Murder with Bengali Characteristics (13 page)

Bijli Bose’s house was twenty feet down the road, pale, pink and two-storeyed, with bright blue window shutters. It was the only house with nothing written on the walls. His neighbours were not so fortunate. Their walls had a lot to say. ‘MAY A THOUSAND SWISS BANK ACCOUNTS BLOOM!’ said the wall next door. ‘REMEMBER MAY ’35!’ said the wall across the street. ‘LEARN THE TRUTH FOR FIFTY RUPEES!’ said another. The guards in front of his house were peering over their sandbags, watching the show. One of the players charged, cheered on by his comrades, until he was blown off his feet by a bomb. Two of his comrades scuttled across and dragged him away, bleeding. There was a brief lull. It was time for some verbals.

‘I’ll play harmonium with your grandma’s cunt!’ promised someone from behind a burning bus.

‘I’ll shove my dick in your father’s ear!’

‘I’ll stuff a brinjal up your grandfather’s ass!’

‘I’ll play tabla on your mother’s tits!’

Verma was on his stomach in the gutter, otherwise he would have clapped. Punjabi was a good language for abuse, but the Bengalis were second to none. It was the poetry in their souls. He turned his head to look at Agarwal, who lay face down, perfectly relaxed, like a man taking a break during yoga.

‘How long will this go on?’ he asked. Agarwal turned over on his back and looked up at the balcony.

‘So far he’s not come out, and it’s getting dark. He pours his first drink at sunset. That way he’s very particular. According to me it’s almost over.’

Soon the street was silent again, except for the groans of the wounded. The players dispersed, firing off the occasional curse to deter pursuit. Once the coast was clear, the local police arrived, and courteously escorted them to Bijli Bose’s doorstep.

To the extent that Bijli Bose demonstrated any facial expression, he demonstrated some when he saw Agarwal. There was the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, and a tiny flicker in his eyes. ‘Hello, Kanti,’ he said, his voice thin, but surprisingly clear and strong. ‘Is your father well?’

‘He’s fine, Bijli-uncle,’ said Agarwal, ‘you’re looking fine yourself, I must say.’

Bijli Bose held Agarwal Senior in high regard. During his annual summer holidays in London, he had always ensured a constant flow of fine food and rare beverages. ‘Let me repay some of his hospitality,’ said Bijli Bose. He raised a finger and an elderly Bengal Club bearer shimmied in, tightly breeched and whitely jacketed, complete with cummerbund and pantomime turban. Every member who completed fifty years at the Bengal Club received an armchair and a bearer free, to help create a more club-like atmosphere at home.

‘I see you got caught in the Exhibition Match,’ he said, once they all had a drink in their hands. ‘They’re useless, these new boys. Lack of competition has made them soft. We should have preserved some competitors. The Maoists are much tougher. If it wasn’t for the Chinese, they would have taken over by now.’

‘It’s funny you should mention Maoists,’ he said, ‘my friend here has a factory in Chhattisgarh.’

Bijli Bose turned his head to look at Verma. ‘Our boys must look very incompetent to you.’ Verma couldn’t deny it. They were just amateurs with extensive vocabularies. The Maoists would have wiped them out in minutes.

‘Uncle, situation has deteriorated,’ said Agarwal, ‘the Competent Authority in India is trying to cause another war. After half the country was wiped out last time, you would think he would hesitate, but he is bold and visionary, thanks to IAS training. He is continuously insulting the Chinese. Naturally their sentiments are getting hurt, and they are launching submarines. Currently India has no submarines, but the repair work is receiving top priority. Files are moving like lightning. Before full drama develops, we require Governor Wen to take some small action, but he is suffering due to lack of good concubines. Ganguly-da was saying he requires some type of special encouragement or stimulus.’

This confirmed what the Indian PM had told him. She was a bright girl, full of good ideas. She came from a good family. Her nose was just like her grandmother’s. Based on her information, he had set wheels in motion. He had also given her some excellent advice regarding Taiwan. His opinion of the Competent Authority was not as high as Agarwal’s. He was no admirer of Indian babus. Most of them would sell their mothers for a bottle of Blue Label. Few of them could ever make out whether it was genuine.

‘I’M GOING TO GET FUCKED, UNCLE,’ said Verma, who always spoke loudly to old people.

‘Perhaps you could give the Governor some kind of tasteful, cultured offering?’ suggested Bijli Bose.

‘Like a girl who can sing?’ asked Verma.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of a Ming Dynasty Noodle Bowl.’

Agarwal tried to hide his disappointment. Matters had gone far beyond noodle bowls. Bijli-uncle was obviously out of touch when it came to the Governor, whose appetites were genuinely disturbing.

There was a commotion in the adjacent room. ‘Red Lebel ti?’ said a loud female voice. ‘Wans more?’ A fine china cup came flying through the open door and smashed against the wall, followed by a saucer. They heard the sounds of a grown man sobbing, dry, hacking sobs from deep within. Agarwal looked at Bijli Bose. There was an expression on his face that he had never seen before. It was fear.

‘What was that?’ asked Agarwal.

‘Just the television,’ said Bijli Bose. His face was ashen.

A little old lady in a white sari burst into the room. ‘What’s happening is not good, I’m warning you, Bijli-da!’ she said, ‘You’re insulting me with Red Lebel? No, no, sit where you are, don’t stand up. Sit, I’m telling you! If you fall down and fracture your hip, who will have to look after you? Me, who else? And who are these characters? That one looks like a Panjabi.’

‘Pishi!’ said Agarwal.

Pishi ignored him and glared at Verma. Verma found himself unable to move, transfixed by her gaze. She was radiating gigantic concentric waves of insanity and power. Bijli Bose shrank visibly in his chair. She pointed a trembling finger at Verma, roughly aimed at his crotch. ‘Your pantaloons!’ she said. ‘Remoobh dem!’

Verma was wearing red trousers, partly in honour of Bijli Bose, and partly because of his sharp fashion sense. He unbuckled and unzipped meekly, and removed his trousers. He rolled them up and tucked them under his arm. Disobedience was out of the question.

‘Good boy,’ said Pishi. ‘You must be thinking, what is Pishi doing here? But Pishi is ebhrywhere! Pishi is in ebhrything! Nothing escapes eye or ear of Pishi. I was in the place for mad people, because I was phed up of all these naughty boys, always doing nonsense bloody. I was resting. Then one day I thought, enough of resting, now I must save the country, everything going to jahannum. “Nonsense boys, open the door,” I told the guards. They opened the main gate and released me, saluting. I came straight to Bijli-da. Although we are enemies, he is fond of me. I’m like his younger sister. Isn’t it, Bijli-da?’

‘I feel guilty because we smashed her head when she was in the opposition,’ said Bijli Bose tremulously. ‘She was in Belle Vue Nursing Home for a week. Secretly, I always felt great affection for her, because of her fighting spirit.’

‘I also feel affection for you, dada,’ said Pishi fondly, pinching his cheek, ‘even though you’re a looj character, always drinking.’

Agarwal folded his hands. ‘Pishi, please help us. We are good boys, requiring your help. Only you can do it.’

‘Ey Panjabi,’ said Pishi, ‘you come over here.’ Verma shambled across obediently, and squatted next to her, so that their eyes were level. She felt his bicep. ‘Nice, strong boy you are,’ she said. ‘Are you a cricketer? My Light Strider batsmen are ooweek, because of torture by Chinese.’

‘I can learn very quickly,’ said Verma, ‘bas, just give me a bat and I’ll start practising.’

‘First let me solbh your problem,’ said Pishi, ‘that’s my main job, I solbh all the problems. They can challenge me, but I am nebhar difited. Sitting in the next room I could hear you. My hearing is bhery good, because ebhryone was always plotting against me, and whispering. What is the use of whispering? You think I am a phool? Pishi can hear ebherything! Your problem is with gobhorner, no? That gobhorner is a looj character. Maximum Chinese are like that. I know what to do.’

She whipped out a card from her blouse, and gave it to him. She looked bashful for a moment. ‘I pheel shy because Bijli-da is a senior person,’ she said. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Verma listened to her, growing progressively paler. After she had finished, Pishi gave him a push. ‘Now go, go, phinish!’ she said, ‘I hate westej of time.’

They backed out of the room and slipped down the stairs. Outside, the street was deserted. The players had gone home, or to the hospital, as per requirement. Agarwal took the visiting card from Verma’s trembling fingers.

‘POLTU-DA’s WILDLIFE SUPPLY,’ it said, ‘FULFILLING ANIMAL REQUIREMENTS SINCE 2021.’

‘What do we have to do?’ asked Agarwal. ‘Some kind of 420 business?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ said Verma, weakly, wishing he had listened to his father. ‘Sanju-beta, do your business anywhere,’ his father had said, ‘but never go to Calcutta.’ He was beginning to see why.

‘I was born in the Year of the Pig,’ said Governor Wen, ‘that’s why I’m so loyal and lovable.’

Inspector Li smiled encouragingly, while making sure his hat recorded everything. Gao Yu loved intimate glimpses of the rich and famous. He took care not to make any sudden movements. The Governor was looking fragile. Fear filled his eyes. Sweat beaded his forehead. Sensing this, his chair extruded an arm and gently dabbed him with a cologne-scented tissue. It was designed to cater to his every need. ‘Must this too be done by a machine?’ wailed the Governor. ‘Can I not feel the gentle touch of fingers on my forehead?’

Li was sitting opposite him, at a huge mahogany desk, in one of the many cavernous rooms in Raj Bhavan, the official residence of the Governor of Bengal since 1905. It was modelled on the home of George Nathaniel Curzon, 1st Marquess of Kedleston. Give the British credit, he thought, they knew how to build to impress, with their balustraded balconies and their grand arched gateways and their ornamental bird-cage elevators. Not to mention the thirty-acre compound guarded by lions and sphinxes. It wasn’t Xhongnanai, but it had a style of its own. More than the fear of laser rifles, what really cowed you down was the fear of not holding your teacup properly, or causing too much of a splash when you dropped the sugar cube in.

‘It was a cartoon pig smoking a cigar,’ said Governor Wen. ‘It was on the wall near the arched gate, facing traffic. Do you think it was some kind of affectionate tribute?’

‘Pigs mean different things to different people,’ said Li, carefully.

‘It’s an insult!’ hissed Propagandist Wang. ‘Do you see now why I asked you to look into this? Even the Governor is being targeted. Forget what kind of person he is. He is the symbol of the Motherland. When you insult him, you insult Mother China!’

Governor Wen eyed Wang suspiciously. It seemed that there was disrespect in there somewhere. But he had bigger problems to worry about. ‘What do you think, Li?’ he asked. ‘Where did this pig come from? And is it insulting me?’

‘It probably is,’ admitted Li.

‘Unless I execute the culprits, this will be seen as a black mark,’ said Governor Wen. ‘As it is there are so many mass incidents. These people are unmanageable.’ He shuffled the papers on his table hopelessly. ‘Students are protesting because their results are delayed. Intellectuals are protesting inhuman torture in Palestine. Tiljala is protesting the death of Jagannath, alias Mandela. Taxi drivers are protesting diesel prices. East Bengal supporters are protesting the lack of hilsa. Mohun Bagan supporters are protesting the lack of prawns. Why does everyone protest so much? How is this the City of Joy? Where did all the joy go?’

‘If it reaches a certain scale, they get a holiday the next day,’ said Li. ‘It’s called a bandh. People protest injustice by sitting at home and watching television.’

‘If everyone’s sitting at home, who’s burning all the buses? Don’t they burn buses, and those cute tramcars that move so slowly?’

‘They take turns, sir. Some of them burn buses, while the others rest at home. Everyone does their share. It’s a true communist society.’

‘What do these barbarians know about communism?’ sneered Propagandist Wang. ‘They’re too busy worshipping primitive idols like Durga.’

In an attempt to educate the masses and display a keen understanding of local culture, Propagandist Wang had recently launched the slogan ‘CCP is the true Durga of Bengal People!’ with a vibrant, evocative multimedia campaign. Airstrikes had been required to suppress the subsequent riots. It was a sore point with him.

‘They hate me, don’t they?’ said Governor Wen. ‘Even though I’ve spent so much time weeding out the undesirable elements, the rest of them still don’t give me affection. I’m starved of affection, Li. It’s not just the natives. Even our own people have been disrespecting me. I distinctly heard someone call me a fat fuck at the Junior Civil Servants Quarterly Happy Evening. Other officers looked at me with anger and loathing. I saw them whispering. Several people stepped on my foot at the buffet. Where does this hatred come from, Li? All I feel for them is affection. My heart is as big as a mountain. All I want is that they should move forward harmoniously and fulfil the Chinese Dream, while keeping me informed about undesirable elements. Despite this, unhappiness is spreading. Even the elite are infected—I noticed at a recent cocktail party at Ballygunge Circular Road, they were disturbed and unhappy. On top of this, we have telepaths. From India. The bits of it that we didn’t drop bombs on. We do have telepaths, don’t we, Propagandist Wang? You mentioned them at our last meeting. I was paying attention.’

‘They claim that it was we who attacked their telepaths, as a result of which many are now out of action, and some are missing,’ said Wang. ‘We believe this is a filthy trick which deserves a proud and powerful reply. Their telepaths are not missing. They have crept across the border to attack us. This is an act of war. I have proof.’