A Killer Among Us

by Ushasi Sen Basu

  Nandana sat up. ‘Oh God, who told you that?’

  Her elder daughter had a habit of frightening her brother with scary stories. At one point Piya had terrorised Prithwish with such lurid details from The Conjuring, that he’d woken up sobbing for an entire week. This sounded like her doing.

  ‘It was Arun-da...,’ Prithwish responded.

  ‘Shush.’ Nandana suspected that a healthy discussion would be wiser, but she couldn’t bear her baby talking of that night. ‘He’s lying, he’s lying, don’t listen to him.’

  Bloodthirsty children! She made a mental note to tackle Deepa on the subject later. As it is the shy, gangly Arun was far too old to play with Prithwish. He ought to play with boys his own age, and not fill her baby’s head with rotten things.

  She got up and drew him to her. Nestled into the contours of her lap they fit perfectly together. She rocked him, more to comfort herself than him. Nandana felt the anger leach out of her and peace (or was it resignation?) settle in its stead. As if sensing his job was done, her son struggled out of her lap and said, ‘Can I go back to Chhota Bheem? I still have ten minutes of TV time left!’

  She gave Prithwish a loud, smacking kiss on his forehead and sent him on his way.

  I shall never take them for granted, Nandana thought, and felt the comfort of being better than some people she knew.

  *****

  Mrs Ghoshal decided to re-exert control over her universe by following her schedule to the minute. No more taking a bit of time over breakfast and the morning news on TV. Or to just pass over rubbing the oil into her skin and hair because she didn’t feel like it. Routines were made to be adhered to. It promoted moral fibre and ensured things didn’t spin out of control like it had all week. It would be like old times, before she slowed down.

  Mrs Ghoshal had been indulging in short cuts in her cooking as well. Not today! No ginger paste or garlic paste or pressure cookers for her cooking. She will do it the old way, the pure way; because that was the best way. Everyone knew.

  For lack of ideas, she would make her son’s favourite today. Chicken biryani with boiled egg and aloo, and a sweet raita. His fondness for chicken, and that too biryani instead of a nice kosha mangsho, was puzzling but she had got used to it. And in her mellowing old age, she rather enjoyed making and eating it herself. She was nothing if not adjusting.

  One of Kedar’s younger cousins had been a fish fanatic. Mrs Ghoshal used to approve of this thoroughly Bengali trait of his. Coincidentally, she had made his favourite the previous day, fish chop with a side of mustard sauce, because her nephew had been on her mind.

  She took down a yellow plastic bottle that had once housed something quite different from what it held now. What was it? Yes, mayonnaise, from an ill-advised ‘continental cooking’ phase. Mrs Ghoshal quickly shook out some of the saffron into a bowl of milk to soak. When she noticed the yellowish substance glug once and sink into the contents of the bowl, she felt a twinge of doubt. Wait a minute, was that saffron? Something tried to be heard at the back of her mind. She suppressed it firmly and turned back to her broiling pot―no need for doubts.

  Doubts were for the weak. Confidence had got Mrs Ghoshal through life, whining about whether she had misstepped or not would have stopped her from the many strong decisions she’d taken. Even if it were not saffron (which it probably was) no harm would be done. It might just taste a little different, which Kedar would only appreciate.

  He was appreciative and non-fussy, she’d give him that much.

  Still, Mrs Ghoshal stared at the bottle a while, it made her uneasy. She shoved it to the back of the cabinet, and pushed it out of her mind.

  Her train of thought jumped to her fish-loving nephew again. Her brother-in-law’s son. That was a boy who could have done with some routines and sticking to them. All her sister-in-law’s fault. Too soft on him.

  She herself had been strict to a fault, even on the children who were not her own. Her rolling pin had as much work outside the kitchen as inside. Her sisters-in law were useless. They can’t do anything, her mother-in-law used to say of them loudly, and she would feel the pride and weight of expectations on her shoulders as the eldest daughter-in-law. She had nearly killed herself to raise those boys and girls right, all five of them, but look where that had got her.

  No peace even in her old age. People walking in and asking questions, no sense of their own class or position. No adoring daughters-in-law of her own to do the cooking and cleaning, just one son left of all the men she raised, her husband included; and Kedar was more automaton than man.

  Mrs Ghoshal lost the will to cook all of a sudden. She felt a little light-headed too. The biryani would take care of itself now, just another few minutes and it should be done.

  She could use a lie-down.

  *****

  6

  Saturday, 8th September 2014

  One of the newspapers had cottoned on to the fact that Ira was one of the persons of interest in the case, and splashed pictures of her scarf-swathed and bespectacled form getting into a car, and a few other more revealing ones from her Facebook page yesterday. The other newspapers and TV channels had been quick to follow. They had, however, not gone overboard with accusations, since there were, if one were in the mood to be objective, very few facts of any kind, and at least a hundred suspects. They only stated that, (too juicy not to print!) the man was thought to have visited her at night, though that was bad enough considering how loaded that statement was in middle-class India.

  Her own employers had shown further restraint, not naming her or printing her picture; instead choosing to work on some other angles, using the insight into the case which Ira had given them. Kolkata Quill crime reporters had sat her down and asked as many questions they could think of in the office, but had not named her even once in any of the reams of text devoted to the murder.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ her boss had mumbled, patting her hand in an avuncular way. ‘There is so little to write about in this case, that the merest puff of wind will sway the world’s attention away soon enough. Just ride this storm out and pray for that puff of wind.’

  Ira appreciated the advice. She knew it was true. Just ride it out. She would just not get involved beyond this, and it would all die down soon.

  It was hard to hold on to that equanimity, when her parents called her in panic in the morning. They had been called by one of their Kolkata friends with the news. Mercifully, the two Anikapur newspapers, both English and Bangla, had not devoted much space to the murder and had missed Ira’s ‘role’ in it altogether, so it was possible to calm them after a while.

  Ira mulled over all of this as she swirled her cornflakes and milk into a gritty sludge and then gagged as she forced a spoon of it down her throat. That was the last of her grocery shopping, she’d just have to eat it or go hungry.

  She had to snap out of her negative mood, because once you began to delve into that pit, it was a long way to the bottom. Ira put on some dance music and cranked it up high, so she could hear it over the running water of her shower. After all, next to murder, playing ‘degenerate music’ paled in comparison now.

  Ira dressed with more care than usual. Her wavy, burgundy-streaked hair had more volume than she usually bothered with, and she wore the jade green top she usually reserved for office parties.

  Finally, she felt better, more optimistic. She walked down to the ground floor and paused. Had she not been in a hurry, she would have demanded an answer from the plump security guard sitting slumped at his station. All the guards had avoided eye contact ever since the murder, sometimes even walking away when she appeared. But she couldn’t go without not knowing for too long, after all the furore!

  The constables smiled at her as she walked past. Ira wondered if asking them about progress in the investigation would be at all wise or productive.

  Her brisk walk took her to the hiding place in front of Wing 3 in a couple of minutes. 4.02 pm. No one around.

  She felt a little de
flated but rummaged about in her bag for the Kindle in a matter-of-fact way. She found it nestled between her pack of wipes and her umbrella and pulled it out. Ah well, four was a weird time to be going to work anyway. Yesterday was probably an exception. Today was a Saturday too. Not everyone had weird days off work. Or perhaps the man had been luckier with his cab today and left already.

  The Kindle told Ira where she had left off, though a quick scan of the preceding page showed she remembered nothing of the story so far.

  Ira decided to pay her book some serious attention, and bent over it in the watery afternoon sun. She hoped it would only begin to rain once she had been picked up.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the nice man from yesterday. He smelt good, too. Of soap and a mild aftershave. She knew a few men who made her eyes water with cologne fumes from a hundred paces away.

  He indicated the phone grasped in one palm. ‘My cab arrives in five minutes,’ he said, a little lamely.

  Ira smiled. She was glad she wore her office party top after all.

  *****

  His name was Ayan.

  Ira knew it was just a pleasant fifteen-minute conversation standing in the lee of a wall (it was the first time she thanked God for traffic jams and tardy colleagues) followed by a hurried exchange of numbers to ensure it wasn’t a one-off. Nothing more.

  Still, she enjoyed that heady feeling of the first few days of a flirtation, when all the positives are on show and the negatives put away higgledy-piggledy, like junk in a cupboard in the backroom when guests are expected. Only when the guests stay on indefinitely, do some of the negatives emerge. Once the sheen of newness wears off the guest, and he or she is promoted (or demoted?) to a fellow occupant of the house, will the door of the cabinet be left open for all the negatives to tumble out in an orgy of much-awaited freedom. Once out, you couldn’t even work up the energy to put them away, and there they would lie in a hideous heap on the floor.

  Ira was aware of this inevitable pattern of all relationships, romantic or otherwise, and it made her appreciate the early days all the more.

  It was a busy news day at work, and some of the interest in the ‘Panorama John Doe’, as a TV channel had christened the corpse, seemed to be easing. Quite close to their neighbourhood, on a much posher street, the nearly legal daughter of the local MLA had run off with a boy. There was a note, there was an irate MLA-father, and there was the hapless family of the boy protesting their ignorance of any elopement plans. There were caste and class implications which made the story a timeless and relevant one.

  Ira’s boss smiled at her as he hitched his pants up and trekked laboriously to the coffee machine. ‘Puff of wind, Ira,’ he commented as he passed.

  Towards the evening her phone buzzed on the desk. A glance told her the message was from Ayan. ‘I enjoyed our conversation today. Looking forward to continuing it tomorrow, 4 pm. Next to the wall?’

  Ira let out an involuntary laugh, prompting a teammate of hers to swivel around. Kavita extended a bony arm towards her, palm out, ‘WhatsApp joke hai kya? Show!’

  After dissuading Kavita from checking her phone for jokes, Ira read the message a few more times. After some thought she typed, ‘Sounds perfect.’ Then regretted the gushy tone immediately after pressing send.

  The day had looked up quite spectacularly. Ira went about her work with a semi-smile on her face, and practically pounced on her phone when it rang soon after. It was Mrs Bhattacharjee.

  Her blissful mood evaporated as she answered. ‘Hello? Yes, Mrs Bhattacharjee?’ She felt a nasty twinge of dread―it was very unlike her landlady to call her at work.

  ‘Ira, I would like to let you know that someone has sent an anonymous letter to me and some of the Association members. Found it a little while ago, it was slipped into my letter box. Mr Talukdar also got his, after which the others checked their letter boxes with great alacrity and two other gentlemen of the Association have found exact copies. They came to my flat soon after as a group. They left just now. I have told them that there is no need to waste the police’s time with this…and that, if this gets out to the media, I will know it is one of them gentlemen.’ Mrs Bhattacharjee’s sigh was lugubrious.

  Every muscle in Ira’s face seized up. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘See, Ira, you must understand that I have supported you throughout. I believe that if no home owner will give single, young working people a chance then where will they go? So I, despite the many people who advised otherwise….’

  Ira was so not in the mood for Mrs Bhattacharjee’s wittering. ‘What did it say, Mrs Bhattacharjee?’

  ‘Um…yes. Sorry. It makes a lot of veiled accusations, disgusting ones. Basically, impugning your character and urging me to terminate our contract, failing which it asks the Association to take steps so that I have no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Please tell me the exact words.’ Ira had got rather used to bullying the harried lady about, and was startled to hear her hiss down the line.

  ‘I will not. But I do want to have a word with you. Of course, all of this is wildly untrue, but given how messy everything has become with the recent murder and whatnot, this is fast going beyond what I believe. I will slip the letter under your door for you to read at leisure when you get back home tonight. And I will come to the flat at 8 am tomorrow so we can talk before I leave for work. We have to formally inform the Association about our stand on this. They appear more interested in this matter than the other.’ She finished with a touch of acerbity that Ira hadn’t thought her capable of, and hung up.

  Ira sank into her chair and put her head on the cool desk. She harboured mixed feelings of gratitude and irritation towards her landlady.

  Had she suddenly become all highhanded with Ira because she was about to turf her out? It was decent of her to stick up for her though―‘our stand on this’―she hadn’t missed that, for all her annoyance. Nor her insisting on confidentiality from those bullies, and her acid parting thought on the Association’s priorities.

  She knew how rare Mrs Bhattacharjee’s outlook was. Ira had had infinite trouble renting a flat when she’d landed the job at the Kolkata Quill. She’d shacked up first with one colleague and then another as an illegal subtenant until she found Panorama Apartments and more importantly, Mrs Bhattacharjee. Though mild and timid, she was calmly certain that Ira deserved a place to live as much as any ‘more desirable’ tenant; like a young family of the preferred community and economic bracket; which the other owners were always holding out for. Mrs Bhattacharjee had asked diffidently if she could pay the rent every month and on time, and whether she planned to have many guests (apart from her parents) visiting. When Ira had answered satisfactorily, Mrs Bhattacharjee had shaken her hand and gone her own way; and not bothered her much despite living in Wing 3 of the same complex.

  Even though the flat really stretched her budget to its limits, Ira rarely considered leaving. She had had enough of wildly eccentric flatmates and hiding from landlords. There were smaller, lower budget flats in the more affordable neighbourhoods; but possibly not for her. She was a chief subeditor so it had been possible though not comfortable to get by without a flatmate.

  She’d been happy here, albeit in a dull way. She knew that was the most one could expect. And then some dumb, fat dude had to die in the lift and they were going to seize the opportunity to kick her out.

  She sat back up. Not without a fight though. Who did they think they were? Who did they think she was? Who was this poison pen? Mr Talukdar? But most importantly, who was this idiot who had gotten himself killed? Ira felt a rush of anger towards the murdered man. Everything that was wrong in her life was because of him. Who killed him? Why? So many questions to get answers to.

  Ira had a feeling if she worked her way backwards, all these questions could be settled satisfactorily in time.

  ****

  To whomsoever it may concern, the letter began pompously (the subeditor in her noted)

  Dear Sir/Madam,

>   I have had my reservations about the occupant of flat 201, Wing 1 ─ Miss Ira Dutta, from day one of her residence here. She comes home at hours which are most inappropriate. She has men visit her at night. One of them has turned up murdered in the Wing 1 lift. One wonders why anyone else would want to harm an unknown man, apart from her.

  A decent girl would be ashamed of such activities, one wonders if she has any relations with her family given her lifestyle. If she does, it reflects badly on her family and upbringing. Her demeanour and talk have been observed to be disrespectful and bold. And there have been reports from her neighbours on the second floor, that she has parties with alcohol and English music in her flat.

  Mr Talukdar…Ira could smell him in this.

  While we understand that Indian culture is no more respected or adhered to by such modern girls, Panorama Apartments is not like that. It is a haven for respectable families for over fifteen years now. With the acceptance of this one girl, Mrs Bhattacharjee has unleashed murder and immoral behaviour in the building.

  (Baap re, poor Mrs Bhattacharjee! I doubt she was capable of anything so dramatic! Ira was amused, in spite of herself.)

  I request humbly that this be addressed by the people concerned.

  Thanking you (this hung limp on the page as it ended abruptly here, without the writer’s name).

  Ira read it over again before placing it carefully on the low glass-centre table. She thumped her heavy brass vase on top of it. Her eyes lingered on the ugly thing, more paperweight than holder of flowers. Who had the time to buy flowers?

  It was 2.30 am; quite out of the question to call her long-suffering landlady up, though Ira itched to discuss it and relieve some of her feelings. It would just have to wait till eight the next morning, she supposed. Till then she would do well to get some sleep.

  Tomorrow would be another harrowing day.

  *****

  7

  Sunday, 9th September 2014

  The alarm shrilled at 7.55 am. Ira rolled off her mattress and flopped onto the floor. Some part of her brain more alert than the rest hoped that the coldness of the floor would help wake her up. After lying prone for a while, she staggered up to a standing position and proceeded to walk zombie-like toward the bathroom.