Murder with Bengali Characteristics (5 page)

‘Everybody knew him,’ said the boy. ‘It’s because you’re a policeman. People say it’s better to wrestle a tiger than talk to a policeman. They can lock anyone up, and it costs money to get out. None of us have money. Is it true you can lock anyone up?’

‘Well the laws here are very strong,’ said Li, ‘you’re ruled by a penal code which was put together in 1861. This was just after you revolted against the British in 1857.’

He could see the boy’s lips moving. 1857. 1861. He was memorizing. He caught Li looking at him. ‘I like remembering things,’ he said by way of explanation.

‘The whole point behind those laws,’ said Li, ‘was that the natives should never raise their heads again. You’re still ruled by those laws. You never did raise your heads again, so it must have worked very well. When we first came here from China, everyone was highly impressed. People say we’re a police state, but your laws are much worse. There’s this sedition law, for example. Anyone can be picked up for showing disaffection to the government. You know what that means?’

‘Not feeling affection,’ said the boy. ‘Like Haridas and his wife. They have disaffection. She beats him up regularly. When he asks why, she says why do I need a reason? When he’s drunk he can’t stop her, and anyway she’s bigger than him. She does it less now because the hospital is too far away.’

‘Well if you don’t feel affection for the government,’ said Li, ‘you can be arrested. That’s the law. Seeing how well it works here, we recently introduced it in China. So, yes, it’s true. We can lock anyone up. But I haven’t locked you up, have I? And I took you for a ride in a flying car.’

The boy considered this.

‘Geju-da used to know him,’ he said. ‘Most of us worked for Geju-da.’

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘What kind of work would boys like us do?’ said the boy. ‘We sell things on the streets of Calcutta.’

‘What do you sell?’

‘This and that,’ said the boy evasively. ‘Things.’

‘Anyone else you can think of?’

‘Debu-da used to play chess with him once a week. He’s the local head of the Mao-followers. Manik-babu, the chaiwallah, says he’s a disgrace to the revolution, and should be shot, but Manik-babu believes everyone should be shot. Debu-da seems like a nice guy. He likes books. He’s the reading-writing type.’

‘Did your Master look worried about anything?’

‘Mister Master was always worried. Whenever we asked him why, he would say he was worried about the country. If you mean was he worried about anything particular, he never told us. But why are you asking so many questions? Wasn’t he strangled by thugs?’

‘He might have been,’ admitted Li. ‘Did you see any thugs around the village?’

The boy laughed. ‘You’re so funny,’ he said. ‘How will you find out anything if you know nothing? As if anyone can see thugs. They hide in the shadows. They melt in with the rest of us. They’re just like you or me. They strike up friendships at tea shops, or give you a lift on their motorcycle. They become your friend. They sit and chat with you, just like we are chatting right now. Then they strangle you, and leave a coin. But you’re safe. I don’t have a handkerchief. I’m lucky I have pants. That’s thanks to Geju-da. It’s a matter of prestige for him. “My boys should not look like beggars,” he says.’

‘So Geju-da takes care of you?’

‘Naturally he does. We provide his income. We work on the street, he takes care of permissions.’

‘You mean applications and forms?’

‘No, I mean money. He pays the police. You also must be getting some. Geju-da says he pays everyone, even the Commissioner.’

‘They must have forgotten to give me my share,’ said Li. ‘Now hand over your A-card.’

The boy hesitated. Once the police had his number, they could locate him through GPS, thanks to the chip embedded in it. It was mandatory to carry the card at all times. When the government had first made A-cards compulsory, they had said it was to provide benefits. But they had never specified who would benefit. Now it was much clearer. Thanks to the A-card, the government could locate anyone any time they wanted. They could also check his bank balance, find out what pizza he had ordered last week, see where he had last gone on holiday, and study any medical procedures he might have undergone recently. Luckily, he was too poor to afford any of these. But the location thing was a problem.

‘Someone killed your Mister Master,’ said Li, ‘I don’t know who, and I don’t know why. But I do know that if one member of a group is killed, it doesn’t always end with him.’

The boy handed over his A-card.

‘Oh, that one’s in the gap! Rocketing off the bat like a tracer bullet! It’s all about timing and placement! What a strike! Terrific blow! That’s some outstanding batting by the captain!’

The commentator was standing on a rickety folding chair, with two men on either side in case he fell off in his excitement. The crowd did not go wild immediately. A small group of men around the boundary line clapped furiously. ‘Guru! Guru!’ they cried. ‘What a sot!’ They turned and glared at the villagers, who raised a feeble cheer. The villagers were wretchedly poor. Most of them were bare-bodied. A few wore tattered vests. None of them wore pants, just strips of cloth wrapped around their waists. Many people in China still wore ragged pants, but at least they had pants. Big Chen found it hard not to feel contempt for them. Why did none of them want to get ahead? Did they want to stay this way their entire lives? He was equally disgusted by the principal of the local school, whom they had come to see. He was the one in the middle, thrashing the opposition bowlers. Beyond the field, in front of a health centre with no roof, a mixture of rice and dal was being cooked in a huge aluminium drum, over a massive gas stove. A separate table was piled high with choice fillets of bhetki, a type of native fish which was somewhere in the middle of the highly complex local fish hierarchy. Once the match was over, the whole village would celebrate his batting exploits with a feast. What kind of man was he, parading his wealth and influence in front of so many poor people? Wasn’t he supposed to be running a school?

‘He’s a regular Li Gang, is what he is,’ muttered Big Chen. ‘Thinks he’s above the law.’

‘You people are so ignorant. It’s a good thing I’m here,’ said Phoni-babu. ‘You don’t understand the function of government school employees in Bengal. Their purpose is not education of children. Their purpose is education of the public.’ Phoni-babu was a wizened little man of indeterminate age. His hair was wispy but his moustache was pronounced. His A-card said he was twenty-two. His birth certificate had suffered rain damage, so there was no way of verifying this. His approach to policing was traditional. It involved beating up people, taking away their money, and complaining a lot. The Chinese let him make his money and, in return, he helped them out.

He and Big Chen had come to meet the Principal of Motipur Secondary School, hoping that he could help them locate some of Barin-babu’s students. In addition to being an educationist, the Principal was a local pillar of the Party. In order to avoid corruption, the Party never paid its workers. It gave them teaching jobs instead.

‘The main thing they are teaching is that it is never a good idea to oppose the Party,’ explained Phoni-babu. ‘They are there in every village. In this way, with the help of school principals and local elder brothers, the Party maintains its grip over Bengal. All this was the brainchild of Pomode-babu, architect of the Party. Bijli Bose was the face of the Party, but Pomode-babu was the man with the bamboo, standing right behind him. He could make strong men wet their pants. Even today, in the middle of the night, mothers tell their restless children, “Little one, go to sleep, otherwise Pomode-babu will come.” He used to smoke cigars. His ghost still inhabits their office in Alimuddin Street. Late at night, when the city is still, except for the occasional explosion and cries of the wounded, you can still smell a small amount of cigar smoke in the building. Compared to him, who is this Principal? Pomode-babu used to eat three such people for breakfast.’

A nearby worker overheard them. ‘Oye, don’t be disrespectful,’ he said, ‘Our dada is not only a teacher and a pincipaal, he is a leader. He provides vision. A rape case happened here last week. He has come here on behalf of the Party. Investigation is running a little slow. He is showing his solidarity with the villagers by playing a cricket match, after which he will feed everyone. In this way he is demonstrating our commitment to good administration. He is trying to touch the hearts of the people through sporting activities. You can say he is a dreamer, but he is not the only one.’

‘This part even I cannot understand,’ said Phoni-babu. ‘He is making mincemeat out of the local bowling attack. How is this going to cheer them up? It’s very likely that none of them will ever play cricket again.’

‘What is this game, anyway?’ asked Big Chen.

‘It’s cricket, the game of kings,’ said Phoni-babu, ‘Look over there. In the ground, behind the Principal, you will see three pieces of wood. You have to defend these pieces of wood from the ball thrown by a person at the other end, with a bigger piece of wood, which you hold in your hand. The umpire keeps an eye on the bowler. If the bowler gets too close to the batsman, he has a better chance of getting him in the testicles. This is frowned upon. In this particular case, the umpire is the Principal’s cousin, but it is not compulsory that the batsman and the umpire should be related. As a batsman, you have to get the ball as far away as possible. Also you have to run, and, if possible come back, but before the wicketkeeper gets the ball. He stands right behind you, trying to smash your wood. You have to keep an eye on him. The best wicketkeepers are usually the sneaky type, always trying to get you from the backside. It’s their mentality. If you find out that someone is a wicketkeeper, do not trust him. Former captain of India, legendary Sourav Ganguly made this mistake, and as a result his career was hampered.’

‘A lofted, terrific shot, straight to the boundary!’ cried the commentator. ‘This man is on fire! A masterful strike by one of the greatest batsmen Jhargram district has ever seen! What a superb innings this has been!’ The Principal raised his bat. It was a signal for the crowd to cheer. He decided that enough entertainment had been provided for the day, and besides, it was beastly hot. ‘Put on some fish fry,’ he said, as he walked off the dusty pitch, removing his gloves and tossing them to a minion.

‘Well played, sir, well played,’ said Phoni-babu, coming forward to meet him. ‘That last shot of yours, it was as if Gavaskar had returned to us. What timing! Like a picture!’ As a member of the Calcutta Police, Phoni-babu was practised in dealing with politicians.

The Principal was a well-built man with wavy hair and a bit of a belly. A diamond twinkled in his ear. ‘What are you saying?’ he said, smiling. He reached out and shook his hand. ‘Where is Gavaskar, and where am I? How can I help you, dada? It’s not every day I get a visit from Lal Bazaar. I am just a lowly schoolmaster. What have I done to deserve this honour? Not the chit fund case, I hope? That type of thing I have never been involved in. Whatever pictures you have seen, all photoshop.’

Phoni-babu stuck out his tongue, and bit it, indicating acute embarrassment. The greater the embarrassment, the more the tongue was supposed to stick out. He spared no effort. ‘Arrey, na na sir, what are you saying? Chit fund case is at chargesheet stage, matter is very complex, where is the question of investigation? Don’t worry, all that we are taking care of. This large Chinese person is my colleague, Mr Chen. We have come here about Barin-babu.’

‘Sad loss,’ said the Principal, ‘Very sad loss. So many years he supported the party. Such a my-dear person, very genuine. All the time I would tell my boys, instead of watching item numbers, try to learn from Barin-da. Try to understand about petit bourgeoisie and class struggle, otherwise how will you call yourselves communists? Very learned person he was, always reading. Not very social. But what are you looking for here? I heard it was the thugs. Even a coin was kept on the pillow, I heard. I’m sure you understand, all news I get. I hope you’re not thinking I’m a thug-fug?’ He laughed uproariously. His followers, now clustered around them, joined in. He waved a humorous finger at Big Chen and Phoni-babu. ‘I know you police have quotas. You must have a thug quota also. That doesn’t mean you can just pick up anybody and everybody. When I go to the Education Department, do I feel like strangling people? Certainly. But does that mean I’m a thug? Everybody wants to strangle the Education Department.’

‘We’re checking out the thugs,’ said Big Chen, butting in. The man was a talker. Big Chen hated talkers. ‘The victim used to teach some boys in the evening. We’re looking for them. They may have been studying at your school.’

‘So many boys come and go,’ said the Principal. ‘We have no lack of supply. Some type of tuition so many are doing. In this district alone there are six IIT coaching centres. How can anyone keep track of who’s doing what? Is it possible? Otherwise I would help you. We are always happy to cooperate with the police. You cooperate with us, we cooperate with you. If you give me the names, I can try to identify. Meanwhile, you have come all the way from Calcutta, please join us for our picnic. Jodu, is the fish fry ready? Give some to our police brothers. Look carefully, baba, select some good pieces.’

Phoni-babu looked hopefully at Big Chen. Big Chen shook his head silently.

‘We’re in a hurry, but you can pack some,’ said Phoni-babu.

‘Saala, fish is in short supply, but not for Party dada!’ said Phoni-babu later, as they trudged back to their car, packets of fish fry tucked under their arms. ‘Prices are growing like fire, but Party dadas are getting full supply. How much more oppression must we accept? All the what! Nonsense! Anyway, now it’s very clear. We have no option. If we want to find out more about these boys, we have to go back to Motipur and interrogate the village women. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of them. I’m a veteran person. I’ve done this a lot.’