Murder with Bengali Characteristics (15 page)

‘That’s a cat!’ he said, weakly.

‘Of course,’ said Poltu-da. ‘Tigers
are
cats. It’s good that you’ve been studying the subject. That way, you won’t be cheated.’

Verma and Agarwal looked at each other, speechless. Verma briefly considered beating Poltu-da to death, but gave it up as pointless. He could feel a vast hopelessness overcoming him. This happened to him often in Calcutta.

‘Even backdoor deals don’t happen properly in this city,’ he said, sadly. ‘Who are we supplying for? The Governor. The biggest Chinese officer in the city. Who are we coming from? A former leader, whose name once curdled milk through the length and breadth of Bengal. Even with such bhao, are we able to get anything? Even after paying money? No, we cannot. This is the mystery of Calcutta.’

Poltu-da was puzzled. ‘Is the specimen not satisfactory?’

Verma grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him close to the cage. ‘Does that look like a tiger to you?’

‘Well, I’ve never actually seen one,’ said Poltu-da, trying not to suffocate, ‘have you? Video can be very deceptive.’

‘It’s a cat with black paint on it. What we need is the penis of a genuine tiger. High-class Chinese eat them. Don’t ask me why.’

‘Where on earth would I get a genuine tiger from?’ said Poltu-da, appalled. ‘Are you out of your mind or what? No one’s seen one in twenty years.’

Verma looked at the cat thoughtfully. The cat sneezed. He came to a decision. ‘Who’s to tell what a tiger’s dick actually used to look like?’ he said. ‘Maybe it wasn’t striped. Chalo, give us this piece. Give some discount-shiscount. We’ll put it in a nice box. Perhaps no one will notice.’

Poltu-da beamed and started rummaging around happily for his thumbprint reader. He kept it in a box with some extra thumbs, which he used for his duplicate bank accounts.

‘Does this mean I won’t be able to have children?’ said a voice, a little hoarsely. It was the cat. It was sitting there looking at them pathetically.

Agarwal and Verma looked at Poltu-da who looked back at them guiltily. ‘I had no idea it could do that,’ he said.

‘How can you say that?’ asked the cat. ‘I read the newspaper to you every morning!’

‘He’s very fluent in Bengali,’ said Poltu-da, ‘not so good in other languages.’

‘If you take away my wee wee, I won’t have any babies,’ said the cat. ‘Then I’ll be the only one of my kind. You don’t want to do that, do you?’

He arched his back and struck a graceful pose, his chin on the floor of his cage, looking up at them pitifully. They felt themselves wilt under his gaze.

‘We can’t remove its penis,’ said Verma, aghast. ‘It’s talking!’

‘It grows back!’ said Poltu-da. ‘I’ve conducted experiments!’

‘Why don’t you grow your own back!’ hissed the cat, trying to slash at him through the bars of his cage

Agarwal put a hand on Poltu-da’s shoulder. Despite being a strict vegetarian, he condoned and sometimes even facilitated a wide variety of non-vegetarian activities, but he drew the line at the consumption of sentient beings.

‘Mister Poltu, you are a man of parts,’ he said. ‘I am constantly looking for bright fellows like you. But I am afraid we will have to decline this offer. We will explain everything to Pishi. No one will blame you.’

‘You can go blame your mother, you ignorant dick thief!’ said the cat, who was rapidly growing in confidence. They could hear him cursing as they walked away.

‘Man, that cat would be great at parties,’ said Verma, as they negotiated the staircase.

‘I think the mistake we’re making is we’re forgetting our roots,’ said Agarwal.

‘Does this mean we have to go to the villages?’ said Verma. ‘My roots are near Chhatarpur. Yours must be some crappy hellhole in the deserts of Rajasthan. They’re still radioactive, by the way, because some of the tactical missiles weren’t as tactical as they thought they would be.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Agarwal. ‘What is it we are doing? Trying to find a remedy for a Chinese person. So far, we have pursued Chinese remedies. But ultimately, he is a human being, no? Except for bank balance, we are all the same. The true answer lies in our rich cultural traditions. When it comes to such matters, who has greater skill than the tantric worshippers of the Goddess Kali? Their control over human flesh is unparalleled.’

‘So where are we going now?’ asked Verma.

‘To meet the greatest worshipper of Goddess Kali in Calcutta,’ said Agarwal, ‘Amalendu Lahiri, General Secretary of the New Thug Society.’

‘Cook me some of those birds that I see hopping about the lawns,’ said Governor Wen, hoping this would cheer him up. They looked like their bones would be crunchy. He adjusted his aluminium helmet, which had slipped a little. Crazy Wu had built it for him, to protect him against telepaths. It bore a strong resemblance to a bucket, but the Governor was so happy to be safe that no one had had the heart to tell him.

‘I’ll just go get my air gun,’ said Ganguly.

‘Don’t forget the orange sauce!’ Governor Wen called after him. He was touched by his loyalty. Ganguly was the one person he could depend on. Governor Wen was in need of comfort. The quarterly economic data was dreadful, despite extensive massaging, and the Young Prince would be highly displeased.

‘Nothing has improved!’ he had wailed at the Finance Minister.

The Finance Minister had remained well-bred and tranquil, as befitted a graduate of Presidency College and Harvard, with a house in Jhowtolla Lane.

‘This is strictly speaking not true,’ he had said.

‘Something did improve?’ Governor Wen had asked, hopefully.

‘Certainly,’ his Finance Minister had said, ‘our accuracy at estimating the deficit has improved by over 22 per cent. The previous minister was hugely inaccurate in this respect. He has tried to criticize me about this at various public fora, but my analysis has silenced him.’

Ganguly came back with Governor Wen’s tea. He had reduced the dosage of the tranquilizers. Docility was one thing, but Governor Wen’s inertness was beginning to worry him. He could sense a storm brewing in the Protectorate. Just as he was about to make a big score, and secure his retirement nest egg. It made him uneasy. All his life he had spread his income, taking small amounts of milk from a wide-ranging herd of cows. ‘Keep and eat,’ an ex-boss had once advised him, ‘don’t eat everything.’ He needed Governor Wen to be at least reasonably alert, so that he could sign things, and appear marginally sentient when he was conferencing with Beijing. The quality of management in Beijing had declined over the years, but they were bound to notice if their potentate turned into a vegetable.

‘Have a few sips, Your Excellency,’ said Ganguly, ‘you’ll feel much better.’

Governor Wen took a sip and felt his spirits rise. As he looked at Ganguly, his eyes misted over. ‘You take such good care of me,’ he said.

‘Your Excellency is too kind,’ said Ganguly. ‘Has Your Excellency had a chance to review the report on Junglemahal?’

Governor Wen felt his spirits dip again. He quickly took another sip.

‘What’s to review?’ he asked. ‘They want more guns, as usual. Why are we providing large quantities of arms and ammunition to foreigners, when so many Chinese are still unarmed? It seems unfair. Not that I’m totally against arming foreigners. I would happily give you a gun, my dear Ganguly. Your case is completely different. Is there a particular model I could get you? I could talk to General Zhou. We can get you anything, so long as it’s not Japanese.’

‘In our family, we’re more the thinking type,’ said Ganguly.

He was glad the economic review had missed the inflationary trend in fish prices. The Governor himself would have no idea, of course, since he never bought any. He had never poked one in the belly to check the consistency of its flesh. He had never lifted open a gill flap to see the colour within. He had never tried to judge whether the quantity of fish egg nestling in its bowels was sufficient. He had never rushed home, his filthy nylon bag dripping foul water on feet, footboards, and pavement, to make sure he could present his fish live and thrashing in the kitchen. No, he would remain oblivious to fish until almost the very end, and his fate would be richly deserved.

‘Don’t worry, Your Excellency, I’ll do the needful,’ he said, bowing deeply and backing out of the room.

‘You’re in the jungle again, aren’t you?’ said Gao Yu. She was applying make-up as she spoke. He wished she wouldn’t. Why would she need it? He remembered her in Beihei Park snuggled against him, clutching his arm, her cheeks glowing pink and the wind blowing through her hair. Had she not been happy? He could have sworn she was happy. How could he have missed the clues?

‘How can you tell?’ asked Li. Phoni-babu was peering over his shoulder as they walked towards the Maoist camp. He had no concept of personal space.

‘By the expression on your face,’ said Gao Yu. ‘You were never much fun on holidays. Do you have creepy-crawlies in your shoes?’ The thought seemed to please her.

‘I do,’ said Li, ‘but I have to meet the Maoists again. One of the children in my case seems to have joined them.’

‘Wow! The famous jungle fighters! Are they handsome? Do they wear shirts?’ Gao Yu had always been supremely disinterested in his cases. It was because she wanted him for his body, she had explained.

‘Small and malnourished, mostly, like most people in this country,’ said Li.

‘How can that be? They defeated the might of the Nation Formerly Known As India. The Indians used to be powerful. They took out Nanjing. Are you sure they’re real? Maybe they’re actors pretending to be Maoists.’

Li could have kissed her, but it seemed odd to shower affection on a screen. ‘That’s a great question,’ he said.

Gao Yu beamed. She held up her arm. She was wearing a yellow silk kimono adorned with a pink dragon, dancing. The sleeve fell back to reveal a diamond bracelet. ‘Look what I scored!’ she said. ‘Worth four-five million, easy. Now it doesn’t matter if he leaves me.’ She giggled. ‘I’ll be a leftover woman. Only with lots of money. I’ll have Chanel toilet paper and a golden toilet seat. I’ll drink Red Pagoda at the Full Moon Lounge, dressed in Issey Miyake. I’ll be free to pick and choose. I’m going to pick a man who farts less.’

Li congratulated her. She had never been an easy woman to live with, but she deserved much better than a tuhao from the bogs. He told her this. It did not please her as much as he had thought it would.

‘There are all kinds of losers out here,’ she said, ‘it’s not easy. You’ve got more scope over there. You could try hooking up with the rebel chicks. You might get lucky. They must be desperate, out there in the jungle.’

‘I’m just entering the Maoist camp,’ he said, ‘it looks like they’re having some kind of painting competition.’

‘Take away their paintbrushes,’ said Gao Yu, helpfully. ‘They’ll tell you everything.’ She gave him the finger and vanished.

The guards waved them through. Either they recognized them from the last visit, or security standards were hitting rock bottom. One of them was eyeing a nearby creeper and chewing a pencil thoughtfully. He was holding a sketchpad. They walked past a row of armoured personnel carriers and a mobile rocket launcher. Phoni-babu hissed through his teeth. ‘Saala!’ he said. ‘It seems the junglees have become very modern these days!’ The camp appeared to be empty except for the guards. They reached a clearing in front of Debu-da’s tent, where they discovered the massed might of the regiment, sprawled on the ground in a variety of poses, drawing pictures. ‘ANNUAL SOURIN BOSE MEMORIAL SIT-AND-DRAW COMPETITION’ said a banner draped over the perimeter fence.

‘It’s a Bengali tradition,’ said Debu-da, looking natty in his jungle fatigues and a beret. ‘Plus it encourages the boys to explore their artistic side. At this stage of the revolution, they need soft skills.’

‘What stage of the revolution are we at, exactly?’ asked Li. He was curious. Back home there was a lot of debate on this subject.

Debu-da smiled. ‘Opinions differ,’ he said. ‘Some of us feel we’re at the let-us-get-on-with-our-work-and-we-won’t-blow-you-up stage, as defined by Comrade KS. That’s when we consolidate our gains and concentrate on uplifting the local people, who’ve been waiting for a long time. Others have acquired a taste for elimination, and feel we haven’t eliminated enough capitalists yet. They want to liberate Hyderabad, because it’s our spiritual centre, and Patna, because the Bihari boys want it. Some of them want to take Bhopal, so they can launch an attack on Delhi in the next phase. I’m no military genius, but it sounds pretty stupid. In all our history, who’s ever conquered Delhi from Bhopal?’

Inspector Li stepped gingerly amongst the artists. What did revolutionary armies draw? How did they express themselves through art? Mindful of Gao Yu’s advice, he stopped in front of one of the girls. She was doe-eyed and full-lipped. He bent down to look at her drawing. It was a blood-spattered earthen pitcher filled with milk. As he watched, she added more blood. She looked up. ‘It’s the blood of Visunuri Deshmukh,’ she explained. ‘Our sisters used to labour in his fields. When they begged him to let them feed their babies, he would collect their milk in pots, and pour it out on the ground, laughing. We hacked him down in his field one day, and his blood mingled with our milk. We fertilized the ground with his flesh.’

These were new fables for a new society. Not the best stories to put a child to sleep with, but maybe they wanted them to stay awake. He looked back at Phoni-babu, standing on the sidelines. His expression was saintly and encouraging, his lathi held behind his back. He knew when he was outgunned. ‘Sir, finish quickly, sir, and then let us talk to Mr Debu,’ he said. ‘Soon it will be dark. Even flying, it’s two hours to Lal Bazaar.’

‘Let them draw, come on in,’ said Debu, holding up the flap of his tent. They stepped in. ‘You never told me one of Barin Mondol’s boys had joined you,’ said Li, ‘you’re hiding things from the police.’

‘You’re not my police,’ said Debu, grinning to show he meant no offence. ‘So many kids join up, it’s hard to keep track. How did you find out?’