by Nisha Singh
‘The next thing he found himself doing was to dive into the depths of this ancient maze of lyricism, exploring its depths and finding out what treasure they hid at the bottom. He was ready to perish in the process but not at all willing to give up. He must have referenced these lines with all our religious and literary books. He must have tried to understand the import of these poems by diving into ancient historical texts but as time and his energy passed, he must have soon realized that history was mostly mum about it and so he looked to the only greatest resource left to him now, the present, reality.’
‘But mum about what?’ I asked. ‘What is this “it” you talk about?’
‘It, Sutte, is the understanding of the true divine creation of God and not just some esoteric lines that man once wrote in a wild hope to find God by sometimes being one. A creation that, according to the Pundit, must have baffled history too but the historical sources were mostly silent and uncooperative. For them, it was a mere sensual entity meant to grace the eyes of beholders, inspiring the creation of ‘Kamasutra’ and firing the beauty of caves like Khujarao and Ajanta. “It” as inferred by the highly logical mind of the Pundit, was our fairer, gentler but more sophisticated counterpart. “It” was a woman.’
‘These poems,’ I said, grudgingly, ‘were a means to understand women and so he twisted reality to fit the lyrics so that he would reach the answer or “treasure-trove of knowledge.” Is that what you mean? Is this the reason why a woman like Savita lost her life?’
‘I am afraid, yes.’ replied my friend with a deep sigh.
‘And how was this knowledge going to be crucial in giving him money and fame?’ I asked bitterly.
‘By the method as old as again, time.’ replied my friend grimly. ‘Commercialization.’
‘Commercialization? What do you mean by that?’
‘Just get into the shoes of the Pundit and think.’ said my friend. ‘When our caste system first evolved, was it not to establish the business of the Brahman clan and further their interests? Before, they were just an assortment of people who sang the Vedic hymns in a hope of finding and appeasing God in the abundant of nature around him. They just derived satisfaction, a sense of great honor and also simultaneously earned the favor of their clan leaders by legitimizing their rule. But soon, the visionaries among them began to realize the immense potential of their divine work and also that if they had to extract the maximum out of this, they were to turn their informal occupation into a profession which resulted into the commercialization of their skill; the result of which we see even in modern day India. The Brahmans make their pot of gold performing marriages, Kathas and Pujas that our traditional country generously provides. The motivation of Parichay Mishra came from the realization of the very fact and the poems that he had discovered gave him an idea that would one day make him more successful than his caste had ever been.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean to say that he wanted to write history, as I said before, all over again. As his forefathers had used their talent in chanting the hymns from the Vedas, turning it into a highly lucrative business, he too, wanted to use his talent in understanding women, derived in part from working the riddle-poems; his personal Vedas, to jumpstart a business where he alone stood to profit.’
‘And how did he do that?’ I asked, growing skeptical.
‘He was in the process of setting up a business where he would sell women’s merchandise. It is common knowledge that women are greater consumers than men and they love to shop. The Pundit was setting up a company which made women-products; be it shampoos, cosmetics, clothes, perfumes, accessories, jewelry and other items that they use and cherish. He was going to employ some sort of a logo for his company which would reek of feminist power. In that way, he would soon make a brand name for his company that was synonymous with the new identity of a modern woman. Women are more emotional, Sutte, and such kind of stunt was sure to win their favor and heart, especially when it was coming from a man who was such a proponent of feminism and had a reputation of furthering their causes. That’s why his discourses were so aggressively focused on pleasing women and his news letter, as you might recall, was called ‘Shakti’. You see what his master plan was, don’t you? That’s the reason why every woman was a fascinating study for him. As this study would further his ambition of earning money and fame.’
‘He would still make money if he did not manipulate his victims. I still don’t see how that gave him an edge.’
‘In his mind, it did, which is all that matters.’ he said. ‘What you or I think is irrelevant. I knew you would have this question and that’s why I had to explain his progra…I mean Psychology to you in detail, along with his Brahman roots and his awareness of his own history.’
‘In a perverse way, it makes sense.’ I said. ‘But how did you know that he was starting such a company?’
‘I did my stealthy investigations, Sutte.’ he replied. ‘I knew that the right hand man of the Pundit, who was always hovering around him, knew something or the other. I could see how he trusted him and hence I knew that if there was anyone who was in on his planning, it should be him. I tagged him everywhere he went and soon noticed that there were two folders, one red and the other blue which he always carried in his hand. I waited for an opportunity when he would be careless enough to leave them somewhere unattended. One good day, I got what I needed as the man, attending to a V.I.P who had given a surprise-visit to the temple, carelessly left the two files on one of the few chairs kept in the courtyard. I quickly stole a look at them when he was busy regaling the guest and along with the schedules of his boss’s discourses, Pujas and V.I.P meetings, I came across the name, ‘Virangana’ (India’s brave daughter) with the V done with an artistic flourish. Below the name was a plan which detailed the various sources from where capital was to be arranged. Also, pasted on every page was the colorful catalogue of designs for a series of elegant wristwatches and rings, perfumes, candles etc. At first, I was confused but late at night when I added everything that had happened before, it became as clear as a picture to me what the shrewd man was up to. They have accumulated quite the capital from a long line of politicians and contractors who make up the man’s solid fan base, majority of them being women. The work, I think, has already begun. The ball of his grand ambitions was set into motion before he just disappeared.’
‘He could have made business rivals.’ I ventured. ‘Maybe they…’
‘Conjectures, pure conjectures.’ he said. ‘We cannot say anything for sure.’
‘What a waste.’ I said with a painful sigh. ‘All of this madness had to cost the life of such a wonderful woman.’
He was silent but looked at me with great concern.
‘B’ I said after getting a grip over my emotions. ‘There is still one important question to settle; the question that led to the unraveling of the mystery. What did you see in your cell-phone that so convinced you that Neelu was the one who…you know…’ I trailed off in pain.
‘On one of my visits to Manjunath’s house, I noticed a small rubber ball.’
‘And?’ I said, irritated. ‘Manjunath has a son. It must be his toy. What has that got to do with the murder? Now, don’t play with my patience.’
‘I was coming to that, Sutte.’ replied my friend with a smile. ‘It was a rubber ball, true, but a very curious one. Its condition was wretched and looked as if it had been picked up from the road. Why, pray, the son of a well-to-do man like Manjunath Gupta would play with such a dirty, little thing? The young boy would have complained and gotten himself a new one long before it received the faintest shadow of a smear. Still, the ball was lying before a closed cabinet and looked quite at odds with the otherwise handsomely furnished room. At that time, I did not pay much attention to this peculiarity but I filed it into my memory as I always do with things that I see around me which don’t add up. This reflexive habit of mine paid off. I
just remembered while watching the pictures of Savita’s body sent by the medical examiner that I had seen many such disused balls lying around a garbage pile dumped a few meters away from the crime-site. They were scattered about carelessly and my conscious memory did not register it properly. At that moment when I sat there scrutinizing the pictures, the image of the dump came to me as clearly as if I had seen it with my own eyes. I remembered the rubber balls and reasoned how one of them must have rolled towards Neelu when she was rounding her prey to inflict the ultimate wound. The surface of the ball was sticky and hence it stuck to Neelu’s feet and got dragged to her house. I am sure that the low cabinet outside which the humble ball was loitering must be for holding slippers and when Neelu replaced her foot wear and closed the door, it must have come unstuck. The little ball that Neelu had missed followed her to her house, telling a tale of tragedy to anyone who was willing to listen.’
‘So…so you looking at the pictures….it was…it was just a coincidence?’
‘Yes. I don’t know how it happened but at that very moment I could clearly hear the story the ball was trying to tell. It wasn’t proof enough to convict but I knew that Neelu would confess as soon as we talked to her. Criminals of passion easily buckle under an interrogation as after the black moment of heat passes, they are either remorseful or hopeless and confession helps in easing their troubled conscience.’
‘You never fail to surprise me, B.’ I said ‘I remember covering my nose at the horrible stench but I could not, for the life of me, spot even a scrape of anything rotting anywhere. You, on the other hand, were unaffected by the smell but managed to not only observe the garbage but the small rubber balls too.’
‘I notice everything around me, Sutte.’ he said with a smile. ‘And let me tell you, it is mostly in these little details where lies the biggest of mysteries.’
‘Point noted, sir.’ I said, ‘But I have a couple questions more.’
‘The investigation is complete.’ he replied. ‘You can ask any number of questions now.’
‘When did you first know that Chiranjeev, Premkala and Manjunath had no hand in the murder?’
‘During my investigation, Chiranjeev and Premkala never deviated once from their programming and hence I had no reason to suspect them. Also, all three aced their alibi test too. Manjunath surprised me once but he was only giving me fodder to chew and not behaving in anyway that wasn’t consistent with his…’
‘Programming.’ I completed for him. ‘I see that you are using the term quite unabashedly now.’
‘Well, I could have used “Psychology” but it feels so wrong! They have made the word sound as if we are moving into the world of blurry images, indistinct landscapes, hocus-pocus and a lot of mumbo-jumbo that has neither head nor tail. The world of Psychology has evolved more as a science equivalent to tantra-mantra and I hate to acknowledge what they have done to it. I will stick to programming from now on.’
‘As you wish.’ I said, moving on to my next question. ‘Also, what did you see when you looked at the pictures of Prem Malik, the ones he showed you on his cell-phone?’
‘But it was obvious, wasn’t it?’ he said ‘Anyone could have seen that there was no harmony between them because one was smitten by the other in the most shallow sense of the word and the other was just using him subconsciously to right her wrong.’
‘I thought they looked like a happy family!’
‘Really?’ he said, amused. ‘Your feelings for Savita allowed you to see it that way?’
I positively blanched with embarrassment. ‘One last question.’ I said, trying to change the subject ASAP. ‘Do you have any idea what happened to the Pundit?’
He looked at me and frowned. ‘I don’t know, Sutte.’ he said, defeated. ‘And something tells me that I don’t want to know.’
‘What will happen to Neelu now?’
He did not reply to my question for a while and sat staring gloomily before him. At last he said this one cryptic line that, for the very first time, I thought I understood. ‘I just hope she returns, Sutte.’ he said slowly. ‘I just hope she returns.’
AN EPILOGUE
‘Where? Where am I?’ he asked, straining to look through the blind fold. ‘Please…please…I want to see…I want to see…’
Slowly, he could feel the blindfold being lifted by a rough hand as he squinted his eyes in the glare of the bright light and rapidly blinked to focus the blurry image. It was a magnificent office-room and he was sitting on a very comfortable sofa-chair kept opposite a beautiful mahogany table. An old man sat before him, serenely turning the pages of a file kept before him.
‘Welcome sir.’ he said, as he noticed that Parichay Mishra was looking at him with deep fear and great confusion. ‘I hope my men took good care of you. I apologize that you had to suffer the handicap of blindness. I am afraid that it was a necessary precaution and could not be avoided. Now, what will you have? Tea? Cakes? Cold drinks? Beer? Just tell me and I will get them for you.’
‘N…nothing.’ he said, fear making speech painful and difficult. ‘W…water, please.’
He smiled at him paternally and then hit the button on his table. ‘Water and some good Italian biscuits, please.’
He folded his hands on the table and looked at the trembling Pundit with great interest. ‘I am very glad to meet you sir, very glad indeed. I must say, I have learnt a great many things from you.’
‘From…from me?’ he stammered.
‘Who else?’ he said with a smile which did not reach his eyes. ‘I think you have met Bhrigu Mahesh, right?’
‘Wh…who?’ he said but then dully remembered a man as if from another life. ‘Y…yes.’
‘That’s good.’ he said, continuing to smile. ‘How did you find him? You are a great judge of character as I have witnessed. Tell me, how did you find Mr. Mahesh? Genius? Eccentric? Compelling? What?’
‘H…he was…he was…’
‘What? Intriguing?’
Parichay Mishra looked at him, shocked. How could he guess what was just forming on his lips? The knot of fear tightened in his stomach.
‘Y…yes.’ he stammered.
‘Intriguing.’ said the man slowly, forming each syllable with relish. ‘Is it not the grand mixture of all?’
‘W…what do you want from me?’ asked the frightened man, held captive under the penetrating gaze of the old man who seemed to look straight into his soul and twist it into a thousand uncomfortable knots.
‘I don’t want anything from you, Mr. Mishra. God has been kind enough to provide me with more than my humble needs.’ he said as his eyes grew darker. ‘I want to give you something instead.’