Palash Mystery Shorts 1
It was a late November Saturday morning in Calcutta and the mist was still wrapped around the narrow lane off which my bedsit was located. I was pouring out my tea when I heard the sound of pounding feet past my window and up the couple of steps before little Tuni in an orange frock stood at my grilled door, breathless.
“Mini di” she panted.
I quickly opened the outer door and ushered her in.
Gesturing her to sit, I asked, in a tone sharpened by concern, “What happened Tuni? Everything all right?”
Tuni did not sit, preferring to hop from one leg to another.
“Mini di!”
“Yes my darling, tell me” I handed her the plate of biscuits.
She waved it aside.
“Mini di!” she tried again. “Raha Dida[1] did not open her curtains today”.
“Huh?”
Tuni took a deep breath and tried again, “Raha Dida in the house opposite ours.”
“Yes. What about her?”
“She always opens her curtains at 6:30 am. I know because I start my morning Riyaz[2] at that time.”
“Every day. Every single day.” Tinu emphasized.
“Okay…”
“She did not open her curtains today. I waited for 15 minutes and then realized something must be wrong. And ran straight to you.” She finished and finally picked up a Glucose biscuit.
I assimilated the information and realized that Tuni wanted me to act on this piece of information which seemed insignificant to me but I tend to pay attention to children’s instincts.
“So you want me to find out what is wrong?”
“Yes” Tuni nodded with her mouth stuffed with biscuits.
I stood at my door and hollered “Bahadur!” That is the ubiquitous name we called all guards from Nepal. (Thankfully we call them by name nowadays)
Bahadur came running from the tea shop down the road, sketched a salute and said “Ji memsaab[3]”
“Can you check Raha Aunty’s residence and tell me if she is okay?”
“Ji memsaab” replied Bahadur, sprinting across and banging on the door. We all have doorbells – they are seldom used.
***
Within a couple of hours the cops were there, the ambulance was on its way, the neighbours were out on the road, Aunty’s maid, Nenti was rocking and moaning as she squatted on the pavement, Tuni was sobbing her heart out. Bahadur had broken through a flimsy window and discovered 63 year old Raha Aunty lying very very dead, strangled by the lamp cord. The door had one of those Godrej locks, and once the police had ascertained that there was nobody else in the house, it was surmised that the murderer had run away. (I would have been very surprised if they hadn’t – run away, that is.)
The Inspector arrived even as the ambulance was carrying away the body – Aunty was just a body now…
I looked at him and started.
“Gaurav? Gaurav Pandey?” My tone was squeaky with surprise.
“Hey Di[4]. How are you doing?” Gaurav nodded at me, smiling slightly.
“Small world” I smiled back. Gaurav’s sister Gayatri and I were batchmates in college. It seemed a very long time ago…
***
Thirty minutes later we were sitting in my rather tiny drawing room with my cook Putul serving us Tea, Marie biscuits and Besan Chilas[5]. Gaurav, Tuni, Tuni’s father, Raha Aunty’s tenant Ritwik Ghosh, another neighbour, Mr. Singh. Gaurav had finished his very gentle interrogation of Tuni who was currently stuffing her face with Besan Chilas.
“Has Mrs Raha’s niece Shiuli Datta been informed? I asked. “She is the next of kin.”.
Gaurav, a man of few words, nodded.
There was a bit of a commotion outside and the constable Bishu (whom we all knew fairly well since this was his beat) dragged in the decrepit homeless Dhulu who slept on the benches of the tea shop and survived on leftovers from the shop and our kitchens. He refused to do an honest day’s work.
Bahadur and the tea shop owner Bablu slunk in behind them.
Gaurav raised an eyebrow enquiringly even as I silently indicated to Putul to give the new visitors some tea and Besan Chilas.
Dhulu sat on his haunches near my door and gobbled his way through the food before he raised his eyes and looked at Gaurav. I admired Gaurav for his patience – he was obviously a wise man.
“So. You saw something?” Gaurav asked.
Dhulu squirmed and said in his gruff voice “Maybe….”
“Okay. What did you see?”
“That dada[6] came last night.”
“Angshuman? Raha Aunty’s friend?” I asked sharply, sensing rather than seeing the discomfort in my neighbours’ faces.”
Dhulu nodded. “9 pm” he added “The news on TV had just started”.
I turned to Gaurav. “Angshuman Roy is a very recent acquaintance of Aunty’s. A man in his early forties. Somebody she met at a social gathering. She was ecstatic. She threw a big party in his honour and introduced him as a friend. He grew up in Baroda but recently moved to Kolkata as a chef at The Astor.”
“He practically lived out of her house” said Ritwik Ghosh grumpily.
“Uppity chap – in his 30s” added Mr. Singh.
“Interesting” commented Gaurav succinctly, looking at me for direction.
“There was a neighbourhood rumour that he was the love of her fading years” I explained.
“Ah!” he said as he rose and folded his hands and extended his thanks to everyone, ruffled Tuni’s hair and exited with a promise of “I’ll be in touch.”
***
There was a lot of activity in the next few weeks. The police came and went. Shiuli Datta, Aunty Raha’s niece and next of kin stayed in the house for a while to sort out her stuff and pay off Nenti and terminate Mr. Ritwik Ghosh’s tenancy contract – both of whom grumbled incessantly sitting at Bablu’s tea shop. Angshuman did not visit and soon we heard that he was arrested. The ripple of an invisible “I told you so” ran through the neighbourhood. We also heard that he was released on bail.
With Christmas parties being planned, brunches in Clubs organized, weddings to be attended, school reunions to be agonized over, Nahoum goodies to be bought, the murder slipped to the backs of our minds till Bahadur knocked on my door five days before Christmas with an ashen face “Didi. Dhulu is dead.”
“Who? How?” I asked shocked even as I started looking for my phone address book to dial Gaurav. (this was the early 2000s before cell phones became our ‘hold all information’ entities).
“He didn’t wake up. He has no heartbeat.” Bahadur replied looking very distressed. I called the ambulance too.
After the formalities were done, Gaurav stopped by at my place. Over coffee and some Nahoum Christmas cake he filled me in.
“Angshuman says he left Mrs. Raha’s house at 11 pm since he had the breakfast buffet shift. Time of death was after midnight. Angshuman has an alibi. He was chatting with his room mate in staff quarters. He comes from wealth but also has a gambling habit. He bets on the races. Not done too well recently.”
“Who does her will benefit?” I asked.
“Her heir Shiuli Datta. Who is also a very wealthy woman in her own right. And had no reason to ‘hurry things up’ or so to speak. Though I am waiting for Mrs. Raha’s lawyer to come back from England to get the details.”
We were interrupted by Bishu, Bahadur and Bablu.
“Sir”, Bishu saluted.
“What is it?” asked Gaurav.
“Sir I think you need to hear what Dhulu has been singing recently.”
As if on cue, Bablu, in a surprising tenor, sang
“Orey ki golok dhanda bol to dekhi
Shob toh taka’r khela mairi
Shob i takar khela
Chhele hok ba maiyya”
Which roughly translates to:
“Hey. See what a labyrinth it is!
This game of money, I swear
This game of money.
Whether it is man or woman, I do declare”
Gaurav wrinkled his forehead and looked at Bablu searchingly. “Did he say anything else Bablu?”
“No Sir. But oddly enough, a few days ago he gave me 500 rupees for safe keeping. When I asked him how he got it, he grinned and sang the song. There were a group of foreign tourists who were clicking his photographs a few days previously. I assumed they gave it to them. These foreigners are crazy.”
“Can you give me the money Bablu?”
“Here it is, sir.” Bablu dug into the waistband of his lungi and took out a crumpled note. Handing it over to Gaurav, he said, “Please do what you deem fit, sir.”
Gaurav pocketed the money and took my leave.
Later that afternoon we heard through the grapevine that Dhulu had overdosed on sleeping pills. I was suddenly filled with a cold rage. Someone had killed a man, down on his luck. He did not deserve to die like this. I waited for Nenti to finish her work at Mr. Singh’s and beckoned for her to come as soon as she stepped out.
After I made her comfortable with a cup of ginger tea, I asked her gently “Tell me Nenti,
how was Aunty Raha the last few days before she died?”
Nenti looked thoughtful and then said, “I have never seen her happier in the last ten years. Angshuman da dropped in every other day or took her out. She really loved him. That made Shiuli di very mad.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She yelled at Mashima saying ‘You are too old for such shameful shenanigans! I will not let that upstart ruin your life’ and similar things.”
“Mashima would laugh and say ‘You don’t know anything Shiuli. You will soon. Wait till January.’ I have no idea what she meant by that.”
“Did they have any other fights?”
“Shiuli di was always complaining about money and asking Mashima to lend her some. She would say ‘You are so rich, it will not make a dent.’ To which Mashima would say ‘You are greedy and poorly organized. This is the last time I give you something – and would hand out checks. And then Shiuli di would leave.”
“Also. The other day, there was something odd…” Nenti added haltingly.
“What was it?” I asked
“When Shiuli di was going through Mashima’s things the other day, she looked at a paper and got very upset. She asked me if I knew what it was. And then she burnt the piece of paper.”
“And did you know what it was?”
“All I know is that Mashima had asked Dhulu and me to sign a piece of paper a few weeks earlier. I didn’t know what was on it. It looked like the same paper that Shiuli di burnt.”
“Thank you Nenti.” I went to my pantry and dug out a Nahoum Christmas cake for her. Everybody in Calcutta, irrespective of class, has Cake on Christmas. It’s tradition. Nenti sailed out of my house with the precious parcel tucked under her tattered shawl.
On a hunch, I called Gaurav.
***
A week into the New Year, we heard that Shiuli had been arrested for the murder of Mrs. Raha.
The following Saturday, Gaurav along with Tuni’s father and Mr. Singh were partaking of Darjeeling tea and homemade carrot cake in my sunny sitting room.
“Gaurav, we don’t expect you to reveal any state secrets, but I will ask you some questions and leave it up to you to on how to respond.”
“Sure,” a visibly relaxed Gaurav said with a smile.
“So, I am going to try and sequentially reconstruct the events.” I started. “Mrs. Raha, was a rich widower, childless. Shiuli was her niece and heir -- her sister’s daughter. Mrs. Raha lived alone but had an active social life. She was a former President of the Inner Wheel Club (part of the Rotary club). She met her friends frequently at Tollygunge club and Calcutta club for drinks and tea parties.”
“She also threw some grand parties in her house. The best wine and food” interjected Mr. Singh.
“Yes indeed” corroborated Tuni’s father with a reminiscent smile.
I cleared my throat to get their attention back to the story and continued, “A few months ago, she met a young man at a party. She seemed uncharacteristically happy after that and frequently met the young man, Angshuman, both at home and outside. People speculated about her relationship with this young man, wondering if he was her lover. Her niece, Shiuli clearly thought the relationship unnatural and got into nasty arguments with her about this.”
I looked around. Everyone nodded and Gaurav gestured for me to continue.
“Aunty Raha seemed to be in expectation of some announcement or news in January. In the meanwhile, she got Nenti and Dhulu to sign on a piece of paper.”
“Soon after, Aunty Raha was murdered. A few days later, Dhulu started singing that strange song and died due to an overdose of sleeping pills.”
I turned to Gaurav. “Was he murdered? What happened?”
“Well – it will soon be out in the papers. So, you might as well know.”
We all leaned forward imperceptibly.
“We got in touch with Mrs. Raha’s lawyer whom she was to meet in January. She had sent him a copy of her new will which she got signed by Dhulu and Nenti. This invalidated her previous will benefitting Shiuli.”
“Who was the new beneficiary?” I asked, although I am sure all of us had guessed correctly.
“Angshuman Roy. She left some gold jewellery and 1 lakh for Shiuli, some small amount for Nenti but the bulk of her substantial assets, she willed to Angshuman.”
“Why Angshuman?” asked Tuni’s father, a question we all wanted an answer to.
“He was her son.”
A collective gasp went around the room.
“Her son?”
“Really?”
“Oh my goodness!”
Gaurav silenced us with a raised hand.
“Angshuman was born before Mrs Raha was married. She was very young, barely 19 I believe. She had met a very ineligible man during a vacation in Shimla. He had a family and had no intentions of marrying her. It was too late to terminate the pregnancy. The thing was hushed up and her family was sent to live with family friends in Bhopal – a childless couple who adopted the baby. They told him very recently about his biological mother and he came looking for her.”
“My goodness. Truth is truly stranger than fiction!” exclaimed Mr. Singh.
“He does say that he doesn’t need the money since his father, a businessman is very wealthy. He even offered to split the money with his cousin Shiuli.”
“That’s generous of him” said Tuni’s father.
“But the murders Gaurav! What happened?”
“Well. Shiuli had a run in with her aunt one day and learnt that Mrs. Raha may include Angshuman in her will. No details but it enraged her greatly. She waited for a day when Angshuman was scheduled to come for dinner. She timed herself to enter the house after he left – she was parked nearby and had an extra set of keys. She had planned to put sleeping pills into her aunt’s post prandial hot chocolate but she found her aunt awake and strangled her with the lamp cord instead.”
“Goodness!” said Mr. Singh again.
“And Dhulu?” I asked.
“Dhulu had seen her coming out of the house that day, sometime after midnight. She paid him 500 rupees. Later she heard him singing that odd little song every time she visited. She became nervous and put sleeping pills into a bottle of rum she bought for him.”
“Shame” said Tuni’s father, shocked.
“I agree” I said. “I somehow cannot forgive her for killing that innocent man.”
“Murder is like a habit Di. If you have done it once, you can do it again. And again” replied Gaurav.
I nodded. “So, what now?”
“Shiuli will get life, I am sure. The new will is genuine. It can’t be overturned.”
“We’re lucky that it got reported quickly and things could move fast.” Gaurav added.
“All because of a closed curtain.” I mused.
“Huh?” Gaurav asked.
“That morning, Tuni ran to me because Aunty Raha hadn’t moved her curtain – something she did every morning.”
“That is wonderfully acute of her!” Gaurav turned to Tuni’s father and smiled. “I’ll be happy to take her up in my car for a ride if she would like.”
My final memory of the case is of a very excited Tuni, her face as red as the frock she wore, sitting beside Gaurav as the police vehicle drove away, all sirens blazing.
------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer: All characters and incidents in this story are imaginary.
[1] Dida - Grandmother
[2] Riyaz: Music practice
[3] Memsaab -- Madam
[4] Di – Older sister (shortened form of Didi)
[5] Besan Chila – Savoury chick pea flour pancakes
[6] Dada – older brother
Nice one