Murder with Bengali Characteristics Page 2

  ‘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.

  3

  ‘He’s probably in the bathroom, singing.’

  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 abo
ut 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.

  ‘What’s up, boss?’

  ‘We’re investigating a former member of the Politburo,’ said Li.

  ‘What?’ said Sexy Chen. He went semi-transparent with fear, flickered in and out, and disappeared. Moments later, he burst into the room, in person. He must have been somewhere nearby.

  ‘Don’t do it, boss!’ he said. ‘It’s suicide! Remember what the principal at the Beijing Police Academy said. Solve the case gloriously, but be careful where big people are involved.’ Sexy Chen planned to betray Inspector Li at some point in order to further his career. He seemed like the disloyal type, and if there was one thing Sexy Chen could not stand, it was disloyalty. But not just yet. The timing had to be right, and he had no desire to go down with him.

  ‘A man is dead,’ said Li. ‘He was a decent man, I think. You’re going to help us find out who killed him.’

  ‘Who’s the Politburo member?’ asked Sexy Chen, sticking to the point.

  ‘I should have said former Politburo member. His name is Bijli Bose. He ran Bengal for years, before the war, before they invited us in. He’s been a loyal supporter of the Motherland. It’s just that for a long time no one knew which Motherland.’

  ‘A darkie?’ Sexy Chen relaxed slightly. That made things easier, but he would remain vigilant.

  ‘I talked to him briefly. Seemed like a tough nut,’ said Li. ‘Find out more about him. Now tell me about the Maoists. There’s a local camp nearby. What have they been up to lately?’

  Sexy Chen relaxed further. The boss wanted to gossip. His loyalty was suspect, but he had his good points. He was quite human with his subordinates.

  ‘The liberated zone closest to the Protectorate is Junglemahal. They’ve been ruling it for years now. The boys over there are supremely chilled. They’re focusing more on theatre and floriculture. Discipline has been going to hell. Some of them have come back from the Patna front. Others are local recruits who just want to stay home. They’re not as interested in revolution as they used to be. Violence is way down. They haven’t executed too many class enemies lately, although this could be because there are none left.’

  Would Barin Mondol classify as a class enemy, Li wondered. Technically, he worked for the government, but in a low-level clerical position in the Fisheries Department. He would have to go there. He would also have to visit some of these supremely chilled Maoists. They were very different from the Maoists back home, who were busy identifying revisionists and waiting for popular sentiment and circumstances to align. Meanwhile, they were raising funds by selling Mao memorabilia.

  ‘Big Chen is finding out about the other victims. You find out more about the thugs. They’re a secret society. Go check with Crazy Wu. He’s good with secrets.’

  ‘Please, boss, not Crazy Wu,’ begged Sexy Chen. ‘His skin is covered in creepy-crawlies. The last time I met him, he and his duplicate spent most of their time cracking jokes about me.’

  Crazy Wu was their Information Officer. He never came out of the basement. His primary job was to prevent the public from getting too much information. He helped suppress reports, comments, paintings, photographs, memes, graphic novels, music, films, books, art installations, theatre, interpretative dance performances, mime and any other form of self-expression which contained the wrong type of thinking. He was a member of the Happy Cow Army, a hacker collective, which had once roamed proud and free. Now they were government employees. They created software that hunted disloyalty across networks and devices, ensuring that even the original files were destroyed. Nowadays, when a book was banned, it disappeared forever. Because Crazy Wu spent so much time making knowledge disappear, no one knew more than him. Li had figured this out long ago. Crazy Wu was unpredictable, but for some reason he approved of Li.

  Inspector Li looked down at his phone. It was Gao Yu. In the old days, he had often ignored her calls, because he was busy. Now that it was too late, he never made that mistake. ‘Just go,’ he said, as he dismissed Sexy Chen. Gao Yu appeared on his screen. It had to be a screen. There was no way he could afford long-distance holo. Her eyes were just as alive as he remembered. She seemed to have grown fairer, but her nose was still crooked. Her pimp had punched her in the face. She had knifed him in the groin. Her police record had made her out to be a one-woman crime spree. He remembered well. That was the second time they had brought her in.

  ‘What did you do with my red shoes?’ she demanded. He braced himself. He knew that expression. It meant trouble.

  Li tried hard to remember. ‘I sent everything back in a box,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have much.’

  ‘You know how hard I worked to save money for those shoes from what you gave me every month?’

  Li remembered. She had been a good wife, for a while.

  ‘I didn’t think you would need them,’ he said gently. ‘Your new man could buy you a whole shoe factory, if he wanted. You could have an Italian cobbler living in your dressing room. Why would you need old shoes?’

  Gao Yu was waving something. It looked like a weapon. ‘Look at this! Look! You couldn’t keep them properly? Was it so much trouble? The heel is broken. I used to love these shoes.’ She was working herself up. He could see it. He did what he always did.

  ‘Send me a picture,’ he said. ‘I’ll save up and buy you new ones. I have to rush, pretty. I have to go back to a village near the jungle, and then I have to meet a politician. He could be involved in a murder.’

  Gao Yu hung up on him.

  4

  ‘He doesn’t know ABCD, but his house is like the Taj Mahal.’

  It was a village of thatched roofs and naked children. Nothing much had changed in hundreds of years. Li’s car was the most modern object within a fifty-mile radius. Village boys had gathered round it, peering inside, running their hands all over, whispering to each other. The car put up with it for a while, before letting off a blast on its siren. The boys scattered. The car called after them. ‘Juveniles! Remember to study the Six New Thought Processes! And always wash your hands before meals!’

  The old lady sat on her porch, a stainless steel plate on her lap, picking stones out of a pile of rice. She threw them at her goat who ignored them. She bared her toothless gums at Li. ‘All these teeth were taken from me by ration shop rice,’ she said. ‘However much you try, you can never get them all.’

  ‘It’s the same everywhere,’ said Li.

  ‘Barin-babu never mixed with us much,’ she said, ‘even though we lived next door. He did come to my husband’s funeral, though. He ate very little.’

  ‘Too high class?’ asked Li.

  ‘What class will a Mondol have? Nothing like that. In the morning he would do his puja, bathe-shathe, go off to office. He was a small-time gorment babu. Not even smart enough to make money. Came back in the evening, read his books, ate dinner, slept. He was always reading books. Very big scholar he was. One of my nephews was like that, always reading. Bhodai, go and have your bath, I would say. Just coming, he would say, two more pages. He never amounted to much. Neither did Barin-babu. What was the point of so much reading? Barin-babu lived in a raw hut, just like me. These are all useless pursuits. Look at Geju. He doesn’t know ABCD, but his house is like the Taj Mahal. He has his own cinema hall, and his maid is automatic. Spoilt girls come for parties to his house.’

  ‘What about his students? Do
you remember any of them?’

  ‘I think one of them was Fatima’s husband-sister’s son, but I’m not sure. Five-six of them there were, age would be twelve-thirteen. He was chewing their heads, I can tell you. What’s the point in teaching village boys? What good can come of it? Will they become magistrates? And even if they do, what comes or goes for us? Moyna’s auntie-mother-in-law in Narayanpur, she became a magistrate. Now her son lives in America. People say he has a helicopter. What good did it do the village?’

  Li noticed his car hovering near Barin Mondol’s hut. It was in stealth mode. It had retractable tentacles, with which it could apprehend suspects, provided they weren’t too agile. It must have spotted something suspicious. Li let it be. It could well be a cow. Its ability to distinguish between humans and animals was limited.

  ‘So you’ve known him for many years,’ he said.

  ‘All my life. He was a few years older than me. His father was a railway guard. Used to beat his wife. Barin spent his whole life in the village. Only his college he did in Calcutta. He came back very modern. I thought he would marry a modern girl, but he never married. He was a communist. I don’t know what else he learnt in college, but communism he learnt very well. Everything was party, party, party with him. Party was his father, Party was his mother, Party was his children. All of us will be free, he would tell me, just you wait. In those days he was very active. In the beginning, Party did some good things. But after that, it became all goondas, like that Geju.’

  ‘I thought you liked Geju,’ said Li.

  ‘Who else is there to like? He’s the only person. Whatever has to be done, he has to do. We had thought the Party ruling means everyone in the village will prosper, but actually they had a quota. It was one person per village, approved by the Party. Mostly they are the goonda-badmaash type. Whatever kind of number-two business in the locality, that person will do. Seeing all this, Barin became depressed. Only during election time, Geju and the other boys would come, saying, come, come, Barin-da, you are well respected, come and ask for votes. The Party requires your service. Barin would go. After elections, they forgot about him, until next time. This was their system. In this way, the Party ruled. In Bengal, we prefer polite people. Seeing polite people in front, people were reassured. After some years, the goondas decided, now the public knows us well, there is no need to hide. Naturally by then we knew them, because they were taking money from all of us. From that time onwards, they fought elections on their own. Polite people became unimportant. The Party never called Barin again.’