Murder with Bengali Characteristics (18 page)

‘Don’t knock him out,’ said Li, who knew Big Chen well. His views in such matters were simple and direct. ‘I need to ask him some questions. Things are moving fast.’

Li excused himself and left, dragging Phoni-babu, who was inclined to linger.

‘What a woman!’ said Phoni-babu, peering back at the bedroom door. ‘Because of her, even in this dark time there is still hope!’

They saw faint wisps of smoke as they flew over the city, people were filling the streets. Black armoured cars of the People’s Armed Police dotted the landscape, but the cars were few, and the people were many. Somewhere in the distance, they heard the dull thump of a mortar. As they got out in front of the station, they were almost knocked over by a Chinese vendor, hurrying off with his tin trunk on his head. He did not stop to apologize. He was followed by others. They had been selling prawn wafers and meat pies in the little lane behind Lal Bazaar since 1853, but some sixth sense was telling them that their time was up. Old China was leaving. The rest was up to New China. Big Chen opened his mouth to speak, but Inspector Li was already striding into the building. He had a case to wrap up.

Geju-da had come dressed for the occasion, in a crisp white linen shirt over his blue-checked lungi. His drone hovered over his left shoulder, small, jet-black and menacing.

‘Acchha, Inspector-sahib, so finally you’ve come. Good you could find the time. Your hotka assistant is not cooperating, just standing there like a cut soldier. He pretends as if he doesn’t understand anything. But I understand everything. You think I’m a goatfucker? I won’t accept this. It won’t be good, I’m telling you. Geju doesn’t fear anyone.’

‘What’s your problem?’ asked Li.

‘Poblem? I’ll tell you the poblem. You’re hitting me in my stomach, that’s the poblem. You hit my stomach, I won’t let you go!’

‘Won’t let you go, gandoo!’ echoed the drone, firing a laser bolt at the ceiling. It sliced through the blade of a ceiling fan, leaving it dangling limply.

‘I haven’t hit you in the stomach yet,’ said Li, ‘but I can if you want me to.’

‘Jokes? You’re making jokes, sillyfucker? I’ll show you jokes!’

Big Chen made a move towards him. Li waved him back. Even Phoni-babu was appalled. ‘Chhee chhee, Geju, is this any way to talk?’ he said. ‘What will people think? Try to be cultured.’ Since his meeting with Pishi, he was acutely conscious of culture.

‘Oye, who asked you to speak? Big talk in small mouth! Go beat up a rickshaw-wallah. Don’t give me dialogue, I’ll change your face-cutting.’

Phoni-babu turned to Li, hands raised in supplication. He was on the verge of tears. ‘Sir, where is the dignity?’ he wailed. ‘Thirty years I have honoured this uniform. Naturally between goonda-class and police people some amount of adjustment is required. But in front of you he is speaking like this? How much more must I suffer? All I am doing is serving you loyally, without ever asking for any return.’

‘You still haven’t told me your problem,’ said Li. He was extremely calm. This was a bad sign. Big Chen loosened his holster.

‘Stop messing with my boys! It’s not going to be good, I’m telling you. My boys are my income. I support them, they support me. Anybody interferes, dead bodies will drop. You don’t know who I am. I started as a wagon-breaker, moved on to bladder business, now look at me today! Four-four cars in the garage! You think it happened just like that? All these people I’m feeding. Where would they be without me? All the time I’m supporting society. None of you high-class people do anything, only I am there. Tomorrow if there’s an election, do you think they’ll vote for you?’

‘Long live Geju!’ said the drone, ‘Geju live long!’

The nerve of Bengali goons never ceased to amaze him. From funerals to weddings to flag hoistings, there was no time or place where they feared policemen. Not even inside police stations. The man was acting as if he owned the place.

‘They’re witnesses in my case,’ said Li, ‘it’s part of my job.’

‘Saala! You’re showing me job? You think I’m a fool?’

The drone began to crackle again, warming up its laser. ‘Who says that?’ it demanded. ‘Who? Who?’

‘Leave my boys alone, I’m telling you,’ said Geju. ‘You’re an agent of Debu Maoist, don’t think I don’t know. You’re all in it together, sucking the blood of the people! You’ve been eating their brains, meeting my boys and doing gujguj-phusphus. One by one, they’re leaving. Just now Toobloo joined them. Feeding them, clothing them, all this training I gave, what, so that just like that they can walk away? Don’t try to be clever with me. Result will not be good. You like the little boys so much, one-two bodies I can send you. Then we can see.’

‘Why don’t you go and fuck yourself?’ said Li.

‘Haramjada!’ roared Geju-da, lunging for him. ‘Shoot the drone’ said Li. Big Chen drew fast and fired from the hip. The drone exploded spectacularly. Li took Geju-da down with a single clean uppercut to the jaw. The goon dropped like a stone, settling into a boneless heap on the floor, covered in shards of drone.

Li rubbed his knuckles. Thanks to his father, he was a boxer in a land of kung-fu.

‘Do you think he did it?’ asked Big Chen. ‘Maybe he and the teacher had a fight over the boys? Then he killed him and made it look like the thugs?’

‘Lock him up and we’ll see,’ said Li.

His phone rang. It was Sexy Chen. He looked guilty.

‘It’s probably not your fault,’ said Li.

‘You asked me to track those two boys,’ he said.

‘Where are they?’ asked Li.

‘That’s the thing. We don’t know,’ said Sexy Chen, ‘I don’t see how it’s possible, but they’ve disappeared off the grid.’

‘Sounds like a job for Crazy Wu,’ said Li. ‘Funny how he keeps popping up, isn’t it? Join me in the basement.’

‘How can they just go off the grid like that?’ asked Big Chen. ‘We took their A-cards.’

‘Maybe they didn’t,’ said Li.

As Calcutta went up in flames, a small evening celebration was going on at the home of Bijli Bose. He raised his glass in a toast.

‘To the Proletariat!’ said Bijli Bose.

‘To the Proletariat!’ said Propagandist Wang.

They had much to thank the proletariat for. Rioting had started in the streets. Buses were burning. The systematic and clandestine removal of all fish from Calcutta, as suggested by Bijli Bose, had pushed them over the edge. His own suggestion of a Xinjiang-style programme against Kali temples had helped. It looked like war would be averted. There would be some temporary pain, but it would all be for the betterment of both their people.

‘Your contribution was invaluable, Mr Bose,’ he said, ‘you not only thought of the idea, you chose the right people for the job. To conduct a secret operation in Calcutta markets, who better than the thugs? All due to your guanxi with their leader.’

‘All of us know each other in Bengal,’ said Bijli Bose modestly. ‘Lahiri and I are both members of the Calcutta Club. Bit obsessed with temples, but otherwise a sound fellow. My paternal cousin sister married his maternal uncle-brother.’

‘They are masters of deceit, those thugs,’ said Wang, ‘much better than those inferior Japanese ninjas. One of them was arrested yesterday, by the way. He was pretending to be a momo seller in front of the LIC building on Chittaranjan Avenue. His costume was perfect but his stove gave him away. It had robot arms and a dish antenna, and it kept giving passers-by tips on nutrition. In the evenings, he was making pathetic attempts in local markets to locate fish. Apparently, this was why he had come, although he had misplaced his master, who was a trader of fish. We gave him a small packet of prawns and put him on a flight to Tokyo.’

‘Your bit about the FARS virus was a masterstroke,’ said Bijli Bose. ‘It added to the panic and the resentment. For maximum impact, you should go on TV in the evening and deny it. Things have worked out well. It looks like you’ll be back in Beijing soon. Have you found yourself a suitable position?’

‘Why go just yet?’ said Wang. ‘Perhaps I could contribute to bringing peace to the province, and go back a hero.’ This could easily be achieved by releasing some of the fish back in the market. He had not shared this part of the plan with Bijli Bose. He wanted to act swiftly and make sure he got all the credit. All he had to do was find out
where
Bijli Bose was keeping the fish.

‘Your mind never stops working.’

‘Your wisdom inspires me.’

‘You know, it’s true what Nehru said.’

‘You mean, it’s true what imperialist stooge Nehru said,’ corrected Propagandist Wang, gently.

Bijli Bose raised his glass again. ‘It’s true what imperialist stooge Nehru said. Hindi-Chini Bhai Bhai!’

They clinked glasses and drank to that.

A brick smashed through the window, landing on the carpet near their feet, followed by the sound of an explosion outside. Two servants in white appeared instantly, and briskly brushed up the glass. Bijli Bose frowned slightly. His armchair drifted to the right, away from the window. The small table with the glass followed.

Verma burst into the room, followed by Agarwal. They were dishevelled and bore signs of recent manhandling.

‘The public appears to be angry,’ said Bijli Bose.

‘Angry?’ said Verma. ‘They’re out of their fucking minds! These Bengalis pretend to be quiet and sophisticated, wearing spectacles and not going to the gym, but they’re a bunch of lunatics. I’ve been checking their history. Twice they’ve trashed the Eden Gardens. Every week they burn buses. Not to mention the freedom struggle. It’s like Kashmir out there. I saw some local boys spray a tank with chilli powder. The mounted police are useless because the horses are terrified. And which genius issued the prawn crackers to the troops? I saw a crowd pounce on a platoon and strip them down to their underwear. I saw men on the street selling pictures of fish. I saw a column of vegetarians leaving the city, clinging to their meager belongings, looking back sadly. I saw a little old lady smash the window of a pet shop, and stagger off with an aquarium. The little fish swam about in it hopelessly.’

Silence fell over the room, punctuated by the occasional homemade bomb. Propagandist Wang excused himself and left. Propaganda played a key role in times of crisis. He had further work to do involving the FARS virus.

Agarwal nudged Verma. He was trying to teach him manners. It was an uphill task, but he refused to give in. Verma cleared his throat. ‘We want to express our gratitude, Bijli-uncle,’ he said, ‘for all the benefits you have given us. We wanted massive gadar in Calcutta, and thanks to you, massive gadar has been created. Your idea of removing all the fish from the market was pure class. We had to spend a lot of money, but it was worth it. Sometimes in business, investment is required. We will be happy to have a drink with you if you ever come to New New Delhi, even though you did not share your Scotch with us. I just hope things don’t get out of control. Public is looking very ferocious.’

A hint of a smile appeared on the face of the ancient leader. ‘They are like children,’ he said, feebly radiating confidence. ‘Soon they will forget.’

From love jihad to tram ticket prices, it had always been easy to inflame the public in India, and just as easy to put a lid on it once the purpose had been served. People were simple that way. There was no reason to believe that this time would be any different.

Many voices rose in anger, just outside in the street. A servant ran in. He was hysterical, but hiding it. He bent down to his master’s ear and spoke. ‘Sir, the local boys are demanding fish. The cook let slip that we’re having hilsa for dinner. Should we give them some?’

‘Arrey, chhee chhee,’ said Agarwal, ‘what are you saying? If you start this kind of thing, tomorrow they will land up at my house also. Where will it end? Just because I have food, am I supposed to feed everyone? That too, hilsa? They are spoiling the whole basis of our society!’

Bijli Bose held up a trembling hand. Agarwal fell silent.

‘Give it. To them,’ he said. The servant turned to go. ‘Wait,’ he whispered. ‘Throw it to them. From the balcony.’

A short while later, pieces of fish were being flung from the balcony. Though initially mortified by the tragedy, Agarwal managed to rationalize it.

‘Do you see?’ he told Verma. ‘This is what you call a tall leader. He no longer stands for elections, but still he keeps in practice. It’s like a fitness programme.’

The fish were soon disposed of, although the aroma lingered. It was time to go. They bent down and touched his knee. Bijli Bose touched their heads in benediction. They slipped out quietly.

‘How the hell do we get out of here?’ asked Verma as they stood in front of the gate. The street was full of smoke, and they could see fires burning in the distance. The rattle of automatic weaponry and cries of ‘Sillyfucker!’ filled the air.

‘Don’t worry, my gunship is coming,’ said Agarwal. ‘Just give me a minute, and I’ll call them. Wait, wait, my phone I left behind.’

He popped back up the stairs, and back into the living room. He took out a small brown paper packet from the inside of his shirt and placed it at Bijli Bose’s feet. Bijli Bose was a traditionalist. He disliked transfers. He preferred the warm feel of cold cash.

‘Sir, your share, sir,’ said Agarwal.

‘You got a good price from the Japanese?’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Agarwal, ‘Very desperate. Also trusting. Best type of customer.’

‘Why so much, son? Don’t you have to split with your partner?’

‘What partner?’ said Agarwal. ‘What did he do? Everything was done by me. Once I found out what you were doing, I only told you, Bijli-da, what is this funny-peculiar, you are buying items and not even selling them? Just because we are doing work for the nation, should we not make money? How can we not do our dharam? As per Gita, it’s compulsory. Was he the one with the Shortage App on his phone, thanks to which we were able to calculate best possible price? He was useless, although he did provide company. That way it was good. I like to think positive. In this respect, I am like the late Dalai Lama. But Verma’s contribution was very little, just money to buy the fish. He never raised the subject of selling the fish. That’s the problem with these Punjabis. They can only see what’s in front of their face. See it, grab it, enjoy, that’s all they know. If he had asked me even once, “Agarwal, are you selling the fish?” I would have told him. He never asked. If a man leaves money lying on the table, am I supposed to close my eyes? This way, I am able to pay proper respect, as befits your status. Ganguly-da also sends his regards. Mentally, he is touching your feet.’