The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  ‘Yes, sir. Very green it is, too.’

  ‘Amazing. The monkeys haven’t even bothered to put a fence or a rope.’

  ‘Plain stupid, sir. Anybody can topple over easily.’

  ‘Well not anybody, Kharbanda. Saane himself.’

  SP Kharbanda went over to the edge and had a quick look. ‘Yes sir, looks very likely. What a fall.’

  ‘Chances are he didn’t feel a thing and was probably unconscious. Look. The grass here is a bit scuffed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But what was he doing up here? Let’s check at the club if he had signed up for a game. Wednesday, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Ji, sir, the body was found Thursday morning.’

  ‘It says seventeenth hole here. The clubhouse must be nearby…’

  ‘Yes. This way, sir,’ said SP Kharbanda, walking a step behind Ajay, but without a golf bag.

  The clubhouse was impressive, if a little out of date, given that hardly anyone in Mumbai was now on familiar terms with a smoking chimney, or for that matter, heavily ivied, louvered windows.

  If all this had left SP Kharbanda a little overawed, he did a good job of hiding it upon reaching the reception area. ‘Arey ban-cho someone there? Oye ganduon, hello.’

  A young man, looking as though he had just stepped out of his boudoir, appeared from nowhere, as is generally the norm in select establishments. ‘Good evening…but how did you come through that way, if I may ask?’

  SP Kharbanda was in no mood for manners. ‘Never mind, ban-cho. Are you the receptionist?’

  The man investigated his fingernails and blew air at some of them. ‘How very rude. First tell me how you came in from there. The club is closed today.’

  ‘Oye ban-cho, don’t get cocky with us. I am SP and sir here is DIG.’

  The haughtiness evaporated quickly. ‘Oh. Sorry, sir. What I meant was...

  ‘Never mind what you meant. Is this the way to talk to people, haan? This is a clubhouse, not Vidhan Sabha, ban-cho.’

  Ajay wanted a quick death. ‘Uff.. Leave it, Kharbanda. We have a job at hand, damn it.’

  ‘Er, yes, sir…listen, we want some information.’

  The receptionist was all good manners. ‘Please, sir, anything.’

  ‘Show us your entry register—check for Wednesday last.’

  ‘Here, sir…’

  ‘Everyone who comes in has to enter his name?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Sa…Saan…Sa…Saane. Sir, Ajay sir. Here it is.’

  Ajay came forward. ‘Show me.’

  ‘Here, sir. Saane—signed for a game. A set of left-handed clubs—says 6.30.’

  SP Kharbanda looked up from the register. ‘Till what time is the last round accepted?’

  ‘4.30, sir.’

  ‘Why has this person signed for a game as late as 6.30 then?’

  The man pulled the register in his direction. ‘Er, sir, let me see...’

  SP Kharbanda wagged a finger. ‘Oye saaley. Don’t try and mess with us.’

  ‘Kharbanda, please!’ cried Ajay.

  The receptionist glanced at the entry, trawling his forefinger slowly under each line. ‘Er, yes sir, this here has been signed by Mr Saane. Life members have a free hand. Saane sir was also a member of our executive board…sir, if my job here is done, can I...’

  Ajay broke in. ‘Wait. Was anyone with him on Wednesday evening? Were you at the counter that day?’

  ‘Er, no sir. Actually, there’s no way to tell—by the register, I mean. Members come in and sign it by themselves. Mr Saane must have done the same, by habit.’

  ‘And if he had a guest, would he have signed up for him, too?’

  ‘Probably not, sir.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Saane that evening?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You sure? Wait—did he ask for a caddy?’

  ‘That I’ll check, sir—in the caddy register.’

  Ajay drummed the reception desk with his knuckles. ‘You do that.’

  The man brought out the caddy register from under the counter. He licked his thumb and flicked the pages. ‘Now let me see…Wed-nes-day…Wed-nes-day…no sir, no caddy has been signed in after the last bell—that’s 4.30. Looks like Mr Saane didn’t ask for a caddy.’

  ‘When was the last time—before Wednesday—that Saane came in?’

  ‘I saw him come in and play a round last month, sir.’

  ‘Was he on his own?’

  ‘No sir, he was with Mr Thapar, chairman of Credence Group.’

  ‘Yes yes. Were they here long?’

  ‘They played a full round, sir…I really apologise but I have to close up, sir...’

  ‘Yes, nothing further. But SP Kharbanda here will need to have a look at that register again…also, Kharbanda, you make a list of all those who came to the club on Wednesday.’

  SP Kharbanda protested feebly. ‘But there will be hundreds, sir.’

  ‘I don’t bloody care if there are thousands.’

  ‘Y-yes, sir.’

  Ajay turned to the receptionist. ‘Thank you—your name?’

  ‘Raghav Kathuria, sir.’

  ‘You have been here long?’

  ‘Nine years.’

  ‘Good. Raghav, Kharbanda here will be in touch in the coming days, alright?’

  ‘Sure, sir.’

  ‘Come, Kharbanda, let’s go.’

  SP Kharbanda braced himself for the journey back. A swig or two of the free stuff would have been handy. If only I was the senior here, he cursed. ‘By the same way, sir?’

  ‘No. Ask the driver to meet us at the clubhouse entrance.’

  SP Kharbanda drew out his cell phone from its holster in a flash. ‘Yes, sir, one moment…hello? Arey Kuljeet? Where are you? Come to club entrance. Yes, main gate, main gate; you understand?’

  ‘Come, Kharbanda, let’s wait outside.’

  ‘Ji, sir.’

  The men passed the glass-and-metal doors and waited by the side of the vine-covered porch. Ajay looked around vaguely as he spoke. ‘Not much to go by, no Kharbanda? I mean, what was that bastard doing playing golf at seven in the evening?’

  ‘Ji, sir.’

  ‘Here’s how I look at it. Obviously, Saane didn’t suspect anything untoward might happen. He could have come along with a guest and not signed him up. Quite likely a business meeting. This guest could then actually be the one who polished off Saane.

  ‘Very likely, sir.’

  ‘I mean, think about it. The fellow just needed to push Saane off the seventeenth green, that’s all.’

  ‘Very likely, sir.’

  ‘What very likely, very likely?’

  ‘I mean, sir, this is great. You are like Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘But you are the bloody Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, aren’t you? You write all this stuff, no?’

  ‘Sir, sorry. You are still angry about all that...’

  ‘No, no, no. I want to garland you—for making me run around like a monkey.’

  Take it like a man, Kharbanda, this too shall pass, the SP said to himself.

  ‘…but you know, Kharbanda. Something within me has quite enjoyed this, this adventure, investigation, whatever you may call it. Somewhere, hidden beneath those mountains of reports and files and committees—somewhere there, a young and dashing Ajay Biswas, IPS lurks.’

  ‘I knew it sir, I knew it.’

  ‘Well, I am not that angry with you now.’

  SP Kharbanda grinned. ‘Thank you, sir. And, er, if you have cooled down a little more, may I also suggest something?’

  ‘Now what. You killed Saane’s dad, too?’

  ‘No no, sir. You na.’

  ‘What, then.’

  ‘Sir, this golf-woalf investigation is fine, it really is. But, sir, in the end, where is it leading to, you tell me? By your brilliant deductions all we know now is that a ban-cho killer is at large. So, in three days time, what will you tell the CBI—that the killer is at large?’

  Aja
y showed interest. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Will your IG and your home minister be satisfied with the report on their table that says the killer is still at large? Where will they slap the president’s rule then—on my ass?’

  ‘Oye saala. Bastard, Kharbanda, you are an evil genius.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. But if we go by what really happened—home minister, CBI-she-BI, you, me, that ban-cho Sharma—all are happy, sir. No?’

  ‘Kharbanda, this is good. And you will take care of everything? That fellow Dev? The autopsy report?’

  SP Kharbanda bowed like the Air India Maharajah. ‘Sir, please, you insult me. It is my holy duty.’

  ‘But if word gets out. If I hear one word...’

  SP Kharbanda wanted to prostrate himself before Ajay. ‘Over my dead body, sir, over my dead body.’

  ‘And you will continue to investigate the case? Even when I am back in Delhi?’

  ‘I promise. On Saane’s dead body, sir.’

  Ajay was exultant. ‘Well, what can I say, Kharbanda? You have more than redeemed yourself.’

  ‘All because of seniors like you, sir, who have so much faith in me.’

  ‘A formal commendation would be in order—I’ll see to it.’

  This was Dussehra, Diwali, Holi and all the rest of the three thousand seven hundred and twenty-two festivals coming early. ‘You are just too kind, sir. Really, I mean it.’

  Ajay waved his hand but expected to hear more of the praise. ‘Oh come off it, Kharbanda.’

  ‘I pray to Sheronwaali Maa that you become IG soon, sir. And over here we have Siddhivinayak, too—very powerful, sir. The two rats outside.’

  ‘Arey leave it, Kharbanda.’

  ‘Come sir, the car.’

  They are generic but they have a national patent. Usually inert, they occasionally swing into action only to be pulled down by the weight of their own contradictions and confusions. Generally large, they manage, however, to slip through cracks and crevices, taking with them entire buildings complete with documents and cupboards.

  Here now, gone now.

  Susceptible to grease, the patent used to be called Pandeyji or Chaubeyji; strangely, never a Srinivasan. Then Chulbul entered the vocabulary and changed the landscape forever. Out went whatever reason remained.

  The Chulbulisation of the Indian police force has happened over years. If glasnost and perestroika can enter the language, so can Chulbulisation. If we can raise a sabzi-mandi jugaad to the level of international negotiations, why can’t we accept that Chulbul is the way we police ourselves and that the world might as well learn the ropes? Why blame chul when we bull?

  I Chulbul.

  You Chulbul.

  We Chulbul.

  They Chulbul.

  Bolo kitne Chulbul? Bolo, bolo. Bolo na.

  Chulbulator, terminator, calculator, tabulator, later, later—come tomorrow. Vision: myopia. Mission: don’t know. But who cares. This case is anyway going to self-destruct in five seconds. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…Find the file. Find the file!

  The country’s best-kept secret is a question the guilty ask of Chulbul: what do you want? Since the wanting is directly related to the wanter and the wantee, Chulbul is often a middle person. This is unhelpful. Years of not knowing which leg to stand on or, for that matter, whether to stand, sit or crouch has affected Chulbul’s posture. Tight pants don’t help.

  That is not all. Chulbul is often asked to lie, un-lie, lie again, distort and look the other way. In the interest of survival and upgrade, Chulbul has a permanently tentative language which is servile, all accepting, all knowing, all unknowing, here and there, everywhere and nowhere.

  It follows naturally that Chulbul’s method of work suffers. In most cases, Chulbul will arrive at a crime scene and ask the people present for gossip, which will then be reported as evidence. How often have you seen or heard of Chulbuls interrogating the victims as if they were criminals? That’s because Chulbuls are forced to lead a life of crime and sleaze—that is what they see all around them.

  All Chulbuls belong to the Chulbul Party of India. We see a Chulbul accepting a bribe of hundred rupees. We report that to a higher authority, little knowing that they are also Chulbuls. Everyone’s a Chulbul. Chulbul is really a politburo hydra.

  But it is not Chulbul’s fault. Not at all. For this is a Chulbul country, a Chulbul civilisation. To make stories comes easily to us. Hardly ever is Isabgol required. Ours, after all, is a land of stories. Bad stories, good stories, true stories, concocted stories…heck, we heard stories even before we were born. All Chulbuls are Abhimanyus and the thana is Chulbul’s womb, where, legs on table, exhaling noisily over garam chai, he hears and makes stories. Most of them are forgotten after a hearty laugh, but some get into files and become the truth, the absolute truth and nothing but the truth. Hearsay splits into two words like atomic fission. Hear. Say. The witness heard it. The victim said it. Enough for the gavel to be brought down. Dhara such-and-such ke tehet…three, seven, ten, fourteen years—the quantum doesn’t matter—what matters is that we the Chulbuls managed another ‘victree’.

  Arey yaar, sunn na! Bahul saal pehle…

  We might be malnourished but we tell great stories. Our umbilical cord only fed us stories, not micronutrients. And that is why we are all eternal, that is why we subscribe to the legend of Chulbul, right from the time we enter stark naked to when we exit dead.

  6

  1977—Midnight’s Children

  The train pulled up with a backward tug, taking everyone by surprise. Army-fatigue-covered trunks tumbled from the doddering heads of coolies. Passengers struggled to hold on to the railings, opting to pass along their suitcases to strangers in nervous trust. Toilet doors swung open and shut, revealing huddles of ticketless passengers. Smokers relishing their last wholesome drag panicked for some purchase as the vestibules they were standing on swayed wildly. Men with datuns wedged in their mouths jostled with bare-chested men saronged in tartan gamchhas to win the race for the exits. Agitated crowds collected at all doors, wanting to get down, wanting to get in. That it was a three-minute stop at the Mughalsarai Railway Junction didn’t help matters.

  Clasping the corrugated wooden handle of his tea canister, Kalki managed to slither in unnoticed. He conquered the compartment passageway, foothold by foothold, and howled.

  ‘Chai…e….chai….e…’

  ‘Arey chotu, a chai here, quick,’ motioned a man while scratching his belly that had managed to iron out the ribs of his sleeveless ‘dora’.

  ‘…Kindly pay attention! Coming, from, Rajender, Nagar, going, to, Kalyan…’

  ‘Ji, saab.’

  ‘Arey, listen. Two teas here too, jaldi.’

  Kalki juggled the kullarhs deftly. ‘Aaya memsaab, bas one minute,’ he cried while pouring tea from a good height to work up some froth.

  ‘…the, two, one, four, two, Babu Rajender Prasad Super Express…’

  ‘Arey Chotu, how long does the train stop at Mughalsarai?’

  ‘Bas three minutes—arey, there you go, saab, it’s moved.’

  The train jerked free and went into labour. It grunted, it pushed, it pulled before at long last, it picked up speed.

  ‘…via, Patna, Ara, Buxar, Mughal, Sarai, Satna, Jabalpur, Bhusaval, and, Manmad, is…’

  Canister dangling like a pendant from his neck with the help of a doubled-up naada, the kullarhs stacked up cosily inside his vest, Kalki made a run for the exit. A minute later he stood at the threshold, not bothering in his daring to grab hold of the door railing. His composure belied the speed of the train.

  Scanning the platform, he spotted his friend Karim.

  ‘Arey Karim. What are you doing here?’

  Noticing Kalki, Karim burst into a run, laughing and flailing his arms, his strides getting shorter and comical as the train finally caught speed.

  ‘Oye, Kalki. Get down, saaley.’

  ‘…now, arriving, at, Mughal, Sarai, at, platform, number, one, thank you…’

  W
ithout a thought, Kalki jumped off the train. Soon, he dampened his jog, catching Karim’s shoulder in the process. ‘Saala…that was cutting it close, Karim.’

  ‘Listen to me. Rajdhani just passed by teen number. I saw the pantry clearing the bins—all that machhi and bhaat.’

  ‘Rajdhani, you said. Bound for Howrah?’

  ‘We need to hurry. Teen is Raju’s area.’

  ‘I know that Raju saala—nothing escapes his ugly mouth. And if it is Rajdhani, forget it.’

  Karim held the canister close to his ear and shook it. ‘Chai all gone?’

  ‘No, yaar. With a three-minute stop, I can’t cover more than one bogie. And I have been alloted a freight train platform. I mean, who decides on this division, haan?’

  ‘Arey, all this is handled by the coolies and the stationmaster himself, saala. You and I are small flies, brother.’

  ‘All evening I have managed only six rupees. Minus the cost of kulhars and what are you left with? And now my night shift starts on ek. It can’t go on like this. I simply have to move to a different platform.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do, Kalki.’

  ‘Pucca?’

  ‘Haan yaar; now hurry or there’d be nothing left for us. Arey Kalki, I just remembered—Bansilal had asked me to go look for you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘An hour ago. He sounded angry. But it’s still ten minutes till your shift, isn’t it?’

  ‘Arey, you don’t know, Karim. Saala, one minute late and I get docked half my wage.’

  ‘Come, let’s take the tracks—overbridge will delay us.’

  The boys jumped from the platform ledge and scurried across the tracks, taking care not to land their feet on the putrefying filth discarded from the trains and platforms. They avoided the sleepers and kept to the rails, steadying themselves with outstretched arms like condors in flight. Abruptly, Karim noticed some movement.

  ‘Look. There’s Raju and his dogs. What yaar Kalki—all because of you.’

  Kalki picked up a rock and hurled it with all his might. ‘There they go running behind the yards...oye saalon. Come back, you thieving dogs.’

  ‘Bastards. They seem to have finished off nearly everything.’

  ‘Wait, don’t lose hope; let me see now.’

  Kalki rummaged through the heap of discarded food. ‘Can’t make out any fish.’