FIR

by Monabi Mitra

  ‘Goes to school?’

  ‘He’s studying in class two.’

  ‘How long have you been in this business?’

  Silence.

  ‘You were caught with four bundles of five-hundred rupee notes. How do you explain all that cash?’

  ‘I had borrowed the money for my mother-in-law who needs to undergo an operation.’

  ‘Whom did you borrow it from?’

  ‘A man in the adjoining village who lends out money.’

  ‘What is this man’s contact number and address?’

  ‘I have forgotten.’

  ‘Then how will you ever return him the money?’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you know that two of the bundles had false notes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In which hospital is your mother-in-law admitted?’

  ‘A nursing home.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Moonlight Nursing Home, near Kidderpore.’

  ‘Who is her doctor?’

  ‘She hasn’t been admitted yet.’

  ‘Where is she right now?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Then why did you rent a room in the Ekbalpore area?’

  Silence. At this point, the officer-in-charge bustled in, a bottle of Coke in hand.

  ‘Can you get us another one?’ Bikram asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ The officer-in-charge looked puzzled but took care not to ask any questions. Bikram was known for his quicksilver moods. ‘Is there anything else you want, Sir?’

  ‘Thanks, everything is in order.’

  The officer-in-charge tried hard not to take a peek at the sheet of paper before Bikram but his eyes strayed there nevertheless. He indicated the accused with his head. ‘Very stubborn, this one. Took a shot at him in the morning but he’s difficult.’ The second Coke arrived in the meantime, borne by a constable.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bikram to the officer-in-charge coldly. The man took the hint and scuttled out of the room.

  ‘Have this.’ The man took the bottle and sat with it, the dark colour of the Coke blending with his dark trousers and black T-shirt. But his hands were trembling.

  Bikram drank from his bottle and put it down on the floor. ‘You must be thirsty, drink,’ he said.

  The man sat still, the bottle in his hands.

  Bikram stifled a yawn. He marvelled at the situation. Montu Mondol, at thirty-four, had lived a fuller life than he had. Certainly, he had a son to bear the Mondol name. If he, Bikram, were to die, whom would Ghosh go to with the flowers and the incense? Bikram looked at the rough cement floor and felt a sudden and illogical desire to rush out of the room and meet Shona. Are you ready to marry me on the first available date? He knew what Shona would say, and how she would look while saying it. Would their son look like him or like Shona? He shook these thoughts off and began again. ‘Which class did you say your son was in?’

  ‘Class two.’

  ‘How does he address you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Does he call you Baba, or Abbu, or Papa or what?’

  Montu Mondol was too surprised at this line of interrogation to maintain his sullen speechlessness. The bottle quivered in his hands and he looked up at Bikram. ‘He calls me Bapi.’

  ‘Does he know that his father is a smuggler? How do you think he would feel if he were to see you now, with that rope across your waist, sitting at my feet? Is this the Bapi who takes him out during pujas and buys him toys? Is this the man who buys him new clothes and comes back from the city with gifts?’

  For just one minute the gambit did not seem to be working. Then, the man gurgled. Bikram, intently drawing two stick figures climbing up hills, slackened and breathed easy. Pleased with himself, he drew a brilliant sun over the hills and signed off with a relish, then looked up at the man who had put the bottle down and had buried his face in his hands. Bikram got up, went across to the bench, picked up the drink and gently touched the man on the shoulder.

  He left the police station forty-five minutes later with his mission partially accomplished. This time, the sheet of paper in his hand was full of names and addresses. Montu Mondol had revealed some information, sketchy at best. He had two wives, one in India, the other in Bangladesh. Wife number two had a cousin who had introduced him to the fake-currency racket as a courier. Bundles of fake Indian money were made into neat packets in Bangladesh and stashed under a pile of clothes in a kitbag. Montu carried the bag from Bangladesh into India, crossing the border quietly at strategic places where it was unmanned, slipping through paddy fields and bamboo groves. In Calcutta, he handed the bag over to other men, meeting them in seedy hotels where he received payment for his work. Where did they make it? He didn’t know, but heard it came from Thailand and beyond. Who headed this business? Montu didn’t know, because he had never met anyone else, save for his brother-in-law and another man, Sheikh Hassan, also known as Apple Hassan, the guy to whom he gave the packet here in Calcutta. He had a flourishing trade in garment manufacturing. It was said that he had bars and restaurants also and was lately diversifying into producing movies.

  And yes, the group for which he worked was known as the Dhoor Syndicate. Anything else? Well, lately, there had been a packet or two from Calcutta to Bangladesh which had carried medicines, for the brother-in-law’s family. He had been given orders not to open the packet but to deliver it straight away, but once, over a bumpy stretch of road, the packet had clinked a bit, and Montu had known there was a bottle in it. Apple Hassan had a sari business here and traded with some Marwari traders of central Calcutta in Dhakai and Tangail saris. Montu knew, because he had asked for a sari once for his first wife, to gift her for the pujas, but Apple Hassan had refused to lower the price even a little.

  As Bikram rose to leave, he smiled at Montu. ‘I don’t know why you’re keeping information from me. It is actually quite silly. We could have struck a deal, you know. I would have booked you under some of the easier sections of the penal code, you would have got bail but on condition that you feed us information now and then. Now, what I’ll do is frame heavier, non-bailable charges against you and keep you out of circulation for a long while. Really bad for your business, as far as I can tell.’

  Montu sat biting his nails.

  ‘And you haven’t told me who you really are—carrier, fixer, contact, eliminator, money launderer or a bit of everything.’ Montu never opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Well, take your time. If you want to speak to me, just tell the officer-in-charge.’

  They never could be rushed, these people. Everyone needs time to mull things over and these men would do so in the privacy of the lock-up.

  It was dark outside. Glowing billboards lighted the stream of evening traffic. Bikram decided to end the day with the Robi Bose case. He wondered, idly, whom he should take along. Ghosh was following up on a case and Chuni Sarkar was depressing company, so he decided on Sheena Sen. He didn’t like Sheena Sen much, she was far too talkative, but there were very few lady officers to choose from. At least Sheena, unlike the others, did not try to flirt with him!

  Bikram’s intention today was to interrogate the cousin who had been at the Boses’ on the night of the death. He expected tears and drama, and Sheena would come handy in controlling any such situation. From experience he knew that a woman suspect should never be interrogated unless there was a policewoman present, just as he had learnt that no suspect should be clubbed on the lower back, especially near the kidneys. These weren’t matters of delicacy or discretion but simple lessons of survival.

  These Boses lived in a squalid two-storeyed house in the older part of the city. Bikram and Sheena went up a dark staircase and were shown into a drawing room. There was a sofa that seated two, two single chairs and a divan. Smells of cooking filled the room and mingled with the smell of burning incense. A pressure cooker whistled. Sheena Sen perched herself on the divan, looking rather pleased with herself at having been included in the investigation. There was rustling
and shushing in the next room. Bikram saw, all at once, in this room, a reflection of the life he had once lived. He could almost see his father standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by books, preaching the benefits of plain living and high thinking.

  Bimal Bose came in. Bikram stood up, extending a common courtesy. Bimal seemed taken aback. His face reflected the fear most people have of the law, and the fear manifested itself in bluster. ‘I know why you’re here,’ Bimal Bose began without preliminaries. ‘Nisha told me about the post-mortem report. There must be a mistake.’

  Bikram said nothing.

  ‘Try and understand. He was ill and we all knew he wasn’t going to last long. It was obviously a heart attack. They must have mixed up cases and got it all wrong. Doctors nowadays!’

  ‘Suppose they had been careful and the report was correct?’ asked Bikram mildly.

  ‘Impossible! Don’t you ever read the newspapers? Rats nibble on corpses at the morgue, bodies get mixed up and policemen take bribes to fudge reports …’ Bimal Bose stopped himself, but not in time. ‘Well, anyway, I don’t believe it.’

  A timid woman entered the room and stood near the door. ‘You mustn’t mind him. He gets upset easily,’ she ventured tentatively. And, addressing Bimal, said, ‘The police have their duty to perform.’

  ‘Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,’ he snapped.

  ‘We’d like to speak to her too,’ Bikram smoothly interjected. ‘My colleague will ask her a few things, just to get a better picture.’ He added, seeing the scowl on Bimal Bose’s face, that the questioning could be done at the house rather than at the thana.

  Sheena Sen, eager to prove herself, immediately took over. Her manner became brusque and businesslike and was now so much in contrast to her playful appearance that Bimal Bose was taken aback.

  When they had left Bikram began in what he hoped was a suitably detective-like manner. The last domestic tragedy he had investigated had been more than a year ago. It actually felt odd to talk to someone with no known history of crime.

  ‘When was the last time you saw your nephew?’

  ‘Only the other day.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Oh, about fifteen days ago, or it could have been a month.’

  ‘Did he come here or did you go to his house?’

  ‘He wouldn’t come here! How could he, being in a wheelchair? I went to see him, obviously.’

  ‘Did he never go out of the house?’

  ‘Never.’

  Bikram thought about Robi Bose at Nikki Kumar’s party and wondered what Bimal Bose would say if he informed him of this fact.

  ‘What was he like when you saw him the last time?’

  ‘His usual self, patient and resilient. He was laughing and joking all along even though Buro was late in attending to him. How he loved that rascal! I often told him that Buro was too slack but he would never agree. If you ask me, it was Buro who killed him.’

  ‘Assuming he was murdered,’ said Bikram. ‘According to what you just said about the reports being mixed up, he might just have had another stroke.’

  ‘That’s for you to find out,’ said Bimal Bose gruffly.

  ‘Did he ever talk about having enemies? Or of grudges against him?’

  ‘Never. He was loved by all. He had been endearing right from childhood. Just like his mother, well behaved and beautifully brought up. When he went to America to study he would always return with presents for all of us. Table mats and scented soap, and a lovely travelling clock once.’

  ‘And his wife, she looked after him well?’

  ‘Of course she did. Even after he had his stroke Nisha was the perfect wife. Got him the best doctors and all the expensive medicines. They even imported some from abroad. Nisha was always worried about him. She told me once that expenses were mounting and she would have to think of getting a job in order to make ends meet. I told her never to do that. We would sit together and think of something, I said. God will help us. She burst into tears and said that God had probably deserted her. You are all that we have now, she said. Poor thing! So lonely and frightened in that big house!’

  They fell silent for a moment. Bikram pictured Nisha Bose, tears rolling picturesquely down her cheeks, unseeing eyes staring out at the garden outside, pouring her heart out to Bimal Bose. There must have been a reason for the act she put on but would it have any bearing on the death of her husband? He detested sentimentality and felt weary at the thought of having to sift through masses of tangled emotions to solve a homicide.

  ‘Buro, Robi Bose’s attendant, told us that your daughter had a quarrel with Robi Bose the last time she was with him. The attendant said that your daughter shouted at and abused his master and at one point she even threatened him.’

  ‘That is impossible. Buro would never say such a thing. Your men have heard it all wrong.’

  ‘And what if I say Buro reported all this to me?’

  ‘Then I would say that you have misunderstood him,’ said Bimal Bose smoothly.

  ‘When can we see your daughter?’ Bikram asked him.

  Bimal Bose’s face darkened.

  ‘Why do you need to see her?’

  ‘Because she happens to have been the last visitor Robi Bose had before he died. I think we made it quite plain that we want to meet all the members of the family together.’

  ‘Your men spoke to her the night Robi died. I see no reason to harass her again.’

  The word harass had an odd effect on Bikram. Over time he had grown used to having routine police procedure dubbed as harassment and would probably have not reacted at all. But it had been a long day, he had been assigned another raid tomorrow and his cell phone was ringing maddeningly every few minutes. He got up to leave. ‘Ask your daughter to report to the police station for questioning at twelve o’clock tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You may accompany her if you wish but we’d like to question her alone.’

  ‘It’s Friday. She has to report for her tutorial,’ said Bimal Bose hurriedly. ‘They pay her according to each lesson. She can’t afford to miss it this week.’

  Bikram found Sheena’s number on his phone and called her. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a room on the rooftop,’ she said. ‘It’s the daughter’s room. I’ve nearly finished.’

  Bimal Bose was now pleading. ‘It’s not very far. She’ll be here in ten minutes. I’m calling her now. It’s better you meet her here. Please …’ His voice climbed to a shrill bleat.

  Bikram went up the stairs two steps at a time. He paused as he entered the daughter’s room. He always felt squeamish about the task, as if he were a voyeur. Why had Sheena been led into an unmarried girl’s bedroom? A glance inside told him why. It was different from the rest of the house. It was the room of a girl who was delicate and sensitive and who had done her best to create a world beyond the bleakness of the rest of the house. It was small, about twelve feet by ten feet. Into this space the girl had poured in as much of her personality as inherited, rickety, ancestral furniture and up-to-fifty-per-cent seasonal discounts would allow. The walls were lined with an assortment of framed prints. There was Monet’s Water Lilies alongside Renoir’s self-portrait. There were calendar reproductions of Chunar Fort and old Banaras. There were postcards of hibiscus and geraniums stuck with glue on the door leading to the bathroom. There was an old birthday card placed on the television. A money plant in a brilliant blue vase stood on the study table. Elsewhere, there were a small bed, a teakwood bedside table with drawers, a large old wooden cupboard with graceful fluting on the edges. One of the windows in the corner stood closed, the edges masqueraded as a bookshelf lined with books stacked in narrow shaky columns. Beside the bed and along the walls stood two large windows out of which could be seen a higgledy-piggledy smudge of rooftops and clothes lines and cable TV wires and dusty potted plants. It was probably the most presentable room in the house, and Bimal Bose’s wife, mindful of guests, even if they were policemen and policewomen, had led them he
re.

  Sheena Sen was sitting on an old rattan chair. Bimal Bose’s wife sat on the bed, a faded woman plucking unhappily at the bedspread. Her hunted eyes strayed over Bikram’s shoulder to the door behind.

  ‘What do you think happened?’ he asked.

  Her eyes darted to the door again. Heavy breathing and the smell of coconut hair oil announced Bimal Bose behind him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Robi was a good boy. I can’t imagine anything like this happening in our family. Perhaps it was suicide. Like the death of their aunt, so many years ago.’

  ‘Roma’s death has nothing to do with this. That was forty years ago. What’s got into you?’ Bimal Bose was back to his customary bluster.

  ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t realize … I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  Bimal Bose turned to Bikram. ‘Roma was my sister. Married off early but her husband died a year later of typhoid. Her in-laws made her life miserable so she returned to us. No children. Hanged herself one morning.’

  ‘In which room?’ asked Bikram on a sudden inspiration.

  ‘The same one in which Robi died,’ broke in Bimal Bose’s wife before he could stop her. ‘I always told Nisha that was an unlucky room but she would laugh. Said she could change everyone and anything, even ill luck.’

  ‘Now that Robi is dead, what happens to the house?’ asked Bikram.

  Bimal Bose’s face became wary. ‘I don’t know,’ he said shortly.

  ‘But you must have some idea,’ pursued Bikram. ‘After all, your nephew had been ill for quite some time. It had been touch and go for five years, hadn’t it?’

  ‘We’re still in mourning. The funeral rites are yet to be finished. We aren’t very well off but we know our duties. We haven’t thought about property matters yet.’

  The hostility in the room was overpowering and Bikram could feel great waves of it pouring over him and Sheena Sen. ‘Twelve o’clock tomorrow,’ said Bikram, ignoring another round of protests from Bimal Bose. Then he turned to leave. There was nothing more to be had from this pair.

  ‘What did she say?’ he asked Sheena Sen when they were back in the car again. A clot of maidservants had formed around the car, pretending to discuss shopping lists but keeping their eyes on Mistry and Lalbahadur.