They promised to arrange the return of Toshi’s belongings from the hostel and conveyed their sympathies, thanks and good wishes to Toshi’s family. Adi felt awful: the terrible conclusion to their meeting felt like an emotional waste of the entire trip.
The train was to reach Calcutta the next morning. None of them had slept well the previous night. Within a few minutes of the train moving, they began to doze off. Adi climbed into the top bunk and lay down. In addition to relaxing, he needed the privacy to go through the paper he had picked out of the wastebasket.
He pulled it out carefully and pored over it. It consisted of three pages, now crumpled and crinkled with a million creases. The sheets were torn from the government guesthou
se register that contained records of all those who had stayed there over the last few days. The top of each page read ‘Nagaland State Govt. Guest House No. 6. Mokukchung, Nagaland’. The pages were numbered. Adi looked at the entries. At the bottom of page number 66 was written ‘Lotha Guest’. The date of entry corresponded to the day they had arrived, and there had been no time or need to fill out the date of exit. The number of guests was listed as six. On the next page where the same columns continued, the solitary entry under ‘name’ had been scratched out. It listed the number of guests as two. However, clearly written in the adjoining column, in the same line as the name that had been scratched out roughly, was the license plate number of a car. Adi remembered it belonging to the official-looking car he had seen parked in the driveway that evening.
There were no other entries.
Adi was puzzled. It was obvious that Toshi’s uncle hadn’t wanted to leave any proof of their stay. But why had he also tried to erase the record of the other person who had come in the official-looking car?
Sam and Jagdeep had fallen asleep. Harsha and Rajeev sat next to each other, deep in conversation. Adi strained his ears to catch their words.
‘But we didn’t…’
‘Just keep quiet, man…’
Harsha buried his face in his hands and looked like he was about to cry. Rajeev looked up to check on the others. Adi quickly shut his eyes, pretending to be fast asleep.
Rajeev put his arm on Harsha’s shoulder and said softly, ‘Look, we can talk about this later… Here these guys might wake up.’
Adi was stunned. He started thinking hard and fast.
Were Harsha and Rajeev involved in a murder? Who had they killed? Had they killed the other guest in the bungalow? Maybe, sometime that night they had had a fight over the young girl, and, being two against one, had killed him accidentally? Maybe that was why they had tried to scratch out the name of the person who had stayed in the bungalow that night. That had to be it! No wonder Toshi’s uncle wanted them to disappear fast.
Adi’s heart began to race as he wondered about the identity of the person they had killed. He had to be a dignitary…they are the only ones who travel in government cars with wailing siren lights on top. Adi remembered the police car shrieking its way up the hill towards the bungalow. He remembered the fear on Toshi’s uncle’s face as they raced away. And he remembered the hate on the cook’s face as he watched them leave in a hurry.
Adi was suddenly seized with panic when he realized he was carrying an incriminating document. His pocket felt barbed as he tossed and turned, trying to get the morbid thoughts out of his head. His heart had travelled into his mouth and soon he was drenched in cold sweat. He loosened his collar, finding it hard to breathe without running his fingers around it again and again. He felt the urgent need to burn the pages, maybe even bury the ashes. He kept looking down the aisle, anticipating a posse of policemen charging down any moment, searching for them.
The train began to slow down as it approached New Cooch Behar station. Adi waited for it to come to a complete stop before climbing down from the top bunk warily. Despite his fears about showing his face in public, he couldn’t stand the suspense of not knowing the victim’s identity. A dignitary’s death, he reasoned, would certainly be in the newspapers by then, twenty-four hours after the event had taken place. Adi decided to get a newspaper from the platform. Fighting his fear, Adi bought three English news dailies, half-expecting to see their photographs displayed prominently as runaway fugitives.
The Telegraph, The Statesman and The Assam Tribune didn’t mention any sensational deaths in Nagaland. Adi combed through all the pages of the three dailies very carefully. Nothing caught his eye. He checked the dates again and again to confirm that they were the latest editions. There was no mention of anything that could be remotely tied to the events of that night. Although it didn’t make sense that the death of a dignitary should go unreported, Adi found it easier to breathe again.
On an impulse, he picked up a copy of the North-East Dainik. This was a daily publication with a wide readership in the North-East, purely for the sensational stories it published. Elite society called its articles ‘yellow journalism’ while lapping up the gossip in the privacy of their bathrooms. However, a bold young man by the name of Arun Gogoi had recently bought the newspaper. Mr Gogoi, having inherited a publishing house from his ancestors, had decided to infuse some measure of respectability into the newspaper. Trained in journalism abroad, he worshipped freedom of speech. His newspaper had turned viciously anti-establishment and courageously adamant in its fight for freedom of expression.
On the pages of its afternoon edition was the story where Adi read with horror, the explanation of the night’s events.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was early morning when they reached Calcutta. They had twelve hours to kill before boarding their next train to Bombay. They walked into the station’s waiting room, finding it surprisingly empty for a station this size. They sat in the room silently unsure of how to spend the hours that remained. They interacted minimally, finding it easy to maintain their distance by pretending to be involved in the sights and sounds around them. Rajeev and Harsha maintained a distinct segregation, with Rajeev keeping a constant vigil over the more emotionally distraught Harsha. Adi wished somebody would start a conversation about some mutually neutral topic.
Almost as if reading his mind, Sam said, ‘Pheru should be in college by now, right? I hope he’ll pass his exam this time.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Adi, ‘he has a good chance if he just shows up…he was studying hard before Toshi died.’
‘Yeah, and the examiners will be more sympathetic to him now that he’s become a mini celebrity,’ said Sam, smiling. Then, turning towards Adi, he said, ‘You remember that day, Adi, before Toshi’s Anatomy exam…we had taken him to the hospital and you taught Toshi through the night?’
Adi smiled. ‘I was sure I was going to fail,’ he said.
‘Toshi asked me to pray to the Virgin Mary when I met him that morning,’ said Sam. ‘Not for him, but for you, Adi.’
Adi smiled. ‘I suppose the prayer worked. Not only did I pass, I even got a D.’
They fell silent, reminiscing quietly. Then Sam said, ‘I think that’s why Toshi and I were close…as another Christian, he felt close to me. Toshi and I could sort of identify…’
‘Because he was Christian?’ asked Rajeev with annoyance, cutting Sam off. It was the first time he had spoken in a long while. His sudden participation after the prolonged silence startled everyone.
Sam shrugged uncertainly.
‘What do you mean, Sam?’ said Rajeev. ‘We couldn’t identify with him because we aren’t Christian…or you can’t identify with me because I’m Hindu? What is it?’
Sam looked edgy. ‘It’s nothing man…nothing…just forget it!’
‘No,’ said Rajeev. ‘I won’t forget it. I heard you. What do you mean he was close to you because he was Christian?’
‘Look, Rajeev… I… I just thought so…it may not be true!’
‘But if you say so, you must feel it!’
Sam’s eyes narrowed with irritation. ‘What is your problem, man?’ he said. ‘I said forget it… I take it back, okay?’
‘Take it back? Take what back, Sam…that Toshi couldn’t come close to us because I am a Hindu and Pheru is a Muslim…or that you are the only one who knew him because you are a Christian? What are you taking back?’
Sam didn’t reply.
‘What are you taking back, Sam?’ repeated Rajeev with irritation. ‘What can you take back…if you say something like that, you must mean it! Toshi and you were special friends because you were Christian…and Toshi was just pretending to be friends with us. Do you know how insulting that is to the rest of us?’
Sam remained silent.
‘Don’t make an issue out of a non-issue, Sam,’ continued Rajeev, finding vindication in Sam’s silence. ‘You insult Toshi when you say something like
that. Saala, you guys always do this…blame everything on being a minority in India. Don’t indulge in minority-ism and blame every little problem you have on being a minority in India!’
Sam suddenly snorted with anger. ‘Minorityism? Is that what you call it, Rajeev?’ he shouted. ‘Hmm, let’s see… Do you know why I lost the first election for the Class Representative’s post? Huh? Do you…? I lost it because Manish and his gang spread the word about how I wasn’t a true Maharashtrian. I was born and brought up in Pune. I learnt Marathi in school and can speak and write better Marathi than all of you. I burst crackers with the friends in my neighbourhood during Diwali, and they’d come over to our house to have cake at Easter. And yet, when the time comes to choose, I am not Maharashtrian?’
Adi had never seen Sam so upset. He had never known Sam could be so upset. He was shaking with indignation.
Sam continued, ‘The worst part of it was that Manish’s ploy worked. I couldn’t believe that educated people, on their way to become doctors some day, would vote with such narrow minds and believe I’m not Maharashtrian because I’m not Hindu. And I’m narrow-minded? That day, I lost faith in people’s judgment. And do you know who understood? Toshi. Do you know why? Because he could feel my hurt! Not the hurt of losing the election, but the hurt of being different…of not being accepted…of not being “one-of-us”!’
Sam’s face was full of anguish. ‘What do I have to do to be accepted, huh Rajeev? Why should I have to do anything to be accepted? What do you know about being different? You said it yourself: “you guys always do this”! You guys…you guys, Rajeev? How much do I have to demean myself, how much more fun do I have to make of my size, my stupidity, my teeth before you are willing to accept me as one of you guys? So, don’t tell me it’s not important that he and I were Christian, Rajeev. It was important because we were different from the rest of the crowd…and different in the same way. We could have been Buddhists or Nudists or Parsis, but our difference was our similarity – we both felt we didn’t belong! Minority-ism, my ass!’