Murder with Bengali Characteristics (2 page)

They could just as well have met in Agarwal’s enormous family complex on Lord Sinha Road, built to resemble an ocean liner, where alcohol was taboo, and everyone secretly drank in their rooms, but they had fond memories of Park Street. They were drinking buddies from college, when their funds had been low. They sat at their usual table. The waiter brought them chilli chicken and whisky. The chilli chicken was terrible, the whisky harsh and raw. The helpings of both were lavish. This was why Agarwal swore by the place. He was an active seeker of value. His fortunes had been built on this skill. Rats scurried under the tables, stopping occasionally to sniff their feet. Verma was relieved that they were ordinary rats, not the semi-sentient goblin creatures of the Dead Circle in New New Delhi. Calcutta had never been nuked, and had kept it that way by inviting in the Chinese. It was ten years since the war. The Indians had rebuilt New New Delhi, but the area where Mumbai used to be was still radioactive.

Sanjeev Verma took a sip of his whisky. It burnt his throat. He was going soft thanks to all the Blue Label. His bootlegger provided a regular supply, at prices lower than Scotland. He took another sip. He had to get used to it. If he wanted to maintain a regular supply of Blue Label, he needed Agarwal’s help, and Agarwal would faint if he suggested drinking it. He was a cheapskate. He had built a nightclub in his basement so that his children could avoid cover charges. Verma needed his help because the mine in Chhattisgarh which they jointly owned was in extreme jeopardy. It was true that his South African mercenaries were doing an excellent job of beating off the Maoists, despite the fact that they drank their body weight in beer. Luckily, the Maoists in the heartland were heavily invested in the encirclement of Patna, where the fighting was hard. They had no time for petty mining barons like them. But now the clouds of war were looming over his dark house, with the Competent Authority in New New Delhi spoiling for a fight, and the Chinese responding to his insults with equivalent skill and ferocity. If these two titans clashed, their mine would become a war zone, and their business would go straight to hell. It would almost certainly be confiscated by the Ministry of Defence, which had diversified over the years. His cousin Mehta had proved unhelpful in the matter of hiring the Indian Army, which would have established the sort of patron-client relationship that was invaluable in a situation like this. It was time to look beyond family. His father had always emphasized the value of family, but Verma had never been convinced. His generation trusted friends more. He had flown down to Calcutta, getting shot down only once in the process, in the hope that Agarwal would be able to do something. He had patron-client relationships of his own. So far, he had spent just a few hours in the city, but he was beginning to have his doubts.

‘This type of thing happens all the time here?’ he asked. ‘What about Chinese discipline?’

‘Bengalis are not so easy to discipline,’ said Agarwal, who was Marwari. ‘Believe me, we’ve being trying for generations.’ He spoke fluent Bengali himself. His family had spent over a hundred years in Calcutta, watching it transform from British to Communist to Chinese, with little bouts of anarchy in between. According to legend, the family had emigrated from Rajasthan with just a blanket and a small water jug, although it was hard to imagine all of them fitting under one blanket. It had been a large family, even then. Their women were notoriously fertile. They had been at the forefront of the Marwari takeover of the Bengal economy, driven by a combination of the Marwari talent for making money, and the Bengali conviction that such things were beneath them.

‘The band of our business is getting bajao-ed, boss!’ said Verma. His voice was booming, befitting his size. Several of the other patrons looked up disapprovingly, interrupted in their discussions of fiction and poetry. They were bhadralok, proper people, not like the lumpen on the street. Those were the little people. Little people had loud voices, due to their lack of refinement. ‘Our case is closing. Our asses are being taken. Our ganesh is flipping. As it is, we have to worry about the Maoists. Once they take Patna, they’ll turn their full attention to us. Then our story is finished.’

‘Maoists your side are still very violent,’ said Agarwal, ‘the ones this side are much more peaceful. They have allied with the Chinese to create a better society.’

‘Forget about society,’ said Verma. ‘What did society ever do for us? If a war starts now, we’re jacked out of shape. I was hoping we could start some sort of gadar here, so that the Chinese get nervous. Then they’ll be too busy suppressing the Bongs to think about war. But it looks like there’s already gadar here. Then why are the Chinese taking pangas? Are they mad or what?’

Agarwal tittered. ‘What, that little thing you just saw? You should see what happens after a Mohun Bagan–East Bengal match. Why do you think they still have mounted police in Calcutta?’

Verma gulped down the rest of his whisky and waved at the waiter. This was going to be even tougher than he had thought. New New Delhi was no picnic, what with all the mutants and the biker boys and Delhi Police, but Calcutta was at a different level. It was surprising. Bongs were so thin, and the ones in New Chittaranjan Park seemed so peaceful. He remembered what a former pickpocket from Calcutta had once told him. ‘These Bengalis, they look very thin,’ he had said, ‘but when they hit you, they hit very hard.’ He had clearly been reminiscing.

‘So that means that this type of chhota-mota disturbance won’t serve any purpose,’ said Verma. ‘We need a full-on revolution before the Chinese will notice anything.’

An ancient waiter tottered up to their table with a bottle of cheap whisky and a peg measure. Verma estimated his age to be ninety-seven. The unions were strong here. The waiter held up the bottle, like a magician about to do a trick, enabling them to verify its genuineness. He held the peg measure over Verma’s glass and poured till it overflowed, partly because it was restaurant policy and partly because his hands shook a lot.

‘The Chinese are quite used to it,’ said Agarwal. ‘In China too, people are restless. But, yes, if there was a full uprising, which fool would try to go to war at the same time? That way, Bengal has already had many revolutions. As you can see, they quickly get agitated. Just not recently.’

‘How do we start one?’ asked Verma, who was simple and direct in his methods.

This was not the first time that the subject of revolution had been discussed at Olypub, nor would it be the last.

Agarwal knew him well. He was very impatient. He humoured him. They also made serious money from the mine, so he was not totally averse to extreme measures.

‘We would need a figurehead. Someone to lead the people. Bengal has had many. Former cricket captain Sourav Ganguly would be a good choice, but he is very aloof. He is not taking an interest. Pishi would also be very good. She was once a tall leader of Bengal, although size-wise she is very small. She is a fighter. She is not scared of anyone, except Maoists. All the local good boys are her devotees. Wherever she leads, they will follow her. If you require gadar, whatever the opposition, there is no better candidate than her. Unfortunately she is currently in a mental institution. The Chinese put political enemies in mental institutions, because obviously anyone who opposes the Party must be insane. Of course, if you are looking for a charismatic figure who can lead the people, why look further than Bijli-uncle? He ruled for nearly thirty years, back in the twentieth century. He was an icon. There is a statue of him in Beijing. Without him, none of this would have been possible.’

‘How is he still alive?’

‘He was regenerated from some DNA found on a whisky glass. Unfortunately, he regenerated at the same age and condition as when he passed away. Scientists have been puzzled. Still, he is a good choice. But why revolution? Even in Calcutta, revolutions are not so easy to arrange. First let us try to do some fixing.’

Verma perked up. He was from Delhi. He knew all about fixing. ‘What type of fixing?’ he asked.

‘See, Governor Wen, he too is like an uncle to me. Let us first go and meet him. Perhaps he can be helpful.’

‘He’s the guy in charge here?’

‘No one knows who’s really in charge here. Different people have different powers. That’s their system. But he reports directly to the Young Prince. If he portrays a certain picture, he can influence his thinking. Luckily for us, the Governor is currently in a depressed frame of mind.’

‘And why is that?’

‘His experience in Bengal has not been good. His condition is said to be fragile. He sings in the garden a lot. This was a punishment posting for him. He used to be Mayor of Chengdu, but simultaneously he got into two-two ghaplas involving shopping malls and sexual disturbances. Or so I hear. Any one thing he could have managed, but the combination was too much for him. He was posted to the Bengal Protectorate. His reproduction permit has also been revoked.’

‘Sounds like a real loser.’

‘Yes, but his report will still carry weight. I can influence him.’

‘In your dreams, or genuinely? This is no time to be fucking around.’

Agarwal had delusions of grandeur, socially. He paid to get his picture taken with film stars. Sometimes they cut his birthday cake. He had not yet slept with a heroine, but he remained optimistic.

‘No, no, I know him, bhai. I got him his box at the Royal Calcutta Turf Club. He was supposed to get one anyway, but I pretended that I arranged it. His concubines love it, they dress up and carry pretty umbrellas and go to the races. He is very grateful to me.’

‘Well do something quickly, man,’ said Verma. ‘That fucker back home is unzipping as we speak.’

‘He’s a big person. We can’t just walk in. I know his man, Ganguly. He’s actually my man. He’s eaten enough from me. He’ll fix us up. All it requires is some fixing.’

Verma brightened considerably. It was something to look forward to. He had never fixed a Governor before. He was sure that the methods of doing so would be very different here, with many unexpected nuances and cultural peculiarities. It was true what Sunita said. Travel really did broaden the mind.

Inspector Li was debriefing Big Chen while soothing music played over the PA system, creating an atmosphere of tranquility. A pretty girl was massaging his shoulders. Conditions had improved considerably at Lal Bazaar, the traditional centre of law enforcement in Bengal, now home to the Calcutta office of the Public Security Bureau. It was like Scotland Yard with lathis, and a greater tolerance for paunches. The comfort and well-being of the security forces was a top priority. Everyone had Wi-Fi enabled swivel chairs, and fluffy monogrammed towels in the bathroom, although the aim of local constables continued to be poor, regardless of what they were shooting with.

Big Chen was immune to such fripperies. He was a tall man with a bullet head and the rough skin of a peasant. He came from a part of China where the towns had names like Kill the Foreigners, Pacify the Hu, Overawe the Barbarians, and Fuck the Eighth Uncle of all Invaders. People often thought he was stupid, and he never contradicted them.

‘Find out more about the other victims,’ said Li. ‘The thugs have been doing this for a while.’ He waved the girl away. She was distracting, and besides, they were all snitches. She slid off his table and left the room.

‘There were four of them,’ said Big Chen. ‘All of them were Chinese.’

‘Good man,’ said Li. ‘That means Barin Mondol was their first local victim. Unless they’ve been killing locals on the side. Might have been filed under local disputes. Find out more about the Chinese victims too. The thugs are supposed to be terrorists. Why did they kill them, and not you or me? I think we need to know.’

Big Chen made a note in his notebook. He preferred using pencils. It was one of the reasons why Li liked him. ‘The victim was a teacher,’ said Big Chen, ‘did you meet any of his students?’

‘I couldn’t find any,’ said Li. ‘The locals didn’t seem to know. They were poor kids. No one notices poor kids. The principal of the local school might have an idea. You should go meet him. Take Phoni-babu with you. Don’t let him beat up anyone.’

‘Right,’ said Big Chen. Phoni-babu was their local liaison, a hard-bitten veteran with a foul disposition and a deep aversion to work. Some contact with the locals was unavoidable, but Big Chen hated being in Phoni-babu’s company. His personal hygiene was deplorable.

‘We need to find out more about this New Thug Society, and the local Maoists,’ said Li. ‘We need to understand the politics of this case. It’s always about politics here. It’s because they don’t have anything else. Sexy Chen would know. He thinks he’s a player. Where is he?’

‘I can’t find him,’ said Big Chen, ‘He’s probably in the bathroom, singing.’ Sexy Chen liked the deep resonance that bathroom walls provided him.

‘Get him to throw.’

Big Chen whispered into his phone. ‘The boss wants you. Throw yourself in, loser,’ he said. Relations between the two sergeants were not good. Sexy Chen was a typical Shanghai thruster, all knees and elbows.

Sexy Chen materialized in the centre of the room, shimmering. He was life-sized but slightly transparent, and looking good, as usual. He was adjusting his hair, but he stopped when he saw Li. He had high cheekbones and narrow eyes. His hair was luxuriant. Sexy Chen fantasized about being a pop singer, which was his back-up plan in case he failed to make it to the Central Committee. He was the son of a minor princeling who had shamed his family by running someone over with a BMW and allowing it to get on the news. He had come to the Bengal Protectorate to rebuild his career. He had joined the police because the army was too crowded, and had vowed that he would go back to mainland China only after he had made a name for himself. This meant that he was probably here for life. Meanwhile he was constantly checking all the angles, finding out the right connections, assessing who was up and who was down. Li was down, and couldn’t care less. This made him formidable. Sexy Chen issued a sketchy salute.