Murder with Bengali Characteristics (17 page)

‘Why aren’t you afraid?’ he asked.

‘I take strength from your courage.’

‘How much courage can it take to strangle a man in his sleep?’ asked Inspector Li, who disliked receiving compliments from murderers.

‘It’s not such an easy thing,’ said the thug, not in the least bit offended. It was a common misconception amongst laymen, one for which he did not blame them. ‘It requires courage, skill, and devotion. Above all it requires the touch of the goddess. The goddess has put me on this earth for a purpose. I am the hunter, and you are the prey. If a tiger performs its duty with a deer, will you call it a murderer?’

‘His name was Barin Mondol,’ said Inspector Li, ‘the woman next door was in love with him. He was trying to help the village children learn something so that they could get ahead in life. He liked reading Tolstoy. He worked in a government office and he never took any money from anyone. You crept up on him in the middle of the night and you strangled him like a chicken. That makes you a murderer. You’re no tiger. No one’s going to put you in a zoo. They’re going to put you on a badly constructed wooden stand, and then they’re going to put a rope around your neck and hang you, which is the perfect way to go for a little shit like you. Alternatively, you can give us some names and details, instead of all these guidelines from the goddess, and you might just spend the rest of your life in jail, using your courage and skill to prevent your bum from being taken.’

Inspector Li had never believed in the good cop-bad cop system. It was just another way in which Americans complicated simple things. Set them up and knock them down, that was how you did it. Just like his dad used to say. Hard and fast, without warning. Sometimes they went down. Sometimes they swung back wildly, revealing themselves. The trick was to keep them off balance.

‘I like you,’ said the thug, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and gagging slightly. He had never smoked Long March before. ‘I will be leaving soon. You will not see me coming or going. I think you are a gentleman, although you are pretending not to be, so we will leave you for the last.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Inspector Li, reaching across the grubby plastic table to pat him on the back. ‘Just before you leave, why don’t you tell me about this Japanese-Bengali phrasebook you’ve been carrying. Planning a holiday in Tokyo are we?’

The thug said nothing. His air of calm superiority was beginning to get to Li. He was an upper-class twit, just like his mentor, Amalendu Lahiri, who talked big and starved his servants. Inspector Li looked at the items laid out on the table. The phrasebook, a huge wad of cash, a yellow silk handkerchief, a Japanese business card, and a small coin. The cash was all local. The amount was astonishing. It was one of the things that had put him in a foul mood. Purity of purpose he could understand, even admire a little. But it looked like they were in it for the money. And there was definitely something fishy going on. All you had to do was smell the man.

‘Why Bijli Bose?’ he asked.

He had been apprehended while trying to assassinate the venerable elder. The thug was not the only criminal they had picked up. The star of the evening had undoubtedly been a demented sixty-year-old signboard-maker with wild white hair, who had slipped into Bijli Bose’s home and attempted to beat him to death with a signboard which said ‘Learn English in 60 Days!’ ‘I never learnt English because of you!’ he had roared, leaping into the living room, where Bijli Bose was having a small Scotch and soda. ‘In the end I had to make signboards! See what sign I’m making now, you evil old dead body!’

Bijli Bose had evaded his attacker with a surprising burst of speed. The man’s rage was a direct consequence of the old man’s decree, implemented across Bengal during his disturbingly long rule, that everyone else’s children should study only in Bengali in order to properly preserve their innate Bengali-ness, towards the dilution of which imperialist forces were constantly striving. Meanwhile, he had ensured that his own children all went to English medium schools, so that they could infiltrate the enemy from within. He had maintained this policy strictly until he was surgically removed from the chief minister’s chair. The chair had in fact fused partially with his backside, something that was not widely publicized at the time.

Along with the agitated signboard maker, the security forces had apprehended the thug, who had also crept into the sitting room around the same time, and had been sitting in an armchair just across from Bijli Bose. He had no doubt been lulling Bijli Bose into a false sense of security, the security chief had said, waiting for the right moment to strike. It was what they did. No one knew how he had got in, which was quite natural, given that he was a thug. The signboard maker had gotten past security by pretending to be a representative of the Better English Company, come to seek blessings from the mummified ex-chief minister. No one had asked him why he was carrying a signboard instead of a leaflet. The thug had been caught because of bad luck, pure and simple. Who could have predicted simultaneous attempts at murder?

But why would they want to kill Bijli Bose? And how was this connected to the death of Barin Mondol? He couldn’t see the connection. Unless, of course, there was no connection.

‘Why does the New Thug Society want to kill Bijli Bose?’

The thug burst out laughing. He was genuinely amused.

The confidence of criminals in Indian jails never ceased to astonish him. At least in China they felt fear. This man was behaving like a guest at a cocktail party. Inspector Li took deep breaths.

‘Why indeed?’ said the thug, ‘since he can come back from the dead? Clearly, the goddess has no use for him.’

Inspector Li looked at the smiling thug. He stubbed out his cigarette with a certain precision and force. Some things were clear. Others were grey. For example, what was Bijli Bose up to? He knew he’d had meetings with Agarwal and Verma, an unholy two-reed opera from which nothing good was likely to emerge. Inspector Li knew Agarwal to be a man who delighted in the company of large sums of money. Wherever a river of money flowed, he would be there, an ardent devotee, knees knocking in the early morning chill. How would Agarwal use this situation to make money? Their slave mines were in the Chhatisgarh Free Zone, in between the potential combatants. When dragons fought, ducks were roasted, which was why they were trying to stop a war. But even in distress, Agarwal was not the kind of man to miss an opportunity.

‘You’ve been a great help,’ said Li, ‘you sat there like a film star and refused to answer questions, but I learnt a lot from your pockets. And you’re not much of a gentleman if you stink like that. Ask your boss to get you some cologne. Tell him that he’d better stop this racket. Tell him that if I reveal what I know, the good people of Bhobanipur are going to come and burn down his house.’

As he turned to leave, one of the guards caught his eye. He put his finger to the back of the thug’s head and looked at Li inquisitively. Inspector Li smiled and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Try keeping this one alive, son,’ he said, ‘you might learn something that way.’

Security had been increased at Bijli Bose’s house, so he was safe from thugs, but not from Pishi. She was standing behind his chair, singing.

‘No ooman, no cry,’ she sang sadly, ‘no ooman, no cry.’

‘What is she singing?’ whispered Li. They were standing near the door, waiting politely for her recital to finish, ignoring the faint hint of desperation in the eyes of Bijli Bose. Li disliked the man. From what he had understood, he had caused a lot of suffering, and never displayed much empathy for his victims. It was only fair that he should suffer a little himself.

‘It is a song of Ali the Wanderer,’ said Phoni-babu, ‘famous Baul singer from last century. He was a lost soul who travelled from village to village, singing such songs and promoting smoking of ganja. Some say he was looking for Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, a great leader of our freedom struggle, who was misplaced by the Japanese. His songs were very catchy, and subject matter was very different, such as buffaloes who became soldiers, and liberal use of jam, and the shooting of one Sharif. Nowadays, we prefer simple songs, like “Bye Bye Bangkok” and “Hello Memsahib”, but few cultured people still remember him. Pishi is very talented and cultured. Historically her behaviour has shown that. Either she was writing, or she was reciting, or she was singing songs.’

Pishi drifted into the adjacent bedroom. ‘Probably she is going to paint,’ said Phoni-babu.

Now that Bijli Bose was no longer being tortured, Inspector Li stepped forward into the room. ‘Good to see you safe, sir,’ he said.

‘Who says I’m safe?’ said Bijli Bose, morosely. ‘She hasn’t even started reciting her poetry yet. She wrote thirty-seven volumes.’ His trembling hand reached for his whisky glass. He was too depressed to pretend that he was a mummy.

‘That’s something to look forward to then,’ said Li, brightly. ‘I was curious. What led you to give shelter to a wanted fugitive and known splittist? Since it’s you, no one’s worried, given how loyal you’ve always been. But you were never the best of friends, were you? I understand your boys once cracked her skull. She spent ten days in hospital. She may be old, but she’s still more active than you. Isn’t this a little risky? Supposing she creeps up on you in the middle of the night, looking for revenge?’

‘You seem to feel that I could stop her,’ said Bijli Bose. ‘She just came in through the bathroom window one day and said, “Bijli-da, I’m staying with you.” Her actions are devoid of logic. That’s why we could never manage her. The Party was built on logic and discipline. We had no guidelines for handling eccentricity. Of course, she was not always like this. She went mad trying to get Bengali bureaucrats to work, something I very wisely avoided trying to do. I am hoping that at some point some other brainwave will strike her, and she will go. Currently she is very upset about the destruction of the Kali Temple. That’s why she was consoling herself with the song. She is a great devotee. During her rule, all portraits of Marx were replaced with portraits of the Mother. Luckily she has no followers now, otherwise the matter could become complicated. But the potential for unrest exists. The boys used to love her. If they see her again, they could get excited. It’s why I’m trying to keep her in the house.’

‘Good luck with that,’ said Li, grabbing Phoni-babu’s arm. Phoni-babu was about to slip off into the bedroom, to see what Pishi was up to. He was clearly fascinated, perhaps even a little bit in love. ‘Mother! Destruction of Mother!’ they heard her cry. ‘Revenge is required on Chinese! But I am ooweek!’ Followed by the sound of weeping.

‘So, no one noticed the thug coming in?’ asked Li. ‘You have a large staff here, protecting you.’

‘It’s their nature. They come and go. They mingle.’

‘Did he mingle with you? Apparently he was caught in the living room, sitting in an armchair. Almost as if you were having a meeting.’

‘I did not realize he was a thug,’ said Bijli Bose. ‘The victims never do. He said he was a reporter, come to do a story on the golden era of Bengal. Also, he wanted to read me his novel. All of them have novels, except for the ones who write poems. That’s the fundamental problem with Bengal. Too much poetry. Poetry obscures. I prefer prose.’

‘Well, lucky for you the man with the signboard chose that very moment to try and beat your brains out,’ said Li. ‘That’s what alerted the guards.’

Pishi drifted back into the room, making graceful hand movements. She noticed Li for the first time. She ignored Phoni-babu, who was gazing at her adoringly. ‘Who is dis?’ she demanded.

‘He’s an officer protecting me from the thugs,’ said Bijli Bose.

‘You’re the biggest thug, Bijli-da,’ she said, morosely. ‘Who will protect them from you?’

She bent down to peer at Li’s face. Li smiled back at her. He liked a woman with spirit. She looked into his eyes, searching. She seemed pleased. ‘You are honest policeman!’ she said, astonished, ‘Towards end of my time, I sarched and sarched, thinking, hwer are you? But it waj phelyur. I had remoobhed all of dem. I should habh supported them more. Meanwhile, gorment babus were making everything bhanish! True magicians, better dan P. C. Shorcar. How could I do development? Money going for school, bephor it riches, bhanish! Money going for flood rilif, but bephor it riches, bhanish! Chhooo chhooo chhooo mantar…gili gili gili…hocus pocus…bhanish! But I am still here. I am still libhing. I will not let Bengal become nonsense place like India, becoj of Competent Authority. He haj taken everything! But here, I will not allow. I am gonodebota—goddess of da pipool!’

‘Pipool?’ asked Li.

‘Common pipool!’ explained Pishi. ‘You are good man! You do your job, I am supporting you. If you phace any poblem, come back soon, I ooweel help you. But be carephool of Mowists—dey are ebhrywheyar. And beware of dis Bijli-da. Dese gentry fellow cannot be trusted. Olways doing number-two bijness. ’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ said Li. Could it have been her? She was a force of nature. Through sheer force of will, she had subjugated one of the most Machiavellian minds of the twentieth century. Had she engineered the elimination of Barin Mondol as a suspected Maoist? Li hated it when crazy people got involved in his cases. You could never predict what they were going to do next. On the other hand, there was never any harm in asking.

‘What are your future plans, old mother?’ he asked.

She flashed him a smile, and in that moment Li realized why so many had once followed her. She bent down and whispered in his ear. ‘I ham oowaiting phor da right moment,’ she said. ‘Storm is coming. Can you not pheel it? Can you not hear it?’ She listened for a moment and smiled, satisfied. ‘Bhery soon! Bhery soon!’ She drifted off, taking tiny little dance steps, clipping Bijli Bose lightly on the side of the head as she passed.

Big Chen called. His face was grim. ‘Geju’s here,’ he said, ‘the one who manages the boys. Looking for a fight. He brought his drone. Its language is filthy.’