Murder with Bengali Characteristics Page 6

  ‘I found out about the other victims,’ said Big Chen, quickly. He already knew half of Phoni-babu’s autobiography, and he was trying to avoid the rest. ‘They were Chinese. Minor officials. What religious problem could they have been causing?’

  ‘More importantly, why is no one bothered?’ said Li. ‘I asked Sexy Chen to find out more about them. I hope he’s done something. You go check out the Department of Fisheries, where the victim used to work. And let’s start visiting temples. We have to find this New Thug Society, assuming it really exists. We could have asked Internal Security, but they’re too busy spying on the rest of us.’

  ‘36, Elgin Road,’ said Phoni-babu.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Li.

  ‘The New Thug Society is at 36, Elgin Road,’ said Phoni-babu. ‘Everybody knows that. It’s their registered office.’

  ‘They have a registered office?’ asked Li.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Phoni-babu. ‘All such organizations have one. They should be having bank accounts also. Possibly visiting cards.’

  ‘These Indians are unbelievable!’ said Big Chen.

  ‘Be nice, Chen,’ said Li. ‘Different people are different. They eat fish heads, we eat pig ears.’ He turned to Phoni-babu. ‘You mean to tell me that the organization that has murdered five people has a registered address? Do they also have a website?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Phoni-babu. ‘How will they recruit otherwise? Clearly you have not understood how religious people work here. They are a vital component of society. They are protecting the sentiment. Very often, evildoers are hurting the sentiment. At such times, they do police case against the evildoers, saying kindly take action, otherwise due to our pain we may be unable to control ourselves, resulting in destruction of public property, injury of public, or even death. We of the police force always respect sentiment, and arrest the evildoers whose black tongues are forcing others to create law and order situation. Their leaders are well-respected in society. Chief ministers have tea with them. Police Commissioners hold open their car doors. Senior journalists interview them, and help us to understand their views. Damage or injuries which occur due to outbreak of sentiment are never mentioned. It’s only right and proper. It’s a question of secularism. True secularism means that we respect every sentiment, without any prejudice. Some of them become ministers. They are able to buy good positions. They can afford it, because they collect money from local shopkeepers to prevent unnecessary mishaps. Although I must admit Amalendu Lahiri is not like that. He is more the intellectual type. He is the leader of the New Thug Society. Very fine man. Plays golf every Saturday. And what language he speaks! Such command he has! His language is what makes him a leader. After the editor of Desh magazine, it’s him.’

  ‘Since you like him so much, you should come with me,’ said Li, ‘at least one of us won’t be thinking he’s a piece of shit.’

  His phone rang. It was Gao Yu. She had cut her hair short. It showed off her slender neck. She was angry. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’

  Was she drunk? He couldn’t tell.

  ‘A little,’ he admitted.

  ‘But not clever enough to keep me. I’m a genuine treasure. Everyone says so. You know that, right?’

  ‘I do,’ said Li. He knew enough not to hesitate.

  ‘Do you ever wonder whether he treats me well?’

  ‘Does he?’ asked Li.

  ‘Like a queen mother,’ she said, giggling. ‘Isn’t that great? I never got to be the class flower. I never even finished school. But now I’m queen mother! Aren’t you happy?’

  ‘I wish you well, Gao Yu,’ said Li, with a touch of formality, ‘But I have to get back to work now.

  ‘Did you expect me to live on buns and water?’ demanded Gao Yu. She was unpredictable. Life with her had been like walking on eggshells. ‘Just because it doesn’t matter to you, nobody else should care?’

  ‘You shouldn’t drink so much,’ said Li, and disconnected. He pressed the button gently. I should have said something about her hair, he thought.

  The boys were watching him sympathetically. They respected him tremendously for having such a hot ex-wife. They knew most of the details. It was only a matter of time before they started offering advice. It was at times like this that he needed to be businesslike. He sprang out of his chair and put on his hat. He was light on his feet, thanks to his father. His father used to be a boxer at the old Bison Club, a Beijing brothel that did boxing and betting on the side. It was a strange combination of fights and floozies, and his father had felt the shame most keenly. But he had always done his job, which was boxing. He had always put on a good show. He had passed on a few tips to his son, standing there panting in the back alley after fights, sweat pouring down his body, reeking of spilt beer and cheap perfume. He had planted in his mind some thoughts. He had shown him some moves. He had also told him to stay away from brothels, which Gao Yu had found extremely funny.

  ‘Come with me,’ he told Phoni-babu. ‘We’re going to Elgin Road. Chen, you take the Department of Fisheries, where the victim used to work. And for God’s sake tell Sexy to stop singing in the mirror and go talk to Crazy Wu, while he still has enough brain left to form sentences.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Big Chen, glad he had never married.

  11

  ‘When we talk about strangling, we mean it purely in the metaphorical sense.’

  ‘We are now entering Elgin Road,’ said the car. ‘The name Elgin is synonymous with the destruction of historic monuments. The father dismantled the Parthenon, while the son razed the Forbidden Palace. It is presumed that the family had no further issue, as most other irreplaceable landmarks across the world remain intact.’

  ZAF Lounge flashed by, followed by Chaska Café, Desi Cuisine, Cream Centre, Nick ‘N’ Nack, Juicy Fresh, and the New Saurashtra Nimki House in quick succession. Like the rest of Calcutta, there was no lack of eateries on Elgin Road. It was the main reason why Bengalis had no money. There were a few other establishments in between the eateries, such as the Netaji Research Bureau and the Catholic Mission High School, to provide them with customers. Apart from this there were several malls, filled to the brim with more places to eat in, and the dilapidated husk of an abandoned bookstore. ‘Crossword’ said the sign. It hung crookedly from one hinge.

  The car stopped in front of a simple three-storeyed building with bilious green window shutters and bougainvillea on the balconies. The walls might once have been pink, although most of them were now covered in slogans. ‘The sun moves around the earth,’ said one. ‘Tank Man was executed!’ said another. Along one entire side, covering it from top to bottom, was a crudely drawn pig smoking a cigar.

  The front door was almost flush with the street, just a couple of steps between them. The steps were provided for public seating. Young men often sat there discussing heroines and football. Every house in Calcutta had them. It was a matter of civic duty. A brass plaque on the door said ‘Amalendu Lahiri, BA, MA, LLB. Convenor, New Thug Society.’ There was no power, as usual, so Li knocked on the door. ‘Softly!’ said Phoni-babu. ‘It’s afternoon, you might wake him up.’

  The man was a pillar of society, judging by Phoni-babu’s reaction. Li knocked harder. He drew his revolver. ‘How about this?’ he asked. ‘Do you think this will wake him up?’

  The door opened before Phoni-babu could reply. A slim, dark woman in a faded cotton sari opened the door. Her face was thin. She looked hungry. ‘You’ve come to meet babu?’ she asked softly, hardly glancing at the revolver. She was used to men with guns. Li nodded, and smiled, not wanting to scare her, and she let them in through a dark, narrow corridor. The walls were lined with oil paintings of men with moustaches. ‘Ancestors!’ whispered Phoni-babu. She led them to a room on the left, cut off from the rest of the building. ‘These are his chambers,’ explained Phoni-babu, ‘they can’t let us into the house, because they don’t know what caste we are.’

  ‘Maybe I should go inside and look fo
r 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, Brajendranat
h 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.

  12

  ‘In case you feel an overwhelming urge to obey her, please back away slowly…’

  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.