Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Story of one murder

Dedicated to my friend,
former police inspector Rajahu Kumar Battaharia


     I lost myself in the memories of my travels around the world.  And now I step out from the cloud of history and nostalgia to present a little gift to my readers, to whom I am so thankful for their love.       Filled with gratitude for that love, today I will give them a story about love.
This story I heard in one of the nightclubs of Calcutta, where I was going a few times a week.  It’s quite a common practice, dating back to colonial times, and I knew all the regulars.  One of them was a former police inspector, now an official with the government ministries.  Once, very late at night, we sat in the club, tucked away in our favorite corner.  The inspector sat opposite me on a low sofa, savoring  his whiskey.  I asked him to tell me a story--something from his days as a police inspector.  He took a sip from his glass, lit his cigar, and looked at me intently.  His eyes, heavy with dark circles, flashed in warmth.  He was quiet for a few minutes.  It was evident that he was remembering something.  Finally, he put his cigar on the small table and told me a story.  A story of murder.  If I were a detective writer, I would tell you this story in a different way.  But I am more interested in love stories, stories of passion.   So, in this story of murder, murder plays a much smaller role than what he is accustomed to.  It is simply a consequence--a consequence of love, and passion.         
Amir had just graduated from university in New Delhi and was back home, in Goa.  He was well-built, well-off, and handsome.  Long, shiny hair fell on his shoulders, and his black eyes had the kind of soft glance that is especially beloved by girls seeking love.  Amir had rarely seen his friends during his studies, and they now made up for lost time.  They went out almost every night, going out all night from one bar to the next, horsing around with each other, and flirting with girls. One such night, Amir got very drunk.  It was nearly sunrise, but Amir suddenly had a very strong desire to jump into the ocean.  He said goodbye to his friends and walked to the beach.  He ran to the edge and dived in, submerging himself in the cool water.  It was early morning and the beach was empty. The water flickered with the rising sunlight and the morning breeze.  Morning dew covered the beach chairs.  Exhausted, he threw himself onto a beach chair and fell asleep.  
A sound on the water made him open his eyes.  Someone was swimming.  The sun was bright in his eyes and he squinted to get a better look.  A girl in a white swimming suit appeared on the water and walked towards the beach.  Her long, black hair fell past her shoulders to her hips. Her skin was tanned, and shiny.  Rivulets of water ran through her hair and over her breasts.  She wrung out her hair, squeezing the water onto the sand.   Only now did Amir noticed the bag and flip flops not far from where he lay.  As he was staring at her, she met his look.  She wiggled her fingers in a tentative hello; he responded with lips still sticky from last night’s drinking.  The girl very quickly took her bag and sandals and walked away. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared from his view, though not from his mind.  He was still thinking of her when he plunged again into heavy sleep.
When he awoke, the sun was scorching.  His feet had fallen asleep.  Amir grabbed his coat and hurried home.  On the way, he stopped for a coffee and one piece of ladoo.  He wasn't hungry, but he needed to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. At home, he quick showered and changed his clothes, and headed back out.  He wandered aimlessly around the city, hoping to run into friends, or anyone, whom he could ask about the girl, his sirena.  The vision of her coming out from the water, the wet drops streaming from her hair... he wasn’t sure if had really happened or if it had simply been an illusion.  He spent the entire afternoon on his mindless quest, but he didn’t run into anyone.  He went home to get some good rest, at last. 
Several days passed. It was Diwali, the festival of light, so everyone was out buying sweets, garlands, jewelry, and colored powder to throw on each other in the streets and central square.  Amir decided to leave the house and join the festivities.  The market exploded in color, and the smell of flowers and spices hung heavy in the air.  He grew dizzy from all the sights and sounds.  Suddenly, he felt someone staring at him from behind.  He looked back, and there was his sirena.  She was standing behind the orange garland, looking at him.  She looked like she couldn't remember where she saw him.  With a trembling voice, he said, “Namaste.”  She replied with a voice like a light waterfall on a mountain.  Her voice went directly to the heart of the young playboy.  He was afraid to move in case she suddenly disappeared again.  He plucked up his courage to push past the garlands. Are you new in town?  Where are you from?  She wasn't shy, but she didn't meet his gaze as she answered his questions.  Her name was Rani, and she was the wife of a rich and famous hotelier from Mumbai.  She caught his disappointed look at the mention of her marriage.  She draped the train of her dress over her arm and started to walk away.  Amir grabbed her hand.  He didn't want her to go.   She pulled her hand away and walked away quickly.  
“Well,” thought Amir, "at least I know now I know where she lives." He smiled bitterly.  His thoughts were unhappy as he retreated back through the aisles of bright garlands and warm spices, which had now lost their allure.  The only thought that filled his head was that his sirena was married. In the nights that followed, he didn't sleep.  Rani stood before his confused, sleep deprived eyes. He drowned himself in the festivities of Divali and drink, but Rani never left his mind.  He was lost.
After one week, he went to her house.  It was evening.  He hid between the palm trees.  As a warm rain started to fall, a palm leaf stuck to his face.  Finally, he saw her, struggling to close the big doors that opened onto the veranda.  He jumped from behind the trees and stopped her. He caught her hands, grabbed her waist, and covered her mouth.  He whispered her in her ear, “Forgive what I am doing, but I was starting to lose my mind.  At first I thought it was drunken delirium... or that maybe you were a dream...” He was suffocating on his own words.  His eyes sparked with crazed passion.  Rani started to breath heavily.  A little moan escaped from her lips as she buried her face onto his chest.  She kissed him.  They stayed in the doorway--their lips pressed together, not noticing the heavy drops of water soaking their clothes.  They were caught wholly in their uncontrollable passion. Amir stayed in Rani's house, alone together except for the servants, who kept a discreet distance.  They ate champagne for breakfast and blood red wine for dinner, not once leaving the bedroom. The passion erased the memory that Rani was married and that her husband could return at any moment.  
The lovers were in a deep and peaceful sleep when the gates opened and a large car rolled into the driveway.  Rani woke up, panicked.  It's my husband!  She showed Amir the servants’ entrance leading out of the garden.  Amir jumped out the window wearing only his pants.  He stumbled away from the house in the dark, thoughts buzzing.  He didn't even notice as his friend approached him, asking if he was all right. Amir stood there-- shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned, his skin a strange color/a vacant look in his eyes.   Slowly, the story came tumbling out.  “Shit, man... Isn't she the wife of the ...?”  “Yeah, so what?”  Amir looked away.  “Nothing,” his friend said, “... there's just some talk that she was married before and they never figured out how the husband died.  The case was unsolved they never found the body.”  Amir thought it was odd, but memories of his passion drowned his world.  
Several days passed without seeing her again.  Amir called Rani, but she hung up as soon as soon she heard his voice.  Blind with passion, he did something crazy.  Love and passion kill logic.  One night, he reentered through the servants’ entrance.  The small pathway led him right to Rani's bedroom.  The bedroom was dark, but he heard voices.  He crept closer and heard champagne glasses clinking and Rani's voice saying the same words she had spoken to him only days before.  He lost track of time as he stood outside her door, tears pouring from his heart.  Finally, as day came, he went home.  He told himself that it was over, but his words were empty.
The vision of her kept reappearing.  He could taste her lips, feel her silky skin.  His thoughts were jumbled.  On a hot humid day, the specter of Rani materialized at his door.  The air was thick with the scent of fried paraata and the sounds of food vendors and people eating voraciously.
He was in his hammock.  She approached him and hugged him.  He quietly took her hands away and with a spent voice asked her what she was doing there.  “Go home to your husband,” he said quietly.  “You don't know!  He is so cruel.  I hate him.  I love only you!”  Amir smiled bitterly, the unwelcome memory of leaning against her bedroom window squeezing his heart.  Rani continued to hug and kiss him despite his resistance. The smell of her hair wore away his bitterness.  He led her to his bedroom.  I hope this dream never ends, he thought.  As if she had heard his unspoken plea, Rani said, “My husband will be leaving again soon.”  
Two days later, Amir went to Rani's home.  The lights were dark, but the door was unlocked.  Maybe she was waiting for me and fell asleep, he thought tenderly.  He ran his hands over the silky blanket.  But it wasn't Rani.  Her husband hit Amir in the face, hard.  Amir staggered back, confused.   What had happened to Rani?  Why was her husband there?  Instinctively, Amir picked up a bronze urn form the table and hit the husband in the head.  Blood poured everywhere.  His body fell on the floor heavily-- grunting, then quiet.  Only then did Amir realize what had happened, and remembered his friend's words.  
He didn't struggle when the police cars arrived.  Or as he received a heavy prison sentence.  He heard Rani received a handsome inheritance from her late husband.
My friend's cigar was almost done.  Against the bright lights of the club, his eyes glinted with wisdom.  Passion takes from us all reason.  He drew the last drop of whiskey to his lips and spoke of the last time he saw Rani, sitting alone at a café in the central square.  It was once again Diwali, and she held a jaleebi delicately in her hands.  
“Tell me Rani, off the record, just person to person... How could you do that to two people who you knew loved you more than life itself?”
She held the inspector’s gaze steadily as she spoke.  “Inspector, I was born on the streets.  I never knew my parents.  Do you know what I dreamed of as a little girl?  Not fancy dresses, or parties... I dreamed of having a whole crust of bread to eat, all to myself.”  She licked the sticky sugar from her fingers.  “Feelings?  Love?  I don’t think of such things, Inspector.  All I think about is never starving or sleeping on the street again.”  
We were the only ones left in the nightclub.  I thanked the inspector for his story, and bid him goodnight.  My driver looked me at questioningly.  “Let’s go home.”
It was late.  All the lights and store windows were dark.  We passed miles and miles of people sleeping in the street, many of them children.  How many Ranis were among them?  
At last, we arrived home.  The large iron gate opened and we rolled past the palms and fragrant flowers.  The driver opened my door and offered me his hand.  “Madam?”  The iron gate was slowly closing-- another world, another life , behind
them .  
Switzerland 2017



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