FIR

by Monabi Mitra

  Above it all rang Bikram’s voice. ‘Don’t shoot, anybody! And quiet. He’s here somewhere and he’s got a gun.’

  A sudden hush fell on the gathering; even the wounded policeman stifled his cries. Bikram could hear Ghosh muttering expletives under his breath and the short gasps of the breathless men. Torches scoured the water but could pick out only blackness and the dark hoods of water hyacinths.

  ‘Keep watch on the water. He’ll make a dash for it soon.’

  Seven or eight of the men were already running up and down the bank, two scrambled down to the edge and began to circle from opposite sides.

  Ghosh touched Bikram on the shoulder. ‘The guard, he’s hurt, Sir. He’s been shot in the leg and he’s losing blood.’

  Bikram sighed and walked back wearily to where the man lay writhing on the ground, forehead damp with sweat, sweat stains spreading across his armpits and chest, the useless leg tilted awkwardly. Someone had unstrapped his rifle which lay behind. Bikram leaned beside him.

  ‘You’ll be all right. Do you know your blood group?’

  ‘No.’ The man’s face had turned pallid with fear. ‘I saw him creeping away. I tried to spring on him from behind but I didn’t realize …’

  Bikram looked up at the moonless sky in anger. Should they have waited for the full moon and the chance of light? Should he call off the raid and retreat? But something told him to push on with the ambush. Lately, he had got into this habit of feeling oddly apprehensive, he who had once been so sure of his own success. He also had odd moments of divination; brief flashes in which he felt that what he was doing now would be of some great import later.

  They were hammering again at the door and, this time, someone opened it. The injured man was now groaning loudly, his body limp. One of the constables came out with a rectangular piece of dirty cotton that looked like a vest, savagely ripped it up and tied a rough bandage around the leg. Ghosh’s walkie-talkie had come alive in a series of staccato bursts as he shouted for a car to take the main village road to the house. ‘Come double quick, you oaf, there’s been a bullet injury, yes, turn left from the Shib Mandir and past the old Rajbari where one of the guys will take over and bring you here. Over.’

  Faces peered cautiously out of the house as the women jostled for a better view, faded saris wound tightly round their breasts and heads.

  All this while, a group of men ceaselessly darted round the pond and the back of the house, torches criss-crossing the dark water and the bushes around it. But the pond was large and only the front portion of it was used, the rest of the water was covered in slime and the clustering water hyacinths.

  ‘Turn off your torches, everybody.’

  Ghosh looked up in surprise.

  ‘I have a plan,’ said Bikram. ‘Let him think we’re giving up and letting go. If he’s hiding somewhere, he’ll try and make a dash for it.’

  ‘Everybody be quiet,’ hissed Ghosh. ‘And listen …’

  They were back in darkness. An owl swooped low with a shrill screech. The light in the house had vanished and the waiting policemen could feel, rather than see, the inmates pressed against the window bars, watching them. The dogs were still barking furiously. From far away, came the low wails of jackals, rising and falling in perfect horror-movie fashion. Motionless, they waited for something to happen—but nothing did.

  Bikram, biting his lips in vexation, waited impatiently. Do something, he begged the fugitive. Don’t send me back to headquarters empty-handed. A face rose in his mind with its look of mockery and pleasure as Bikram returned in failure.

  Then suddenly, someone screamed. ‘Help, help! I’m dying. For god’s sake, help.’

  Everyone darted towards the pond as the still, foetid waters churned to reveal a man scrabbling and scratching at the water’s edge, trying to climb out. The beams of light showed the man, long weeds draping his chest, hair plastered in wispy tendrils of root and scum, collapse on the mud path bordering the pond. Around his thighs and arms were four or five rubbery shapes, ten inches long, plump with blood and glistening in the light. As the man lay tearing at something around his waist, screaming all the time, they could see his eyes turn white with fear.

  ‘Leeches,’ said a terrified voice from amongst the gathered men. It was the young constable who had switched on his torch in the paddy field for fear of snakes.

  ‘Leeches, Sir, leeches,’ he gabbled, ‘they’re a special kind, we call them the greedy leeches, they grow a foot long after sucking blood, they hide beneath the weeds of old unused ponds. Oh, this man will die; we’ll all die if they crawl to us.’

  They ran back to the house to get common salt as the fugitive lay writhing beside the pond, his shrieks rising higher and higher. This time, all the inhabitants of the house joined them—a group of limping old men and hunchbacked women, vigorous young girls and one gangling youth of fifteen or sixteen—all shouting and cursing the police: they’ve killed him, how will we live, see what they’ve done. In a while, the leeches fell off and lay in satisfied curls on the bank, five in all, while long snaking rivulets of blood oozed lazily down the man’s legs and arms and even his groin, for one leech had feasted on his private parts. All the while, the policeman with the gunshot wound groaned and gasped at the back, temporarily deserted by his mates as they crowded round the man with the leech bites. Amidst all this stood Bikram Chatterjee, implacable and grave, saddled with two ‘seriously wounded cases’, as the indefatigable Ghosh informed him, requiring immediate medical attention in a village from which the nearest hospital was seventy kilometres away and liable to be deserted at this hour, the doctor in charge snoring in his quarters and no medicines available anyway.

  In the end, they returned to the thana with the policeman and the thief. An ambulance had been summoned and the two men were packed into it, sharing a makeshift bed on the ambulance floor.

  Bikram made quick phone calls to colleagues and friends in hospitals and police outposts along the way. Dawn was breaking as they reached Calcutta, trucks carrying the day’s vegetables unloading their wares outside markets, milk vans trundling along the roads, as Bikram and his men burst into the city and made for Medical College and Hospital at great speed.

  2

  ‘Tara, I wish you would take the trouble to visit Robi today. He’s been rather fretful lately and wants you over.’ There was silence at the breakfast table. Tara’s mother dipped her toast in her tea and swallowed quickly. Her father filled his soup bowl with more milk and muri, added two spoons of sugar, and stirred vigorously. Tara buttered her third piece of toast and layered it carefully with a spoonful of honey. The only sign that she had heard her father at all was that her hands trembled slightly.

  ‘What’s the matter? Didn’t you hear what I said?’

  ‘Of course she did,’ said Tara’s mother soothingly. ‘She’s just trying to work out her timings.’

  ‘Must you interfere with everything I say? She’s not dumb that she can’t answer for herself! Did you hear me, Tara? Robi wants you to visit him today.’

  ‘It’s Thursday. Not today.’

  It promised to be a stormy meal but Tara’s voice was calm.

  ‘I don’t care if it’s Thursday or Friday. A promise is a promise. I told Robi you would go and that’s that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have an art class today.’

  Tara rose decisively with her plate and went towards the kitchen. As she had half-expected her mother to come in after her while she was doing the dishes, it didn’t surprise her when she did. Yet her mother’s customary pleading annoyed her and annoyance soon turned to anger.

  She replied wearily, ‘Help me, Ma. I can’t stand this life any longer. What have we got out of our relationship with Robi and Nisha except unhappiness?’

  ‘I know. But Robi’s father was kind to us at a time when nobody else was. Do this for our sake. Or for mine,’ Tara’s mother added hastily on seeing her daughter’s expression.

  ‘What about the classes at t
he club?’

  Since Tara had capitulated—as her mother knew she would—they put the rest of the plan together. Tara’s mother would telephone the club and tell the secretary that Tara would be late because of her father’s blood test reports that had to be shown to a specialist. And Tara would go to Robi and Nisha’s stately house, with its shaded garden and expensive drapes, to maintain family peace.

  Tara was thirty-three, unmarried, living with her parents on the top floor of a three-storeyed house in a shabby neighbourhood that had once been genteel. The pavements, once wide and clean, were now overrun by snack bars on wheels, ugly aluminium carts that sold street-side chowmein in a fierce sauce.

  The two bedrooms in their house had three varying states of mind. Tara’s father was a strong-willed bully, frequently moody and feverish, intolerant of others, often abusive, living only for his own sake and needs. Tara’s mother had, over the years, dulled her hopes and simply existed, timid and submissive. By the time she entered her teens, Tara realized she needed to get away from this sad household if she were to survive. At that time, she had inhabited two worlds: the world of school and friends, bubbling with the assurance of youth, and the quiet despondence of home. At the same time, she had been buoyed by the certainty of escape. But when it was finally time to escape, to apply to some university abroad and never come back, Tara found a strange reluctance within her. Perhaps she was timid, or apathetic, or hopeless, or, as she suspected, a combination of all. Tara’s dissatisfaction was soon dulled to passivity and a resigned endurance of the status quo.

  In the dusty begrimed offices of Wisdom Press, Tara finished her day’s work—ploughing through piles of submitted manuscripts. At 5.00 p.m., as the roar of traffic outside the window reached a frenzy, Tara washed her hands in the cracked basin of the office lavatory, brushed and tied her hair into a ponytail and prepared to leave.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  As usual, Anju had sensed something.

  ‘It’s the weekly visit to Robi.’

  ‘Was it your father’s orders or mother’s?’

  ‘Both, I suppose. They must have worked it out together.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should change into something better?’ Anju looked her up and down with a look of dissatisfaction. ‘Not coarse cotton for a tea party at the Boses’.’

  ‘If there’s a tea party you may be sure I’m going to be kept out of it. I’ll be babysitting Robi while his wife dazzles the guests.’

  ‘Then you may as well have some tea before you go. Or maybe some coffee. How about a cappuccino at Café Coffee Day? The answer is yes. My treat.’

  Tara sighed. It was useless arguing with Anju. So they left the smell of books behind them and made for the new café that had opened just a month ago.

  Inside, it was cool and smelt of chocolate and coffee. They sat on the tiny round wooden chairs with iron fluting, and Anju ordered. There was a noisy group of college students in a corner, arguing loudly and harassing the waiter. In another corner, two good-looking men were smoking and whispering between themselves. When Anju and Tara entered, the two turned around to look them up and down.

  ‘The one on the left looks like Aryan, doesn’t he?’

  Tara said nothing.

  ‘Why didn’t you marry him?’ Anju persisted.

  ‘You are determined to play the agony aunt today, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was just curious. He was a good catch. I wish I had such a chance myself.’

  ‘You would have fared quite badly. His family was completely traditional. Rajasthani. Vegetarian, money-minded and anti-Bengali. They would never have allowed it. Aryan was only fooling me and himself, of course, when he thought they would accept me.’

  ‘But there are no Bengali boys in Calcutta anymore. They’ve all left for Mumbai and Delhi and Bangalore and beyond. What are we to do, Tara? Marry some liverish loser earning ten thousand a month or remain spinsters all our lives! At least you have your sister-in-law.’

  ‘She’s a bitch!’ said Tara tightly.

  The coffee was served and she buried her face in it. Anju, sensing trouble, kept quiet. The boys from the college group started singing a song by a popular Bengali rock band and the girls clapped and giggled. The two men in the other corner hailed the waiter for another round of coffee and looked slyly at Anju, who met their eyes and saw they were looking appreciatively at Tara.

  ‘I could give you a lift in a cab. I need to shop for a birthday gift and I’ll go right past your cousin’s house.’

  ‘I’ll take the Metro. Might as well get it over with.’

  Tara finished her coffee, carefully patted her mouth, and prepared to leave.

  Anju hesitated, then said, ‘Look at those guys in the corner there, Tara. Ever since we’ve been here, they have kept looking at you. I received only a casual, non-starter of a glance. Maybe it’s not always that bad, Tara. Even if your cousin and his wife don’t care for you, and have you over only for their own convenience, you can make something out of it.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, come on! I don’t need to spell it out for you. Use your instinct. Join the party under some pretext or hang around until you’re introduced to some of the young guests. If you dress right they can’t exclude you. You might just meet someone.’

  ‘If I could have done it that way, Anju, I could have done a lot of things in life. Beginning with one of those two in the corner there. Or perhaps with both!’

  ‘But you just don’t try. I’m not telling you to throw yourself at men but please, at least explore possibilities. It is as if you make yourself plain and unattractive on purpose. You’re only cheating yourself of the chance of a better life.’

  ‘I wish you’d pick a better time for your lecture. And don’t say you are trying to help me.’

  ‘One day …’

  ‘… I’ll remember your words of wisdom, and repent. And you’ll play with your grandchildren and think about peevish Tara who sulked in a corner of the Bose mansion while delicious men buzzed all around her.’

  ‘Oh, all right, have it your own way. Enjoy the food at least!’

  ‘The food is not worth the price,’ said Tara with finality and got up to leave.

  Robi and Nisha Bose lived in a spacious bungalow in a fashionable part of the town. Once, the street had been lined with mansions with dark, imperious gates and large gardens in which squawking parrots announced the fortunes of their owners. Most of the bungalows had made way for high-rises with exteriors done up in pink-and-black, and car parks filled with shining cars. Even now, one such mansion was being bludgeoned into oblivion.

  Tara stood at the gate for a moment or two, hesitating. She then squared her shoulders and reached out for the gate. It swung open on its own. A durwan stood inside, his face a careful combination of contempt and insolence. The man stood aside to let her in, leaving the smallest space possible so that Tara had to brush against his body to enter.

  ‘Memsahib has been waiting for a long time,’ he said and then added brightly, ‘very crowded buses, I know. I told Babuji, we need to buy Tara didi a car. Then she’ll be here on time and I won’t have to keep craning my neck to hear her come.’

  Tara ignored the durwan’s insults. She reasoned to herself: a poor relation—the unmarried daughter of a greedy, parasitical father—is meant to be teased and despised and made the butt of servant-room ridicule. Should she have married Aryan? But that would have made her Mrs Jain, with a diamond nose stud and sequinned sari and, perhaps she might have been kept from seeing her parents had she not borne her in-laws a male heir within the first two years of marriage. Tara’s thoughts thus ran around in circles of self abuse. In the meanwhile, she had crossed the lawn, run up the porch steps and rung the bell under the patterned shadows thrown down by the woven cane lamp. On her left, she could see, through the tall French windows, a room cosy and glowing with flowers and lace cushions and comfortable sofas. Nisha’s guests had not yet arrived.

  Robi was waiting
in his wheelchair for Tara, his walking stick standing upright beside him. His left hand hung nerveless by his side while the right moved and clenched and fidgeted with irritated energy. Nowhere was this energy more apparent than in his eyes—bulging and wild—that darted restlessly around the room. When Tara entered, he was concentrating on scratching his left shoulder and, as his fingers scrabbled stiffly on his shirt, there came into his eyes a disorderly, almost menacing, look.

  ‘You’re actually on time today.’

  When he spoke, Robi’s low nasal drawl masked the fact that some of his speech was slurred.

  ‘I got an early train.’

  He would never realize, thought Tara, that she came early on such days to avoid the speculative looks of guests. Robi had always been self-absorbed and uninterested in the subtler shades of human thought. But now in his illness he was almost brutish in his self-centredness.

  ‘You’re looking nice, though. Almost pretty. I didn’t know you could look nice in such a plain dress. Better than all the tight dresses youngsters seem to be wearing these days. At least that’s what I find in the newspapers. By the way, there’s an article on coping with terminal illness that Nisha said you should read out to me. Fairly representative of my situation.’

  Tara settled herself in a chair and propped her back, already aching with the rigours of a ten-hour workday, with two cushions borrowed from a chaise longue in the corner. The room was dimly lit and airless. The slatted windows were bolted, the curtains were drawn. Only the bathroom door was open and through it came the smell of liquid antiseptic and the faint smell of urine. Robi Bose prattled on. ‘I wonder what Nisha is wearing tonight. I asked her in the morning but she said she hadn’t decided. Maybe it’s the new sari she bought last week. What’s the name of that store near Kowloon, the one which sells imported silk? I think it’s from that one. Soli’s, I think, or was it Chawla’s? Used to buy her one every time the company bagged a fresh contract!’

  A fat maid waddled into the room, ignored Tara, set down a tray with biscuits and tea before Robi and attempted to escape. Robi, however, stopped mid-sentence to call her back. ‘Where’s Memsahib? And where’s Buro? Tell him I want to go to the bathroom. Get me a napkin from the table there. Has the party begun?’ The maid, endeavouring to leave without replying, shot a quick look at Tara, who was looking at the floor. Robi’s voice, no longer a slow drawl, rose to a high-pitched whine. ‘Where’s Buro? He’s supposed to be my attendant, not enjoy himself at the party. It’s my house. Nisha! Nisha!’