Bhrigu Mahesh, Phd

by Nisha Singh

  No one was standing there to welcome us and the platform did not look the very picture and life and energy that it had done the last time we had stepped foot here. I could still spot people; devotees, moving about in those yellow imitation robes of Parichay Mishra but they did not look happy and peaceful to me anymore. I thought that they all moved about sulkily, sharing a certain percentage of my own gloom. It’s curious, the way your mood reflects the way you perceive things around you. A happy man is always living in a happy world and a sad man often laments what a cruel world it is. We took a tempo and found, to my surprise, that the driver was not a chatty fellow like the one before but a very quiet, morose looking man, who once again reinforced our very own condition. He did not seem to notice anything around him but the road and the money he would get on reaching his destination.

  We stopped before the huge gate and alighted with heavy hearts. I observed that the Gold Mohurs had lost their charm and looked like a thick curtain of yellow menace that obscured the roads and made navigation difficult. As one fell over my head from an overhanging branch, I removed it savagely and squashed it under my foot like the fangs of a snake.

  The gate was open and we observed that a small trickle of men and women were making their way into the house. The women went in small clumps, talking to each other in an animated voice and the men arrived alone. The wives preferred each other’s company to that of their husbands because at such a time, they could easily share their scandalous opinions with someone on the same wavelength as them, I observed dryly.

  As we made our way, we passed the familiar landmarks; the garden, the dry fountain and…and the shed where Savita used to teach. A motley crowd of young kids, possibly her students, had collected at the entrance and I saw them nudging each other as if daring for an unimaginable feat of bravery. Finally, a small, squeaky little fella parted the dusty curtain and peered within. The other children packed tightly around him and then with the hesitating leader at their head, they went inside like a tight group of bees.

  ‘They are missing their lovely teacher.’ I remarked, gloomily.

  ‘Or…’ began my friend but stopped midway. I did not know why he had stopped but for once I could not find it inside me to raise a question.

  As we came upon the old house, I observed that the compound had been thoroughly cleaned and preparations were underway for a funeral, quite unlike anything I had ever seen in my life.

  The compound of the house had been exploited for the purposes of a Katha. A man shouted instructions as five laborers labored under the sun to build a platform where the Puja was to be conducted. Judging by the area that the rapidly forming skeleton of the platform covered, one could easily guess the scale at which the last rites where to be performed. At a corner were kept several straw baskets full of fruits, especially coconuts and bananas to be used as Prasad. A powerful smell of incense pervaded the air and a dirty, green generator hummed at another corner, lighting up many light bulbs, fixed at the last moment to dispel any darkness that may try to creep in. Although the light was dull as the day was clear and bright, I knew that they would prove their worth once the night set in. Several mattresses were laid around the pandal and a couple of women were busy covering them with white bed sheets. The attendees were to sit there and although it was quite early, many, chiefly women, had already claimed the best seats, chatting endlessly, as their children ran amok; shouting, chasing each other and being the general menace that they are. In all that confusion, as we searched for our host, the booming voice of a Pundit sounded directly above my head. The speaker announced in a voice cracking from the strain he put on his overused vocal cords- ‘We will begin the Puja once the pandal is set up. Bhaktjan (devotees) would kindly stop talking after that.’

  I looked up and observed a loudspeaker tied to a pole over my head, vibrating to the voice of the speaker whom I could not locate anywhere on the premises. He requested the devotees to cease their talk but I could not for the life of me, imagine how they were going to listen to their own voice over the din his produced. The voice would sometimes disconnect and we would be subjugated to the piercing white noise of an unwanted frequency that hurt my ear drums. After a moment, the voice stabilized and afforded some relief to the listeners; not that anyone except me seemed to mind it in the least. I was surprised to think that if I had not known before of the tragedy, I could have easily mistaken the atmosphere to be that of jubilation rather than grief.

  Bhrigu was observing the scene just as I was but he did not seem to make a note of anything that was happening before him. His eyes were darting in every direction, trying to locate Nataraj Bhakti, and of that I was quite sure.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Inside, may be.’ I said, as a mischievous boy ran past me, shouting incoherently and had I not dodged him, he would have bumped into me quite successfully.

  ‘Let’s go then.’ he said and ignoring everything and everyone he made straight to the door. As we were about to step in, someone called us from somewhere behind us. ‘Sir, Bhrigu sir!’ We spun around involuntarily and observed the clerk almost running towards us.

  ‘When…when did you arrive?’ he asked, panting heavily.

  ‘Just now.’ I replied. ‘Where had you gone?’

  ‘Manjunath’s house.’ he said, pulling aside to let a man pass who had on his head a basket full of coconuts. ‘He was supposed to be here at 10 but when it was half past eleven and he had not come, I thought I would drop in on him and see what he was doing.’

  ‘Right.’ I said.

  ‘His presence gives me strength.’ he replied as his voice grew heavy with grief. ‘I just want him around me.’

  ‘I can very well understand that, Bhakti ji.’ I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘You must be going through a lot of pain.’

  ‘No one can imagine how much.’ he replied dully.

  ‘I am very sorry that you had to suffer such a terrible loss.’ my friend said in a gentle, soothing voice. ‘But I have a few questions to ask about Savita’s death.’

  ‘I will tell everything, sir.’ he said. ‘The first thing that I could think of after coming to my senses and when some of the shock had mitigated was to call you. Sir, you should not have gone in the first place. I knew in my heart that if you were around, nothing bad could befall me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Bhaktiji, that I had to leave.’ my friend said gently. ‘But I had no reason to suppose that something so tragic was around the corner. Had I sensed it in any way…’ He faltered off and I could detect in his voice the guilt he was putting himself through and blaming this tragedy, in part, to his own negligence.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself…’ I began but Bhakti interjected. ‘No…No sir! I was not blaming you. I was just saying that I…that I…’ And then, without the slightest hint, he broke into sobs. Before we could do or say something, two men appeared out of nowhere and pressed his shoulders quite mechanically. ‘It’s a great loss!’ They cried in unison and without any real feeling. ‘A great loss. Oh! God can be so cruel sometimes! One can never recover from such a loss.’ I did not know what kind of a commiseration it was that aggravated the pain more than alleviating it, but I kept quiet till the show was over when Bhakti recovered a grip on himself and the men disappeared from wherever they had come.

  ‘Let’s talk inside.’ he said. ‘These people won’t leave me alone.’ he then shouted, ‘Kayub! Kayub! A half naked man as black as charcoal and wearing nothing but a dhoti came dragging his feet. ‘Call me when they put the pandal up.’

  The man nodded dully and left dragging his feet to fulfill the command of his master, as we made our way into the old house once again.

  CHAPTER 25

  A Resolution

  ‘I know Savita made some unfortunate decisions.’ said Nataraj Bhakti. ‘And her free spirit was partly to blame for it but…but sir, she could never as much as hurt an insect. My sist
er had a few faults like any other person but it did not in anyway include a sin. She never harbored a mean feeling towards any one; not even the likes of Chiranjeev and his wife. She was incapable of hate, sir. Who could then hate her so much so that they…that they…’ he swallowed painfully.

  We were sitting in Bhakti’s room. To reach there, we had to politely dodge the guests, loitering in the courtyard, searching for someone of the bereaved family to latch on to. One woman, despite our protests, started tailing us, looking sick with a thousand questions stuffed down her throat. I knew that the slightest encouragement would have been enough for her to relieve herself of her pain. We almost had to shove her in order for her to get the message clearly. There is one among the many human weakness that the city dwellers and the villagers have in common and that is curiosity. While the former use subtlety to satisfy theirs, the latter is usually quite blunt in getting what they want. I don’t know which one of these methods is more efficient but I can say without a doubt that both are equally unpleasant and no one wants to be at the receiving end of such a pesky inquisition. As far as I am concerned, the government should make a law declaring all questions meant to invade the personal space of a person, illegal. Anyone found involved in such as act, either aggressively or passively should be ready to suffer the consequences.

  ‘…and that is what we have to find out.’ Bhrigu was saying as my mind came back to the present.

  ‘Find out what?’ I asked.

  ‘The reason for such hatred.’ he said, slightly annoyed at my loss of attention.

  ‘Bhaktiji’ he continued. ‘Please tell me from the beginning everything you know. How did this tragedy unfold?’

  ‘I…I don’t know much myself.’ he said, looking at my friend with tired, swollen eyes. ‘Her routine was fixed. Everyday she would wake up at 6 or 6.30 and then after getting ready, she would make lunch for us all.’

  ‘Lunch?’ I asked. ‘But we make breakfast in the morning.’

  ‘This is a village, sir.’ he replied. ‘Here we don’t have the English system for meals. The lunch is prepared in the morning and is taken as early as eleven. Hence, it’s quite heavy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Premkala sleeps very late. She is not up until 9 and hence Savita, instead of waiting, makes the lunch for everyone.’ He then flinched with pain as he remembered that his sister was no more. ‘I mean, used to make lunch for everyone.’ he said as if those words were strangling him.

  We offered him a glass of water which he drank thankfully. ‘She had to go to teach two students at their house and hence she set out early. Anyways, Premkala, the way that she is, compensates for the lunch by making dinner. But I think it is more for stealing and eating food than any real attempt at being fair. Well, let’s not talk about them.’ He paused for a breath. ‘One week ago, on the fateful day, Savita kept the same routine as she had been following every day. Nothing unusual. She woke up at 6, washed and dressed, made lunch and then made out for her private tuitions. The children she goes to teach belong to the most respected families of the village. One is the grandson of a retired army general, V.K Malik, who lives in his native house with ten year old Pranjal. Pranjal’s father was a major in the army and achieved martyrdom while tackling an insurgency problem in Myanmar. His mother, shattered by the loss, committed suicide. The poor boy now lives with his grand father. The man was a true admirer of Savita. He would oftentimes praise her when we would meet at the market. To quote him- “You should be so proud to have such a sister. Savita is such a bright and talented woman and such good with kids too! I would have been forced to send Pranjal to his maternal grandparents in the city for his education but thanks to Savita and her classes, he can now stay with me a little longer.” How proud I would feel then!’

  ‘And still you kept her at a distance.’ I said, sarcastically.

  ‘I kept her at a distance?’ he cried, suddenly overcome with rage. ‘No sir, you have got it all wrong. It was she who went cold. I always loved her the most, more than my own family.’ Tears were now coursing down his cheeks. ‘I even fought with my best friend, Manju, and swore never to see him again when it came to her. I was ready to do anything for her. I even begged my parents to attend her wedding but…but she just went cold. She would never come to the village and when she did, she rarely spoke to me.’

  ‘And you? You could have said something.’ I said, fighting back.

  ‘I…I thought she wanted her space and I gave her one. I thought…I thought she would come to me when she was fine again, but…but that day never did come.’

  ‘If only your thoughts had led you to some action.’ Bhrigu began. ‘A woman might have…’

  ‘What…what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Let it go, Bhaktiji.’ he replied. ‘Nothing I say now will matter anymore. Please, continue.’

  He stared at my friend in a hope to understand the meaning of what he had just said but then took a deep breath and began. ‘The other student was the grand child of our village Pradhan, Bulla Ram Prakash.’

  ‘I have seen him.’ I said. ‘I met him on the mini-bus.’

  ‘Hmmm. He must be going to meet the doctor. If he had not absconded already, that is.’

  We laughed weakly at the much needed joke.

  ‘She was through with Pranjal.’ Bhakti said, a little better in spirits. ‘And was making her way to the Pradhan’s house. The area is not very populated and save for a couple of cow sheds scattered here and there, you won’t find anything much; just a narrow, broken road and dirt paths. It takes about twenty minutes to reach the Pradhan’s house from V.K Malik’s. She was found on the last stretch of the dirt road that leads to the house, lying in the pool of her own blood.’

  ‘Oh!’ I almost cried with the unbearable pain.

  ‘Yes.’ Bhakti said, as horror read clearly in his eyes. ‘Someone…someone had stoned her! Crushed her head into pulp!’

  A frigid silence followed this chilling statement. I could hear the muffled hum of the crowd outside but that did nothing to relieve the deadening quiet that we shared inside that small room.

  ‘That is horrible!’ I cried, as my mind finally processed what it had just heard. ‘Who could do such a thing? Who could even think of hurting a woman as good as her?’

  ‘Did you send the body for a post-mortem?’ Bhrigu asked. He was looking at Bhakti with bright, penetrating eyes, as if trying to force the answers out of the man with a look alone.

  ‘Yes.’ he replied. ‘Someone must have told the police even before I had any chance to do so. A small crowd had already collected around Savita’s body when I received the terrible news and came running there. Almost half an hour after my arrival the police came and took the body for post-mortem. The results were in yesterday.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know about the medical jargon but the result in simple English was that she died by sustaining massive brain injuries and blood loss. Her body sported many other bruises too; inflicted by stones but the ones to her head caused her death.’

  ‘So the police must be investigating the case.’ said my friend making a wry face. His days as an inspector had left a bad taste in his mouth for police detectives. According to him, they were either too rough or too dull while on the job and either peccadillo did nothing to head an investigation in the correct direction.

  ‘Yes, sir. But of course.’ replied Bhakti. ‘Two police officers were here a day before yesterday. They asked us a lot of questions. I thought they were quite convinced that one among the three of us was the culprit. Why? They questioned Jeetu, Savita’s son as if he could be an accessory to her own mother’s death! I was so numb with grief that they could hardly affect me but now that I recollect it, they were here for more than a couple of hours and ordered us to be ready to be summoned to the police station any moment. Oh!’ he cried, suddenly. ‘No one will even let me grieve in peace!’ />
  ‘That’s standard investigation protocol, Bhaktiji.’ replied Bhrigu. ‘They will put you through this even if you like it or not.’

  A deep sigh of defeat greeted this less than comforting information.

  ‘Nonetheless, they must have collected much circumstantial information or clues; if they did it half as well as I think.’ he said as if he was being more than hopeful. ‘I regret that I was not here to examine the crime scene. That’s one major drawback of going freelance. One never gets the crucial data that is to be collected first hand from the crime scene. You have to make do with whatever they give you; if they give you any, that is. I wonder how long I will have to be at their mercy. Leaving my job was only the half of it.’ he then checked his wondering thoughts to concentrate on the matter at hand. ‘I will have to meet the officers assigned on the case. I don’t see anyway around it.’

  ‘You will work with them just fine.’ I said, trying in vain to lighten his mood. ‘Not all police detectives are the same. You weren’t’

  ‘I…I should have tried to talk to her…’ Nataraj Bhakti broke down again. He was shaking all over with some invisible force of panic and guilt that now possessed him. ‘Told her that despite everything I still cared for her but how can I now? She died thinking that I was her enemy; that I never thought of her like my own sister! This guilt will haunt me for the rest of my life.’

  ‘What’s done is done’ said my friend. ‘There is still a chance for you to do her good.’

  ‘H…how?’

  ‘By looking after the one thing she loved the most. Her son.’ he replied. ‘He has lost both her father and mother. You can give him their love. Raise him to be an asset to this society. That will be a debt paid. Savita is dead, yes, but she still lives on in her son, isn’t it?’