A Killer Among Us

by Ushasi Sen Basu

  And even if you had been at work all this while, and I could have left without any money worries… There’s always the “what will people say?” A woman takes a career break, there are always compelling reasons. A man does, he is a wastrel or a bum. Pure ridiculousness, even if he is doing a great job at running the house. It’s sometimes not great being on the opposite end of this stereotype. Think about it, Nandana.’

  Nandana felt her anger drain away. She went to Kushal; put her arms around him and rested her chin on the top of his head. He held her like he didn’t ever want to let go. They stayed that way for a few moments, peaceful, giving each other comfort. Then the phone rang and he got up to answer it without a backward glance.

  The little worm of irritation wiggled its tail inside Nandana again. She carried the steel breakfast dishes to the kitchen basin and threw them in with a crash. Idiot.

  Yet, the righteous anger was hard to hold on to. They were both in unenviable positions.

  They owed it to themselves and the kids to find a way to be happier despite it all.

  *****

  Old Mrs Ghoshal devoured every word that Amrita, her doppelganger on TV, said today. Her daughter-in-law was truly intolerable.

  ‘You are a bad mother. Some people shouldn’t be mothers if they can’t give time to their children!’ Amrita was declaiming to her on the TV. Her white widow’s clothes added gravity to her words.

  Mrs Ghoshal felt a pang of loss. She never had a daughter-in-law; such was the uselessness of her son. When Kedar had been younger she had thrown herself into bride hunting with a fervour that was customary of all her projects. She found the fairest-skinned women, who were sometimes pretty too, and brought their pictures for her son’s approval. They were MSc students, medical students; and if pretty enough she had settled for an Arts graduate or two, she remembered. The higher the science degree the more of a coup it was; and the greater the sacrifice when she would leave it all to be a wife in the home of the Ghoshal family.

  To her utter shock the twenty-eight-year-old Kedar had rejected them all. When she’d brought a sheaf of carefully selected photographs to him, he had indicated with an upraised palm that he did not wish to see any of them. After months of nagging and raging at her son, who sniffed out her attempts to ambush him with some of the suitors and their families, and stayed away from home until they left, she had been finally told by him in that dispassionate voice of his, that these people would get over their feelings of being insulted if they knew he was saving their daughters’ lives by not marrying them.

  Mrs Ghoshal had pretended not to understand and raged at him more, citing his responsibility to her to marry and give her grandchildren.

  ‘I am fulfilling all my other responsibilities to you, Ma,’ he had said, quietly. ‘Please, excuse me from this one.’

  The end result was, the cycle had stopped at her. Her mother-in-law had been an utterly vile woman, tormenting and insulting her in every possible way till the day she died in the bedroom next to hers in the big North Calcutta poitrik bari they lived in. She had heard once, from her husband, that his paternal grandmother had done worse, and when his mother had been a mere child. He had enjoined her to understand and tolerate it, so the family could be in peace. It was unavoidable, he said in reasonable tones. This is how it is. You have a son, and a few more adopted sons (meaning her nephews), you will know how it feels when they grow up and marry.

  This casual remark had sounded like a promise. A promise from the Universe that she could, robbed of the ability to make her tormentor pay for the daily misery she endured, at least pass it on to the next woman who came into the family. She was entitled, she was owed.

  Mrs. Ghoshal looked forward to the day greatly, until it finally sank in that her time would never come.

  And all that hate, all that viciousness, bubbled and stank within her for decades, never to find an outlet that would give her relief.

  She turned her attention back to Amrita, who was now clutching at her chest and shedding copious tears because her daughter-in-law had responded sharply to one of her observations.

  All she had left was this onscreen doppelganger who could cry when she couldn’t. Amrita was her only comfort.

  *****

  10

  Wednesday, 12th September 2014

  Ira checked her phone and realised it was merely 11 am. This whole situation had wreaked havoc on her sleep patterns. She had got only four hours of sleep every night since the murder, and felt dull and lethargic all day. Even a week ago, she would have been enjoying deep REM sleep at this time, dreaming of nothing worse than sitting for Math exams in the nude.

  Today, however, Ira had a full five hours left before heading out to work―she wondered if she should speak to more people and see what she could dig up. As she went down for a walk, she spied the retreating backs of the two inspectors, leaving Wing 1. The lone constable snapped to attention and saluted them smartly, clicking his heels together.

  Ira wondered what they knew. Perhaps Inspector Bose could be prevailed upon to drop some hints about their progress. The newspapers and TV news had been quite unhelpful of late. ‘Panorama John Doe’ had been relegated to an inside page, shunted there by the political storm that was brewing around the missing daughter of the MLA, and a whole gamut of conspiracy theories that had begun to grow like fungus across the front page.

  She walked the perimeter of the complex a few times, nerving herself to approach the officers, but decided to head home for a nap instead. They would come back to her soon enough, she presumed.

  A nap seemed like a more pleasant way to pass the time―and the lady who cleaned would arrive any minute too.

  She caught sight of the day security guard, Ranjit, who sat looking the other way in a rather studied manner. There was no one around, a good time to have it out with him.

  Ranjit visibly tensed on his metal folding chair as she walked up to him. ‘Yes, madam?’ He stood up and asked.

  Ira called up the anger she felt, but it began to leak away at the sight of his wary face.

  ‘Which of you told the Association that the murdered man came to see me?’

  Ranjit was startled at the blunt approach.

  ‘M-Madam, it wasn’t me. I only heard of it the next day from Gopal.’

  ‘He told them?’

  Ranjit looked around and said nothing.

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Madam, I don’t know anything, please ask him directly,’ he said, firmly but politely.

  He sat down again.

  ‘I will. Thank you for letting me know it was him.’

  She turned on her heel and walked away, as he winced and opened his mouth to protest.

  Ira began to climb the stairs. Once home, perhaps she could check in on Ayan to see if he’d heard anything new.

  Kedarnath was trotting down the stairs. Apparently, everyone had abandoned the lift to the ‘Ghost of the Man’.

  They paused in politeness as their paths crossed.

  ‘Boycotting the lift too, Kedarnath-da?’

  ‘I actually always take the stairs unless I’m in a terrible rush. It’s good for one’s health.’

  Right, right. Very fit, but a bore.

  ‘How is Mrs Ghoshal?’

  ‘She’s fine. A little distressed by all the happenings in the building but otherwise as right as rain.’

  ‘The police been to see you yet, Kedarnath-da? They came to me first thing, I believe.’

  A slight smile touched the corner of his lips. ‘Yes, they came to me quite quickly too. After all, I was the third or fourth person to have seen the corpse.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think security should learn from this and not have unknown people wandering the complex at all hours. A small lapse has unleashed absolute havoc, has it not?’

  ‘You think it’s a lapse in security then? Most people think he was entirely an invited guest at my place.’

  ‘I think the sooner you
stop bringing it up with the people you talk to about this, the faster that rumour will die a natural death. You enjoy putting people in a spot by bringing it up and watching their reactions… If you don’t mind my presuming to make such an observation.’

  Ira grinned. Touché!

  ‘Any other insights?’ Ira’s question was entirely without sarcasm. It was such a relief to talk to someone who got straight to the point.

  ‘Yes. Of course, you and I are only chatting, but there are people who are out to make mischief for you. Be smart about what you say and to whom.’

  ‘Yes, they seem really out to get me, I find it surprising that….’

  ‘Is it though?’ Kedarnath broke in, in his bland, noncommittal manner.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ira’s appreciation for his straight-talking died a natural death. His ‘presuming to make observations’ had crossed an invisible line. She filled her lungs and began, ‘It’s unfair harassment….’

  Kedarnath waved his hand in a conciliatory gesture, though his face still remained blandly pleasant, ‘Of course it is, but scarcely surprising.’

  As Ira swelled further with outrage, Kedarnath forestalled her with finally a genuine smile, with teeth showing and an avuncular amusement reaching his eyes. ‘Come to our flat before you leave for work. Ma is always happy to have visitors to talk to. She’s made something fishily aromatic today, though I didn’t ask her what it was. Yesterday was chicken biryani, and I overate that, so I’ll need help eating whatever she’s making today.’ He patted his stomach with a wry smile.

  ‘And I would be happy to chat more. I took the day off. Had some of Ma’s and my bank stuff to sort out.’ As he said this, his arms mimed the four directions and then he put a finger on his lips. Everyone’s listening, no more talking, he mimed.

  ‘Er…okay, I’ll come by.’ Ira felt unsettled.

  Kedar nodded in his precise way. He trotted down the stairs in inexpensive, but gleaming shoes, and out of her sight.

  *****

  Ira trailed back to her flat and let herself in. She sat down to a hastily made grilled cheese sandwich and some overly brewed tea, and decided to treat her morning like a usual one.

  She dug out her Kindle from among the bedclothes, threw herself across the mattress, and tried to concentrate on the book. Ira had just started to experience that pleasurable feeling of immersion in a world that was not hers, when the phone rang.

  ‘Are we meeting today?’ Ayan asked.

  ‘Same place, same time? Yup, I have work today.’

  ‘Yes, but I was thinking perhaps we can eat lunch somewhere and then go to work.’

  ‘Not possible, I have a hot date with an eighty-year-old woman and her son of an indeterminate age, though surprisingly well-preserved.’

  ‘Sounds like quite the threesome. Tell me about it when we meet downstairs then.’

  ‘Yup. Yup.’ Ira smiled at how easily they’d slid into this familiarity. It was the first human association she’d had since leaving home, where she wasn’t expected to be excruciatingly polite and didn’t have to be on her guard constantly. Whatever direction they were headed in, she was grateful for this comfort, however fleeting.

  *****

  Nandana was not a gossip. She didn’t appreciate that girl nosing around. It was probably for a story at her newspaper; despite her elaborate excuse of just wanting to exonerate herself. Who knew if the next day Nandana opened up her newspaper only to find her name in there pointing a finger at all her neighbours? She would be boycotted. She felt a twinge of shame at this instinct of self-preservation. She also regretted that circumstances had made them get into a contrary situation, because she’d rather liked the girl’s no-nonsense attitude, much like Deepa’s.

  Nandana’s thoughts drifted to Deepa again. She thanked her stars for the hundredth time that they lived on the same floor, and were forever slipping in and out of each other’s flats like parts of an extended home. The other family on her floor, Pallabi’s, was not as much to her liking, but they all spent time together rather than rock the boat.

  It was Pallabi she was headed to see now. Nandana was utterly nervous because what she was going to discuss there could not possibly be taken well by Pallabi or her husband. She wouldn’t have invited an argument at all; but she could see the police hadn’t taken her information seriously. Nandana had found out they hadn’t even visited Pallabi’s family so many days after the murder, though they had questioned other neighbours with far more tenuous connections to the crime, sometimes multiple times.

  Obviously, they had rejected Nandana’s information as the fancies of a housewife. She couldn’t blame them; initially her husband had dismissed it in quite the same way. If Pallabi (or her husband Dilip) gave her a satisfactory response, then that was that. If not, or if they gave her an obviously fake story, the more probable option; then she would just have to dig harder, wouldn’t she? False stories, or since she was in the mood for strong words, bullshit, were more than a probable option when Pallabi was involved. This particular lady was, though no one had really articulated this in so many words, a compulsive liar.

  In Nandana’s experience, everyone lied. In her own circle, a fashionable claim was having a cleaning OCD. Apparently, most of her friends were afflicted by it. In almost all the cases, this ranged from a factual inaccuracy (truly scrupulously clean; but several nervous ticks short of an OCD) to a blatant, flaming lie as was the case with their friend Aditi.

  Nandana often smiled when of all people Aditi persisted in telling people, often new neighbours and especially men, that she had a cleaning OCD. ‘It’s a curse,’ she would say with a sigh and a self-deprecating smile, ‘I just can’t rest if I know there’s anything unwashed or not in its correct place in the house.’ This would be greeted by general approval all round. But anyone who happened to drop in on Aditi unannounced knew that a good strong Dettol wash was in order after a visit to her flat. This didn’t deter Aditi from regaling listeners with details of her burdensome OCD, even in the company of people who knew better.

  Perhaps she actually believed she was overly fastidious.

  These were little white lies that were part of the human make up; but with Pallabi it was a different phenomenon altogether.

  If one were to be kinder one would say that to Pallabi, the truth was only one of several available options. While a normal person’s natural instinct on being asked a direct question would be to lean towards the truth, because it was mildly uncomfortable to tell a lie, Pallabi was curiously democratic in such matters, and made recreational use of falsehoods on a daily basis.

  A month earlier, at one of their get-togethers which included some of the older ladies as well, Pallabi had regaled old Mrs Ghoshal with the story of her wedding. How she had met her husband only once before she got married and all the things she had thought and felt on that day in filmy style. Mrs Ghoshal had nodded vigorously along, face aglow with interest and approval.

  Deepa had leant over to Nandana with her characteristic sarcastic smile. ‘Should we tell her we all know that they met in college and knew each other for eight years before tying the knot?’

  Nandana had laughed. ‘Of course, she knows we know. Hadn’t we discussed it at Mitali’s tea party?’

  ‘Why do you think she does it?’ Deepa had asked, suddenly serious. ‘I mean… I understand your lying to cover up a secret. Or, you know―to protect somebody, when telling the truth is damaging.’

  Nandana had nodded. ‘How about lying to embellish a story so it’s more interesting? Or to make yourself more wonderful-sounding? Since we’re being honest here, I should admit I do that.’

  ‘That’s normal I think,’ Deepa’s eyes had crinkled into a smile.

  ‘But our Pallabi here is always spinning yarns, telling us she went out when she’s stayed in all day; or saying she was born in Mumbai when she was born here and has spent all her life here. There’s no point to it. It doesn’t matter enough to her to even bother being consistent!’ Deep
a seemed quite disturbed by it. ‘What worries me is Pallabi just does it for kicks, with no real aim to it.’

  Nandana laughed, and patted her lightly on the knee. ‘Don’t fret too much about it. Pallabi is just being Pallabi!’ she had said gaily.

  ‘Whatever that means,’ Deepa had crossed her arms.

  Nandana had turned back to eavesdropping on Pallabi’s stories, one taller than the next.

  Deepa beetled her brows in disapproval, while Nandana shrugged and popped a cheese ball into her mouth.

  Mitali, she remembered, had on one occasion tried to tackle Pallabi head on.

  ‘But Pallabi, I know that your niece is in Bangalore living with her boyfriend, why do you insist she is in a P.G. in Delhi?’

  Pallabi had batted her eyelashes innocently. ‘Haa? Not only is she in Bangalore but living with boyfriends? No-no-no, you must be confusing her with one of your nieces. We don’t do such things in our family.’

  Mitali had turned an unflattering shade of purple and stomped off.

  Nandana, though always careful to avoid confrontation, had jumped in at that. ‘Er… Pallabi, we all heard you tell that guest of Jayashree’s that you were proud of your niece for living her own life in Bangalore, and that she often called you for advice. Her parents have practically washed their hands off her, you said.’

  ‘Arre hyan,’ Pallabi said, clicking her tongue in mild impatience. ‘I just said that because the lady was ultra-fashionable, yaar; all high society. Wanted to show her all of us here are not village women, not knowing what’s what.

  And really, I often think it’s so disrespectful to people, especially elders, to go around telling them things that would only shock them. I mean, say my niece was actually living with her boyfriend, how shameless would it be to go about advertising it to people who would be uncomfortable with it?’

  ‘I didn’t think you particularly respected Mitali, or Jayashree’s guest…enough to “shield them from the truth” that is.’

  Pallabi responded with an impatient click of the tongue and a dismissive gesture; it was evident that no more was to be said of it. She seemed not to understand that truth wasn’t an entirely malleable thing.