Bhrigu Mahesh, Phd

by Nisha Singh

  ‘The perfume on the handkerchief, is it not, sir?’ The inspector said with an enigmatic smile.

  ‘What perfume?’ I asked, baffled.

  ‘The handkerchief belonged to the victim, alright.’ said Inspector Chandu Srivastava.

  ‘But the perfume on it did not.’ Bhrigu completed the sentence for him.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Can’t you understand for yourself?’ Chandu Srivastava took the opportunity to return me the favor. ‘It was a man’s perfume.’

  ‘Man’s perfume?’ I said, a tad surprised. ‘Savita sure had peculiar tastes.’

  Bhrigu did not say anything but the inspector chimed in ‘How are you so sure that the perfume belonged to the victim? A man’s perfume belongs to a man.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said with evident heat. I did not like the way the good-for-nothing inspector was trying to assassinate the character of so pure a woman.

  ‘Are you always this thick?’ jeered the insufferable man. ‘The woman must have a lover and the perfume must belong to him.’

  ‘Let’s not jump to ill founded conclusions, inspector.’ said Bhrigu. ‘You can assert anything with confidence only after you can back it up with solid proof.’

  ‘Of course, sir, but let me assure you, my assumptions almost always hits bull’s eye. Why? My cousin had a lover who was in the merchant navy. He used to come home every six months. She missed him so sorely during that period that she would soak her clothes in his favorite perfume which made her feel that he was always there with her.’ He then leaned across the desk and said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘These women folk are absurdly romantic during the initial stages of attraction. They will indulge their fancies in several inane ways but once they are sure that the man they love is securely in their grip, they quickly get over that stage and change into slave drivers; stopping at nothing in making him miserable. Maybe this woman was in the later stage of romance and was quickly transitioning into a slave driver. The man, in his desperation, killed her to save his precious freedom.’

  ‘Your knowledge of the fairer sex is profound.’ Bhrigu said, eyeing the man with an amused expression.

  ‘I have been married fifteen years, sir, what do you expect?’

  Bhrigu laughed heartily and I weakly joined the merriment.

  ‘Not all women are the same, inspector.’ I said with a weak, pained smile. ‘Savita was a woman of substance. If only had you met her before, you wouldn’t be making such scandalous statements.’

  ‘When did I say that she was otherwise?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I was just commenting on the basic nature of women as far as love is concerned.’

  ‘Yours was a love marriage, inspector?’ asked Bhrigu.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ he replied shyly. ‘I still love my wife to distraction but she now takes me for granted and orders me about like a servant. There was once a time when she would sing verses of praises for me; dance at my slightest whim. But that was during the days of our courtship.’

  ‘I see.’ said my friend, looking curiously at the man. There was again that look in his eyes that said that he had heard more than what he had just heard. Abandoning his interest, he glanced at the report again. ‘The time of death is mentioned to be anywhere between 9.30 am and 10.15 in the morning. We’ll see about that.’ he said, a little skeptically. ‘The next important question to settle is the murder weapon. You said that she was pelted with stones. The report mentions that although there were many bruise marks on her body, the fatal blow was one that hit her at the base of her neck.’

  ‘Yes.’ said the inspector. ‘There were a total of seven bruises; two on her back, one on her pec…pec…’

  ‘Pectoral girdle’ I supplied.

  ‘The same.’ he replied with irritation. ‘The neck bone. Three on her forelimbs and one to her head.’

  My friend sat there processing all this information. ‘The bruises, were they of the same intensity?’

  ‘I…I don’t know about that.’ said the inspector, glancing at the report. ‘Nothing of the sort is mentioned here. But why is this question important?’

  ‘Never mind that. Tell me, where did you find the stones that were used to inflict the injuries? And why is there no mention of the murder weapon in the report?’

  The inspector sat motionless for a moment as if he had been dreading this question all along. ‘Well, that’s the problem, you see.’ he replied in a small voice. ‘However hard we tried to search for the stones, we could not find any with even a little spot of blood. The stones and pebbles around the body hadn’t been touched.’

  ‘Then how can you be so sure that Savita was killed by the stones and not something that the murderer had brought along? That way he or she could have easily dispensed with it where no one would care to look.’

  ‘The bruises, sir, they corresponded to the ones inflicted by stones.’

  I could see that Bhrigu’s face showed the first signs of tension as the faint lines around his eyes became more pronounced. He sat up straighter in his chair and closed the report with evident displeasure. ‘I think its time I met the Medical Examiner.’

  ‘D…do you think that the report is wrong?’ The inspector said with alarm and embarrassment.

  ‘I don’t know anything anymore.’ said my friend with visible impatience. ‘But one thing’s for sure.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘That the detective team of Krishna Dwar has a very keen imagination.’

  CHAPTER 30

  On A Scent

  We were resting in the room that we had occupied on our last trip to Bhakti Niwas. Although it was in the same deplorable state, human occupation had made it a shade more comfortable than before. We had just finished with the evening tea and the two drained cups now sat before us on a steel tray, enjoying the company of a half empty, oil ridden plate, which, a moment before had been full of almost edible fried potatoes. They were half-cooked and there was so much salt in them that I was forced to wipe my tongue with a cloth. The woman’s calculations were always way off as far as salt was concerned and she generally ended too far from the target.

  My friend was sitting on the chair and was scribbling something in his diary that he had spread open on the table. He had to bend too low to be able to write in the diary as the moth-eaten table was at least three inches lower than the chair.

  ‘Keep it on your lap.’ I suggested. ‘That way you will be more comfortable.’

  As expected, he ignored my kind suggestion.

  ‘When will you talk to the medical examiner?’ I asked again but this time in bolder and louder a voice. ‘You said you would but you never got around to it.’

  He was quite for a minute, engrossed in his work, but the moment I was about to repeat my question, he said ‘I have talked to him.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked surprised. ‘When? What did he say?’

  He again took a moment to answer. ‘You were on a trip to the bathroom when I made the call.’

  ‘Yes? And what did he say?’

  ‘He is a stubborn man.’ he replied absent-mindedly. ‘Kept saying that he was a 100 percent sure that the bruise marks were made by stones. I have asked him to mail me the pictures of the bruises on the body.’

  ‘They have taken pictures?’

  ‘That’s standard procedure, Sutte.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ I replied. ‘Now what are you planning to do? Have you formed a plan?’

  His work was over now as he gently closed his diary and sat comfortably on the chair, crossing his legs.

  ‘Yes.’ he replied with a smile. ‘And this time, I will have an active partner too.’

  ‘An active partner?’ I exclaimed, a trifle hurt. ‘I am always active. You have no right to mock me for something I am not.’

  ‘Not you, man.’ he replied. ‘The inspector, Chandu Srivasta
va.’

  ‘Oh he?’ I said with a hint of mockery. ‘He is your partner? A man like him can only partner with money and no one else. Greedy pig.’

  ‘Now, now, Sutte, don’t judge him so harshly. I think he is an amusing man.’

  ‘Amusing? My foot!’ I cried. ‘If you had not bribed him, he would have been only too happy to close the case.’

  My friend grinned. ‘I can’t contradict you there.’

  I was silent for a space as my friend got up, went towards the window and looked out.

  ‘So, how is he going to help you?’ I asked, looking at his back.

  He took a deep lungful of air and then said. ‘He says that he will follow the report and find the person whose perfume was found on Savita’s handkerchief. He says that the scent alone will take us to the killer.’

  ‘So he is positive that the perfume belonged to Savita’s imaginary lover and that the lover is the one who killed her.’

  ‘Yes.’ he replied, still looking out. ‘He says he has a “hunch” about it and his hunches are pretty much spot on.’

  I grimaced as if I had seen a revolting sight. ‘And you are okay with this fool’s plan?’

  ‘What can I say, Sutte? I too, am curious to know about the origins of the perfume. If the inspector is helping me there, I think I have one less work to do.’

  ‘You…you too think that Savita had a lover?’ I cried. ‘I…I am quite shocked, I should say.’

  He now faced me and said grimly. ‘I don’t know that yet but one thing’s for sure. The perfume did not belong to her and hence it becomes all the more important that we find out how in the world it ended up on her handkerchief.’

  ‘But…but how can you be so sure that the perfume was not hers?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘Many women like men’s cologne.’

  ‘By simple deduction, Sutte.’ he said. ‘When we came here, we got a few occasions to talk to her. She passed by us many a time but did you ever smell any perfume on her? Tell me?’

  I searched my memory and came up with zero. ‘N…no. I think not.’

  ‘So if she does not wear perfume, why was she carrying it on her handkerchief? Surely, when one buys a perfume one wishes to use it on oneself first and then anywhere else.’

  ‘There is rotting garbage scattered about almost everywhere in this village.’ I fought on. ‘The smell can sometimes be too much to bear. She must have put the perfume so that when she was assailed by the stink, she could just put it on her nose. Simple.’

  ‘Yes, and for that the handkerchief should be in one’s hand. Ready to use. Savita’s was safely tucked away in her purse that she carried in her blouse. How would you explain that?’

  ‘I…’ I began but faltered off. He was right and I knew it.

  ‘Besides’ continued my friend. ‘That’s only one line of investigation. I have my own to work on.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I was just noting down the name of suspects in my diary that Nataraj Bhakti had supplied against their characters; the ones that I have already met, that is. We will have to go after each and every one of them.’

  ‘Starting of course with Premkala and Chiranjeev?’

  He just smiled and said nothing.

  As I got ready to probe him with further questions, there was a knock at the door. When I looked around, I saw a man’s foot sticking out the door.

  ‘Come in’ I shouted and in a moment he stood before us, looking at us with a strange mixture of suspicion, reluctance and alarm.

  ‘Chiranjeev!’ cried Bhrigu in a hearty voice that brothers reserve for each other. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.’

  CHAPTER 31

  A-libis

  1. An Evening Tea

  He sat on the stool opposite Bhrigu’s chair and looked at him like a child does a parent when he has been denied what was rightfully his.

  ‘We were just remembering you.’ said my friend with a smile. ‘I am glad to see you.’

  The man smiled weakly at him. Clearly, there was something weighing on his mind that he was struggling how to tell. He would open his mouth but words would roll on the tip of his tongue, slipping off without a sound.

  ‘Do you want to say something?’ Bhrigu prompted.

  ‘Y…yes.’ he replied, uncertainly.

  ‘Go on then.’

  He twiddled his thumbs together and stared at them for a while. ‘Premkala was saying.’ he stammered. ‘She was saying…’

  ‘Yes?’

  The man took a deep breath and then poured out the contents of his heart. ‘She was saying that you…you are the agents of Raj Bhaiya.’

  ‘Agents?’ I asked. ‘What does she mean by that?’

  As I addressed him, he got a bit bolder. ‘She said that you have come to help him get the property of Savita.’

  ‘What?’ I cried. ‘How dare she accuse us of such a thing?’

  ‘Chiranjeev ji’ my friend said in an even tone. ‘What your wife said was baseless. We have no such intentions.’

  ‘But she was quite certain that you were.’ he persisted, looking a lot confident now.

  ‘She has been mistaken.’ Bhrigu replied. ‘And Nataraj Bhakti has not received the property neither has he any intention to do so. He is the guardian of Jeetu and will take care of the property until the boy is mature enough to handle it on his own.’

  ‘Oh’ Chiranjeev said in a low voice, ‘but, sir, why do you think we are not capable of that?’

  ‘What I think is irrelevant here.’ replied my friend, now wearing an amused expression. ‘What’s important is the wish of the deceased.’

  ‘Savita?’ he cried. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It was her wish that her elder brother looks after her son if some such tragedy occurs. She had made him her son’s godfather.’

  ‘Godfather?’ Chiranjeev almost stood up in surprise. ‘That’s impossible! Savita and Raj Bhaiya had been at dagger’s end off lately.’

  ‘Your view was seriously wrong then. On the contrary, she trusted him the most.’

  Chiranjeev opened his mouth but the words rolled and slipped off yet again. He sat there looking like a person who was suffering from the worst case of flatulence.

  ‘I am sorry, Chiranjeev ji’ said my friend with a warm smile. ‘I had nothing whatsoever to do with the matter.’

  Chiranjeev sat there without replying, looking more like a hang-dog with every passing second.

  There was an awkward pause of five minutes where Chiranjeev stared blankly at his undone shoe lace; I, into the screen of my smart phone and Bhrigu kept looking steadily at Chiranjeev. In the distance, I could hear the non-stop cawing of a couple of angry crows which made me cringe with pain. Why couldn’t one find skylarks or Nightingales; of whose songs poets never stopped gushing about? Why should they be so lucky as to find themselves in the company of these beautiful birds almost anywhere they went, while we were always plagued by the dregs of the avian species? It wasn’t at all fair is all I have to say. To add to the discomfiture, a red ant was trying to sneak up my trousers which I managed to spot and squash.

  ‘Chiranjeev ji.’ my friend began. ‘When you first found out about the tragedy, you must be badly shaken up.’

  ‘Y…yes sir, of course.’ The man replied, quickly. ‘It was awful business. As soon as I heard of it, I ran to the place where the body had been found. What a horrible sight! Poor sister of mine!’

  ‘So you were there when the police arrived?’

  ‘Yes…yes sir.’ said the man with some hesitation. ‘I saw them take her away.’

  ‘I see.’ said Bhrigu. ‘Who told you about the tragedy?’

  He was quite for a few seconds and then replied uneasily. ‘Chedu, Bilawat’s son.’

  ‘Bilawat? The ration shop owner?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ he replied, l
ooking a lot uncomfortable now. He kept shifting on the stool making the poor old thing groan with the strain. ‘Bilawat had sent him home with some mustard oil. On his way, he discovered the crowd milling around the…the body. He wasted no time and ran back with the grim news. I was having a cup of tea near Bilawat’s shop. It was then that I heard it from him and went running to the spot.’

  ‘Right.’ said my friend. Before he could ask a couple more questions, his suspect had gotten to his feet.

  ‘I better be going, sir.’ he said, without meeting my friend’s eye.

  Bhrigu did not say anything but as Chiranjeev was about to make his way out, he asked all of a sudden- ‘So you enjoy your evening tea?’

  He spun around and looked at Bhrigu with a startled expression. ‘Tea? Evening?’

  ‘You just told me that you were having your tea when you heard the news. So it must be your evening tea. Right?’

  Chiranjeev stared at my friend with confusion and uncertainty dancing in his bird like eyes. ‘Yes, sir.’ he finally said. ‘I enjoy my evening tea very much so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just curious, that’s all.’ my friend said with a smile.

  2. A Moment of Confusion

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked, as soon as Chiranjeev was safely out of the room.

  My friend smiled but did not care to reply. He spread his diary on the table and began his loathsome scribbling once again. He continued with it for what felt like half an hour, leaving me ample time to reply to some of the messages sent by my relatives. Sudhanshu, the son of my youngest uncle, was coming to town and he wanted me to meet him. I tried making excuses but he would not listen. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I was about to proclaim that I was suffering from some kind of contagious disease when Bhrigu got up.

  ‘Come, Sutte, let’s go.’ he proclaimed.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Manjunath’s house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He has to be interviewed.’ he replied with annoyance. ‘Now don’t sit there staring like a dumb animal.’

  ‘Okay.’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘But do you really think Manjunath can be a suspect?’