Murder with Bengali Characteristics (8 page)

‘Maybe I should go inside and look for him,’ said Li.

‘Please sit down, sir,’ said Phoni-babu. ‘Read one of these legal magazines. He is a high person in society. Everyone in his family held good positions, except for one nephew, who became a tabla player. Bhobanipur public is very ferocious. For over one hundred years they have been producing homemade explosives. You’ll cause an incident.’ They sat down in front of the imposing desk. The desk calendar was three years old. The chairs they were sitting on were simple and rickety. The chair on the other side was a monument in leather, with a small, grubby hand towel draped over one arm.

‘So a lot of potential recruits live in the neighbourhood?’ said Li.

‘Is this any way to talk?’ said Phoni-babu. ‘Please don’t forget to namaste when he comes.’

The hungry woman brought them cups of tea. Li took a sip. It was terrible, like all the tea in Calcutta. They drank so much, and knew so little. It was odd that they were so useless at it, given that there were more tea shops per square foot here than any other place on the planet.

A tall man in a spotless white kurta stepped in. The border of his dhoti was intricately embroidered. His hair was silver, and back-brushed smoothly, and he held a silver-topped cane in one hand. Li wasn’t worried. He was better armed. Phoni-babu stood up, rubbing his hands. ‘Sorry for the disturbance, sir, we had one-two questions,’ he said. ‘Please don’t mind.’

Amalendu-babu settled down in his chair, waving for Phoni-babu to sit too. He smiled at the two of them.

Amalendu Lahiri had hated the Chinese ever since his foot had been crippled by a Chinese foot massager, which was why he always carried a cane. He had watched the Chinese cancer eat away at the heart of his nation, bit by bit, inexorably, until one day it had eaten his foot, at which point he had stood up on one leg and said, ‘Thus far and no further.’ All his efforts since then had been devoted to their removal.

‘How may I help you gentlemen?’ he asked. He was aristocratic and gracious. Inspector Li hated him on sight.

‘I’m interested in the New Thug Society,’ said Li, ‘could you tell us something about it?’

‘Could you tell me what this is about?’ asked Amalendu.

Li saw no harm in it. ‘A teacher in Motipur was murdered,’ he said. ‘All the evidence points to a thug attack. You’re the head of the thugs. You advocate the strangulation of fellow citizens. It seemed logical to come and meet you.’

Amalendu smiled and shook his head. ‘This is a natural misconception. When we talk about strangling, we mean it purely in the metaphorical sense. It’s true that on Sundays and national holidays, we dress up in oddly unsuitable costumes and pantomime ritual murder using handkerchiefs weighted by coins. We’ve been doing so for generations. We practice over and over again, in order to get the hand-movements exactly right. But this is just for physical fitness. It makes the wrists and elbows more supple. Primarily, we are a cultural organization, with some light drilling to ensure that we synchronize spiritually. We also have a sister concern, the Junior Thug Society, which works with impressionable young minds. We operate in over three thousand schools. Our main focus is the mind, with secondary focus on the body. We would never assassinate anyone, let alone an educationist. I am appalled that an educationist has been assassinated. They are like jewels.’

‘Since you’ve spent so many years training young men to assassinate people, have you considered that someone may have actually gone out and done it?’ asked Li.

‘It’s natural to make that error,’ said Amalendu. His expression was forgiving. ‘All we do is clear the pollution from their minds, and help them to think good thoughts. Modern society is confusing them. Women are a source of challenge. Technology can be distracting. Western ideas are permeating. We are waiting for the return of Goddess Kali, who will destroy all the evils that have befallen us. Once we have received clear signals that she is coming, we will help to prepare the way. At that time, naturally we will rise up and destroy all evildoers. It’s our duty. But currently we are focusing on culture. In fact, the boys will be performing Tagore’s famous dance-drama
Chandalika
next week, in which a low-born woman causes a lot of difficulty. The women will all be played by men. I have seen the rehearsals. They are delightfully graceful. Would you like to come and see? I can give you tickets. Only five thousand rupees each. It’s at Kala Mandir.’

‘Chee chhee, sir,’ said Phoni-babu, unable to help himself. ‘Don’t ask money from the police. Even from you, this is not expected.’ The air was full of sentiment. In this case, his own had been hurt. ‘You can give us four complimentaries, and four more for my Big Babu. His wife is just like you, very cultured. Make sure it’s first row. Last week some cinemawallah gave second-row tickets, we had to break his legs. It was very unfortunate.’

‘Barin-babu was against religion,’ said Li, ‘He was an atheist, and he was teaching his students to think the same way. Didn’t this make him your mortal enemy?’

Amalendu smiled at his simplicity. Chinese people were so linear. It came from speaking a language where each word was a symbol. There was no nuance to it, no room for interpretation. Their language affected their thinking.

‘Naturally, we are against the Sickulars,’ he said, ‘but over time, we have managed to suppress most of them. Some of the more prominent ones have performed beautifully executed somersaults and become devotees of correct culture. The remnants are scattered and few. We don’t concern ourselves with them too much. Why would lions care about the barking of a few mongrels? This is the first time I am hearing about this person. The news must have been censored.
Ananda Bazar Patrika
has been carrying a lot of blank pages lately. If anything, we should worry about you people. So many of you are Christians these days. There are over 200,000 of you in Calcutta alone. The religious and demographic characteristics are changing, which is no doubt your plan.’

‘The other three victims were Chinese,’ said Li, ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about them, either?’

‘We were deeply shocked to see people maligning us in this way,’ said Amalendu, ‘although I must tell you there were four victims, not three.’

‘My mistake,’ said Li. ‘The fourth victim was that officer in Sina Bank, right?’

‘Actually he was a purchase manager in the Fragrant Valley Trading Company,’ said Amalendu, ‘but I don’t blame you for being confused. An officer of your experience must be handling so many cases.’

‘Can you help with some leads?’ asked Li. Sometimes he pretended to be humble.

‘This Motipur is in Junglemahal, isn’t it? Very lawless locality. No doubt godless Naxalites would have been involved, or perhaps one of the local boys. Although I am sure the local boys there are also very good boys.’

‘It’s likely,’ said Li. ‘This place is full of them.’ He handed him a card. It was screenpaper. Above his name, it flashed encouraging slogans, which changed periodically. ‘Avoid feudal and superstitious practices’ it was saying currently. It seemed appropriate. ‘Do apply your mind to the matter, sir,’ he said. ‘If you come up with anything, or receive any information, let us know.’

‘Certainly,’ said Amalendu. ‘Our loyalty to the administration is absolute.’

The hungry woman ushered them out.

‘What did you learn from that?’ asked Phoni-babu. He knew that Li was good at investigation. He had heard of this phenomenon. He was curious.

‘I learnt that good Bengali gentlemen think they know everything, so they love correcting you,’ said Li. ‘It shows who knows more. And they don’t feed their maids very well.’

The car was waiting. They got in. ‘The locality of Bhobanipur was home to many members of the Bengali intelligentsia,’ said the car, ‘until real estate prices in Ballygunge went up. Those who have adorned this neighbourhood include immortal leader Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, legendary cine star Uttam Kumar, internationally acclaimed film director Satyajit Ray, architect of the Emergency, Siddhartha Shankar Ray, Commissioner of Burdwan District, Brajendranath Dey, eminent barrister, Rajendra Bhushan Bakshi, Hindu Nationalist pioneers, Ashutosh Mukherjee and Shyama Prasad Mukherjee, melodious singer Hemant Kumar, unforgettable theatre personality…’

‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot you in the brain,’ said Li. ‘I know where it is.’

The car lapsed into hurt silence.

A famous Indian batsman was weeping on the sidelines, lying on his stomach with his face in his hands. ‘Please don’t make me do any more push-ups!’ he sobbed.

The Chinese coach blew his whistle. ‘You rise,’ he said.

‘I can’t do it any more,’ said the batsman. ‘How will I lift a bat after this?’

The coach was merciless. ‘You do fifty more,’ he said. He blew his whistle again. This was a punishment posting for him. He had been a swimming coach. He bitterly regretted visiting the
New York Times
website during the Asian Aquatic Meet in Tokyo. He had thought no one would notice.

Similar scenes of horror were being enacted all over Eden Gardens, a magnificent stadium which had been set on fire repeatedly until they had laid the seats in concrete. Calcutta crowds were naughty by nature. Each of the Kolkata Light Striders now had an individual coach. Each was being pushed to levels of fitness he had never imagined in his worst nightmares. KLS was the sole representative of advanced revolutionary thinking in the Indian Fat Cat League. Nothing less than total domination was acceptable. There were rumours of the death penalty for failure. The authorities had felt bound to clarify and put up a one-line notice in the dressing room. ‘Rumours have been circulating,’ it said, ‘that loss of points could lead to the execution of those responsible.’ Morale, never high to begin with, had plummeted. One of the players had jumped off the team bus while it was passing through Metiabruz, near the Hooghly River, and no one had heard from him since.

Verma looked around approvingly. You had to give it to the Chinese. They knew how to get things done. ‘It’s about time these guys worked for a living,’ he said. Agarwal found the atmosphere disturbing. Some of the players were friends. He hated to see them suffer. He waved out to one of them, who was stretched out on something that was more or less a rack.

They walked to the centre of the field, where Junior Khan and his manager were waiting for them. Nearby, a small cluster of players stood in a huddle. One of them was doing a quick spot of self-criticism. ‘I didn’t bowl fast enough,’ he was saying, ‘I paid insufficient attention to the instructions of Manager Feng. I failed to work on my upper body strength. My socks smell. I was weakened by drinking too much carbonated beverage…’

A whistle blew sharply, twice. The players re-doubled their efforts. The air was filled with moans and cries and whispers and sighs. It was like a Swedish film retrospective.

Junior Khan came forward. He knew Agarwal well. They went to the same clubs. Khan was a superstar, like his father, only more cheerful and less prone to moodiness. He didn’t mind being called Junior, and readily admitted that his dad was much better. Everyone loved him, even the Chinese. They were growing quite fond of Hindi movies. Their moral fibre was weakening.

‘Hello Kanti-bhai,’ said Junior Khan. ‘Welcome to Eden Gardens.’

‘This is my partner, Verma,’ said Agarwal, ‘he’s from Delhi.’

He cleared his throat nervously. The matter was delicate. There was no good way to tell a man who was a superstar in seventeen countries that they needed him to pimp for them. Of course, it was all for a noble cause. Lives were at stake. Agarwal had managed to convince himself that his motives were altruistic, although he was not averse to making a rupee or two if the opportunity presented itself. But how was he to broach the subject? Tact would be called for.

‘So, dude, where did all the babes go?’ asked Verma, precipitating matters to a certain extent.

‘You mean the cheerleaders?’ asked Junior Khan, genuinely shocked. He respected the girls. They were performers, just like him, and his father before him, and an integral part of the KLS experience.

‘Ya, man,’ said Verma, ‘are they tired from all the partying or what?’ He emphasized the word ‘partying’. What a dickhead, thought Junior Khan. Fresh from the mustard fields. Either real estate or mining. Even the sand mafia had more style.

‘The girls have just finished their reality show,’ he said, ‘Right now they’re at army HQ in Fort William.’

‘Raising the morale of the troops?’ inquired Agarwal, politely.

‘Being trained by instructors from the Army gymnastics team. They’re on a diet of soya milk and cucumber. They’re suffering terribly. We tried smuggling in some burgers the other day, but the security is way too strict.’

Agarwal grimaced. There was no doubt about it. He was being fucked by fate. His original plan had involved loitering around the sidelines, chatting up one of the girls near the water cooler during a break between jumping jacks, whisking her off in his limousine for a quick tea with Governor Wen, and then allowing nature to take its own course. Beyond that he would not go. After all, he too had mothers and sisters. But he had not anticipated that the cheerleaders would be in military custody. It wouldn’t be easy to get near the water coolers in Fort William, nor were they likely to be getting many breaks.

The whistle blew again. Someone had collapsed. Orderlies, resplendent in purple and gold, ran across the field with a stretcher. The stretcher was sponsored by Samsung, and shaped like a mobile phone. They were holding it at a forty-five degree angle, for greater logo visibility. Sometimes the patients slipped off, but the sponsors never complained.

‘How about parties?’ asked Agarwal, clutching at straws, ‘You must be having some parties?’

‘There is no party except the Communist Party!’ barked Manager Feng, from just behind Junior Khan’s left shoulder. He was recording their conversation with his spectacles.

‘That’s true,’ said Junior Khan. ‘Frankly I’m relieved. Those parties were wiping me out. Everyone wanted to come. Nobody ever wanted to leave. It was like hosting three weddings every week. They drank their body weight in alcohol.’