In Your Blood I Run, page 9
He waited till it was dark and then left for Shyam’s farm. His appetite for food and cigarettes had both come back with a vengeance. Nevermore was well stocked with both. He made himself a meaty broth and threw in tinned vegetables with cinnamon and cloves for that familiar aroma of the mutton curry made at home. He ate at the huge dining table and followed it up by smoking one cigarette after another, littering the stubs in the ornately carved gothic planters that lined the dining room.
He even managed to nap for an hour. The skies had turned dark earlier than usual, he could feel the clouds about to burst as he got back into the car covering his face as much as he could with the hat. By the time he neared the farm, it was pouring heavily. He was stopped only once on the way but because of the rain, the drenched policeman had barely looked at him in his Babu clothes and hat, and respectfully waved him on. Once there, he parked the car a little distance away from the farm under a massive oak tree and kept watch until he was certain there was no police lurking. Only the loud thrum of rain pattering on the tin roofs could be heard.
Carrying the cricket bat and covering himself with a huge polythene cover he had found in the back of the car, he moved as fast as he could. Walking along the path behind the trees, he was soon inside the covered area around the house. He looked in through the barred windows. Nothing, nobody, not a sound. Shyam and Cheeni would be at the back or in their first-floor quarters. He pushed the wooden door open and entered, removing the polythene as noiselessly as he could. There was no one at the back of the house either. Slowly, he climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the floor above.
The place was a mess. Shyam’s charpai was lying toppled over. The trunks were open, their contents strewn all over like someone had kept tossing, unable to find what he had been looking for. They were mostly Cheeni’s saris, blouses and petticoats.
What had happened here? Where were Shyam and Cheeni? Then he saw it, the deliberate, almost decorous trail of clothes. He let go of the cricket bat and started picking up the clothes. There were red stains underneath, blood stains. Someone had strewn the clothes over the bloodstains to cover them up. All the way from where the charpai lay, to the door. He followed the trail of bloody clothes, his head thundering and his legs wobbly, all at once. The trail continued on to the wooden stairs going down too. But it was so dark, he hadn’t noticed coming up. He came down and back out, his eyes wild, looking in every direction. It had stopped raining and there was a great wind rustling the leaves on the trees all around. He glanced up and saw the closed barn door across and something started twitching in his head. A writhing, jagged nerve twisted and turned. He went as fast as he could across to the barn. He looked in through the small iron grilled window he knew so well. There was Shyam. His throat slit, lying in a pool of blood.
Shyam crouched and started crawling to get into the barn through the door around the corner. He crawled to the door, pushed it, and got inside. Sidestepping the pool of blood to get to Shyam. His trembling hand attempted to caress his friend’s face who he thought had betrayed him. Whose head he had wanted to bash in with a cricket bat. Shyam’s plump cheek was cold. It had been a while, how long, he couldn’t tell. He smoothed his friend’s hair, his tears coming down fast. Shyam looked calm, he had often seen him sleep like this, curled up in the Benz. Ratan slumped down next to Shyam. He couldn’t feel his legs. They had gone numb, all the way from his feet up to his legs. Prickling with nothingness.
Two things happened at once that snapped Ratan out of his willing paralysis.
One, Ratan looked up through the window of the barn at the house and saw movement. Then he saw them all over the ground going up to the house. The police were here. This was a trap. They were going to catch him here with the body.
The second was the distinct sensation of Shyam clutching his shirt at the waist. A shiver went through him as he peered down to see Shyam’s hands. They were by his side, not on his shirt. Clenched shut into a fist. Ratan tugged at Shyam’s clenched fist, prying open the fingers one by one. It was a gold coloured button. He grabbed it, shoved it into his trousers, and crawled out of the barn, shutting the door behind him with his feet. Every movement hurt. The prickling sensation was going all the way to his head. As he willed himself out of the barn, still on his knees, Ratan found himself staring into a pair of worn-out, black-strapped shoes.
He looked up to see a policeman looking down at him, surprised, shocked even. The prickling vanished. Ratan scrambled to his feet, grabbing him as his mouth opened to alert the others. Covering his mouth with one hand and landing a blow with his knuckles, hard into his lower abdomen. The man doubled up and Ratan sat on him, pinning his arms down with his knees. He was sitting on a boy, barely of age. How did they recruit policemen these days?
He removed his gun and whispered into his ear with all the threat he could muster in his shaking voice. ‘Open your mouth now and I swear I’ll shoot you.’
He uncovered the policeman’s mouth and shoved the gun into his mouth, looking into his scared eyes. This was probably his first field outing. He looked away before the boy could see he was equally scared. The rest of them were still in the main house. He should get out while he could. Ratan slowly removed the gun from the boy’s mouth, keeping his eyes on the boy, and started walking away. The boy yelled out, the next second. A shrill, piercing unintelligible yell shattered the air. So he had seen the fright in Ratan’s eyes. Ratan turned around, shaking, furious. The snivelling little bastard. He took the gun in his hand and hit the boy hard on the head with it, spilling blood and watching him reel as he collapsed in a heap.
He ran into the trees and up the hill behind the barn and past the dirt path strewn with buffalo shit and cow manure. Behind him, he could hear shouts, doors being banged, kicked open, shots being fired, thundering feet in heavy strapped shoes. A stealthy silent operation had turned into a loud raucous mission with the boy’s yell. Ratan’s hand ached from how hard he had hit the boy. He had made sure the boy wouldn’t be yelling again for a while, if at all.
The car was where he had left it, hidden behind the huge deodars.
He got in, shut the door, and threw the gun at the back. His hands groped for the keys to start the car, but there were no keys in the ignition. He remembered leaving them in the car. He checked his pockets and fished out what Shyam had been holding in his fist. Shyam’s killer had been wearing a shirt with gold-coloured buttons? With great difficulty, he shook his mind free from the glittering object in his hand. Should he leave the car here and make a run for it? Leaving the car here would mean leading the police right up to the Summers’ Bungalow. He couldn’t do that. He got out of the car and looked around. The ground started swimming, making him nauseous and he looked up at the sky. It was endlessly blue with a few feathery white clouds floating at their own pace. A flock of birds flew past, in perfect formation, completely unaware of the chaos below. Ratan wanted to bring the gun out and fire into the sky. To see them panic, screech, flap. The keys, where were the keys? Drawing quick, steadying breaths, he got back inside and looked at the ignition point. His gaze dropped down and there they were. A cluster of beautiful metal. Dizzy with relief, he grabbed them and turned on the ignition as the car lurched forward.
Once again, he was running away. Fleeing like a criminal, with blood on his hands. The anger inside him welled up, making him grip the steering wheel harder. Then the tears poured down. First Sara, now Shyam. They were closing in. He was on borrowed time.
A red carpet of letters
LAVANYA PUT HER SUITCASE UNDER THE SEAT AND LOOKED out of the train window at the crowded Victoria Terminus railway station. Amrit Singh had been annoyingly punctual in picking her up, insisting on carrying her suitcase despite her protests. She had kept her eye on him and her suitcase, all the while.
The train had started moving.
She was travelling first class for the first time. Her father had insisted on keeping the family unused to luxury. Even when he was flush with funds from a recent case. Her eyes took in the plush red carpet that lined the compartment and she sighed. She loved red carpets.
The shuttered door to her compartment slid to one side and two sparkling black shoes swam into focus. Her eyes travelled over an immaculate police uniform to rest on Donald Harper. He shut the door behind him and glowered at her.
Instinctively, she rose to her feet. She regretted it the next second.
‘You look well, Miss Shriram … do sit down,’ he said. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us and we wouldn’t want our resident author, no matter how disreputable, to fall prey to exhaustion, would we?’
‘I am well, officer, and may I say, a lot younger than you. Why don’t you sit down …’ she refused to smile. Piss off, is what she really wanted to say.
He nodded, acknowledging the sarcasm with a slight raise of an eyebrow and sat down across from her. They looked at each other for a while, both expecting the missiles to come from the other party. Then he spoke up.
‘You’ve written to Richard Davenport and expressed an interest to write about his dead wife, I hear. No, don’t bother clarifying. I’m sure you mean well. Like your book of stories, mean well. Tell me, what makes you think he would want you of all people, to write about her?’ he smirked. ‘I want you to know that I’m going to do my best to dissuade him.’
‘You must, Superintendent. Don’t for a moment think I intended to clarify to you, of all people, why I would like to write about her,’ Lavanya said, surprised by how calm she sounded.
‘Also, your publisher tells me, you’ve refused to apologize for the filth you’ve written?’
She ignored the insult. ‘If you’re asking if I’ve accepted the court summons, the answer is yes, I have.’
‘There’s still time. The court will accept an apology even a day before the date of the trial.’
‘I too will accept an apology a day before the trial, Superintendent.’
She started looking out of the window now. If he was going to share this compartment with her, she might as well shift into the corridor outside. So much for eyeing the red carpet on the floor.
‘Right, then. I thought I’d spare you the trauma of what would follow if you persisted in keeping your stories in circulation. But it doesn’t look like you’re too worried about your reputation. Your dead parents will never know, but your brothers, I worry for them. Their government jobs are precious, aren’t they?’
She looked at him sharply. The bastard. What was he trying to say?
‘I don’t like the tone of your voice, I don’t like what you’re trying to imply, maybe I should get down at the next station and make my own way back. I thought I was here to help with the investigation but it doesn’t look like you need my help …’
‘Both of us know you’re going to do nothing of that sort. It is in both our interests to track down Ratan. For you, it’s a lot more personal than it is for me. Your name is linked to the crime, you will want to clear your name … so suit yourself, get down if you must … but before I go, here’s something you might want to look at.’
He got up and opened the compartment door, sliding it only partially. Amrit Singh’s huge hand did the rest. He came in with a parcel in his hand. It was substantive. On getting the nod from his boss, he took a knife from his pocket, and tore open the parcel. A stack of letters and postcards spilled out. Amrit Singh cupped them back into the parcel and handed them over to Lavanya.
‘The power of your writing … here’s proof,’ Donald Harper said. ‘What you didn’t see the other day at the station because you left the story incomplete. Your publisher has made sure the country is not thus deprived. The full story is now out there in circulation in most newspapers and magazines, too. And your readers are writing to you … so here you go. Your publisher may never show you these love letters so we have taken the liberty to bring them to you. This is just a small sample of the mail you’ve been getting. I hope you enjoy reading them.’
They both left her staring at the pile of letters in her lap and a copy of the paper where Sitara’s story had been coming out in instalments in an exclusive agreement with Surya’s publishing house.
She picked up a postcard. There was none of the Dear Lavanya that letters usually begin with. She read the few lines that thrashed into her line of vision in capital letters. ‘SHAME ON YOU AND YOUR FAMILY! WHICH WOMAN THINKS SUCH FILTH? WERE YOU BORN IN THE GUTTER? THEN GO BACK THERE …’
She picked up another and then another, her eyes smarting at the sting from the words. The words jumped out. ‘Randi …’ ‘Whore …’ ‘trash …’ ‘Die …’ ‘Murderer …’
As the train hurtled on at top speed, she slipped down onto the red carpet, the parcel of letters still in her lap. They spread around her like a crumpled hand fan. She had spared her parents, at least. All the hiding she would have had to do. Stuffing all these letters under her bed and sleeping on them, night after night, letting the hate seep into her bones.
Sitara’s story (cont.)
Indian Times, 15 February 1936.
THE STORY BY LAVANYA SHRIRAM EVERYONE IS WAITING TO FINISH.
SITARA CROUCHED IN A CORNER OF THE ROOM LOOKING AT the door that was shuddering. The hammering on the door had not stopped since she had locked herself in. She knew it was just a matter of time before the door gave way, despite the bed she had pulled in front of it to block the door. She knew she couldn’t sit there anymore, waiting for it to happen. She may have grown deaf to the shouted pleas from behind the door, the veiled threats, the sudden wails convulsed by grief, but she knew better. The louder the wails and the beating of the chest, the louder was the intent to see her engulfed by the flames. Till that happened, there would be no peace for her, for them. This was her extended family, an entire village. People who had cared for her when she was ill and consoled her when she was homesick, for she had been but an adolescent when she had come to the village. They had been mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, and now all they wanted was for her to do her duty by setting herself aflame. Then they would all hang their heads and march home in unison, get into their warm beds and sleep, tired and spent. Her ashes still smeared on their hands.
Sitara stood up and walked over to where her trunk lay open on the cot. She pulled out her blood-red wedding lehenga and spread it out. She had described it so often to her Angrez. How beautiful she had felt wearing it at fourteen. How smooth her legs had felt caressing the silk of the fabric as she stood for hours waiting to garland an aged man who would not meet her eyes. They had talked about how she could bring it with her next time. How he would untie the low-cut choli at the back and remove it slowly as he slipped his other hand under her billowing lehenga, in between her silken thighs. They would re-enact her wedding night, the way it should have been.
That meeting had never taken place. Now here she was, slipping it on. Tying the threads of the lehenga tight. Tying the back of her choli the best she could. She took her time with her shringaar. Smearing the lipstick over her mouth, darkening the kajal under her eyes, painting on her forehead a bindi with red fragrant powder. The last thing she did was tie her thick long hair into a coiled bun at the back of her head.
Then she walked over and opened the door. She stood there, letting them run their eyes over her. Satisfy themselves of the suitability of her attire and her grooming. How they fussed over her then. The women covered her head with her odhni, lovingly touched her face, made promises they knew they could not keep. The men ushered her forward, clearing the way, looking grief-stricken one moment, barking orders the next. All the preparations for the pyre had begun. The entire village scurried back and forth, all around her. She walked on. Kisses were raining down her face, fingers leaping to caress her, teary goodbyes. She didn’t register a single face.
Her Angrez was leading her on, his was the only face she saw. Inches away from her, she could smell him, the fragrance of his skin as it rubbed against hers. She inhaled deeply.
On the pyre, the wooden sticks rubbed against each other as if finding their positions to lay down for the night. Perched on them, Sitara felt their heat even before the flaming torch had touched the wood. With the first lick of the flame, her toes uncurled themselves and her back arched itself upright. Her hand reached out to untie her hair, then her choli. She moved it down her left breast. Her nipples were erect and alive to her touch. The flames were picking up slowly. She was clearly visible to her grief-stricken, bloodthirsty audience. There was a collective gasp as they stared at her lifting her breast and licking at it, sucking it noisily. Then as her other hand lifted up her lehenga and slid up between her thighs, they looked at each other in horror.
Holding their sticks in place, the two pyre-keepers inched closer. To prevent her from running away when the flames got too hot. Sometimes the sticks wouldn’t be enough. They had to catch them in mid-flight, by their singed hair, to bring them back to the pyre. Other times, they tied the women or chained them to iron weights at the bottom of the pyre if they kept trying to run away. Sitara posed no such challenge. She sat there like a yogini. Her hair spread out, one hand touching her nipple, the other hand under the waist of her lehenga. Her eyes and mouth were set in deep rapture.
Gopi, the elder pyre-keeper was the first to drop his stick. The few who could tear their eyes away from Sitara, watched him walk away in a daze. The younger pyre-keeper watched him leave, his mouth open to call out to him but no sound came. Soon, one by one, everyone dropped their eyes. Some waited to walk away with the others. Some left alone. Nobody spoke about what they saw. They would only find the words days later. And when the words came, they were barely audible. Hushed and low, cowered and ashamed, disbelieving and shaken.
Sitara on her flaming throne sat, swaying to the beat of her glass bangles that moved in an unbroken harmony. She let herself feel her Angrez deep inside her. Holding on till he had consumed her and then her hips bucked and she opened her mouth to let out a scream. Not a tiny one but one that would reverberate in the forests of her village forever.
