Tarquin Hall

by The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken

  Premna answers, “Jammu! My daughter and I have been walking for days. My husband is no more! And the kafirs drove us from our homes! May Shaitan stone them!”

  Premna is weeping now, tears streaming down her face, her hands held up in supplication. “What are we to do?” she implores the stranger. “Amma! We have lost everything! May Allah protect us!”

  The local woman approaches them with pitying eyes and asks, “But, sisters, where are you going?”

  “To Rawalpindi! Word has reached us that my brother is there in a camp. Tell us: how far is it?”

  “Two days.”

  Koomi’s eyes widen and then she, too, begins to cry. “But Mother has not the strength in her,” she sobs. “We were robbed on the road and have nothing left—only a few pots and no food to put in them.”

  The local woman, whose name is Homaira, places a comforting arm around Koomi and says, “Please don’t cry, child. Come. You will have food and drink and you can take rest.”

  She leads the women through the village, where the charred hulks of houses, scenes of unimaginable crimes that will go unpunished forever, bear testament to the slaughter and pillaging that has accompanied the brutal division of India by the British and the creation of Pakistan. They pass a boarded-up well, a tomb for many of the village’s Hindu and Sikh girls, who took their own lives rather than be seized by a Muslim mob. Further on lies a Muslim graveyard with freshly dug plots—more victims of the frenzy of killings that swept through cities, towns and villages where previously those of different faiths had lived side by side for generations.

  Homaira’s homestead has thick mud walls the color of honey and a strong set of double doors. In the courtyard beyond, chickens peck in the dust and a carpet of bright red chillies lies drying in the sun. The visitors are taken into the women’s quarters and then the kitchen—little more than a room with an earthen floor and a few blackened pots stacked in one corner. Coals glow beneath a tandoor where fresh naan is being prepared by one of their hostess’s young daughters. Soon, Premna and Koomi are warming themselves in front of a fire, tearing off pieces of the soft, warm bread and hungrily stuffing their mouths. Sweet, milky chai is served, a rare luxury for these times, and they’re joined by the other women of the household—more daughters; daughters-in-law; granddaughters; a mourning, ancient aunt; and a shy girl whom the family has taken in since her parents, their neighbors, were killed.

  The Indians eat on in silence, watched by a bank of curious eyes. The murmur of male voices reaches them from one of the adjoining rooms. And then—hesitantly at first—the questions begin. What have they seen on the road? Is it true India is preparing to invade? Have all the Mussulmen been forced out of Jammu?

  Premna and Koomi answer as truthfully as they can, accustomed to such questions. And when they sense their hosts are at ease with their presence, Koomi begins the patter that has proven successful in many of the other villages they’ve visited across the length and breadth of Pakistani Punjab in recent weeks.

  “So many of our sisters were taken by the Hindus!” she says. “They have been kidnapped and forced to convert and marry. Allah protect them.”

  “They are saying Hindu and Sikh girls have also been taken by our brothers here in Pakistan,” says Premna. “But I am sure that they are lying!”

  Homaira’s eyes are cast down as she answers in a lowered voice, “It’s true. But the government has declared that they should be returned to their families. Forced marriages are not being recognized.”

  The aunt lets out a loud, angry grunt. “Why should they be released when so many of our sisters are also being held?” she sneers. “Many men have lost their wives. How are they to raise families? These women are Muslims now, bound by marriage.”

  Homaira disagrees. “No, Amina jaan, it is not right what has been done.” Her voice is quiet yet seething with emotion. “What about that poor girl being held by Faheem Khan? She must be barely eighteen years of age. Is she not as innocent in these affairs as any of us sitting here? And yet she has been passed from man to man. Sold like a farm animal. Then forced into marriage. That brute treats her cruelly. She has to work all day in the fields—and he is violent.”

  Beneath the tandoor, the coals are dying.

  “She is Hindu, this girl?” asks Koomi eventually.

  “Sikh—I overheard her repeating the Gurbani in the fields.” The hostess lets out a frustrated tut. “No, it’s not right what is being done,” she repeats. “But Faheem Khan’s father is a powerful man.”

  “Are there any others being held in the village?” asks Koomi.

  “She is the only one.”

  The aunt speaks up again: “There’s no point sending these women back to their families. They won’t have them! They’ll say they’re unclean, polluted! That’s what those Hindus have always said of us. Never would they allow us to eat in their homes or drink from their cups. Better these girls stay here where they have a future.”

  Premna changes the subject, bemoaning the loss of her husband again and wondering if she will ever marry off her daughter. The women swap more stories.

  Another half hour passes and then the Indians announce their intention to continue with their journey.

  “You need rest,” insists their hostess. “Stay as our guests until tomorrow at the very least. I implore you.”

  “Homaira jaan, we dare not,” says Premna. “I feel my strength returning and we must reach Rawalpindi as quickly as we can. Who knows how long my brother will be there? If we don’t find him, then who will provide for us?”

  Seeing that her mind is made up, their hostess wraps some provisions in a cloth and escorts them back outside. The Indians thank her, promising to return in happier times. Before they set off again, Koomi asks their benefactor to point out the homestead where the captive girl is being held.

  She answers with a hint of suspicion in her voice: “The house-fort over there, the one surrounded by tall walls.” And as Premna and Koomi make their way north out of the village, Homaira watches them with a quizzical frown—as if there is something about the duo that she can’t quite place.

  • • •

  It is later. She and Premna Auntie are returning to the village now with Aslam and his men. The place is deserted, doors and shutters all closed. The fields are empty.

  “Someone sent word we were coming,” says the captain.

  Undoing the clip on the holster of his pistol, he bangs on the heavy wooden door set in the high mud walls of the house-fort. It’s opened by a tall young man with a fresh scar on his right cheek.

  The Indians can’t hear what Aslam says to him but it engenders a gruff response: “I’m not hiding anyone!”

  The captain asks him about the scar and he responds, almost mockingly; “I fell in a thorn bush!”

  The captain pushes past him. Two Pakistani women, brought along to help search the sections of homes where men are forbidden to go, follow Aslam in through the gate.

  Faheem Khan glares at the Indians before returning inside.

  They wait in the jeep with one of Aslam’s men. Then something catches Koomi’s eye. From the side of the house-fort, someone is signaling to her.

  She gets out of the vehicle, making some excuse, and slips away to investigate. Behind a tree, she finds Homaira, a finger held to her lips. She watches over Koomi’s shoulders to see if anyone has followed her. “Come.” She leads the way along a sandy path.

  Koomi notices some unusual tracks in the sandy soil. They’ve been made by a man walking backward with his legs splayed and feet held well apart. A rut running between them indicates that he dragged something heavy. She and Homaira reach the edge of the field behind the house-fort. Homaira points out a few planks of wood lying on the ground with a millstone on top of them. Together they manage to move the millstone to one side. Fearing the worst, Koomi picks up the planks one by one.

  Beneath lies a six-foot pit. And at the bottom lies a young woman. She’s bound and gagged and her face is b
adly bruised. She turns her head and squints, the light hurting her eyes.

  Koomi jumps down into the pit, unties the ropes around the woman’s wrists and ankles and removes a piece of cloth that’s been stuffed into her mouth. Together, she and Homaira help the woman out of the hole.

  “Go! Before he comes!” whispers Homaira.

  “Thank you, jaan!”

  “Hurry!”

  With that, Homaira disappears into the sugarcane field.

  Koomi helps the young woman back along the sandy path and hides her in the back of the jeep under a tarpaulin.

  When Aslam and the two Pakistani women emerge from inside, Faheem Khan is not far behind, a grin stretched between his ears.

  “What did I tell you? You’ve made a wasted journey, captain,” he says.

  Koomi looks back, watching him as the vehicle pulls away. The village of Bajal disappears behind a pall of dust thrown up by the vehicle’s wheels.

  Mummy’s diary contained a description of how the woman she’d rescued said nothing on the journey to the IRRO camp. But there was no doubt her family was Sikh: she was still wearing a kara on her right wrist. There was every chance she could read and write as well. As for her age—not a day over seventeen.

  • • •

  That evening the young woman sat in the mess tent with an untouched plate of food on the table in front of her.

  Seemed like she could be suffering from memory loss, Mummy had written.

  There was nothing unusual about this. Many of the women who were brought to the camp were suffering from severe shock. Some had lost their minds entirely.

  “Can you remember your real name, didi?” Mummy asked.

  No response.

  “Can you tell us where you are from, child?” asked Premna.

  “What is going to happen to him,” said a voice—bitter, hateful.

  “I will not lie to you,” said Premna. “An amnesty has been offered to all Indian and Pakistani men who release women they’ve taken by force.”

  “He didn’t give me up. I would still be in that hole if you hadn’t found me!”

  “That may be so, child,” said Premna. “But he won’t face justice—not in this lifetime at least. I wish I could tell you differently.”

  The young woman was unable to accept what she was being told. “He’s a murderer,” she said. “It’s thanks to him that my sisters—” Her eyes filled with tears, but she fought them back. “He should be punished,” she added, wiping her face.

  Mummy reached out and rested a hand on the young woman’s arm.

  “All of us have lost loved ones,” she said. “But now we must be thankful that we are safe, that we have a future. Now, please. At least tell us where you’re from.”

  Their guest was silent for a while and then asked, “Is it true what they’re saying? Women like me are being shunned by their families?”

  Mummy hesitated. She and Premna had been directed by their superiors to answer no to this question, to dismiss it as Pakistani propaganda. But they well knew that many Hindu and Sikh women had been shunned by their own families and were now living in ashrams.

  “Please understand, it’s our duty to rescue you and arrange for you to be taken to India,” said Mummy. “We’ll provide you with every assistance once you are there. I promise you that, didi.”

  “What if I want to stay here?” asked the young woman.

  “Here?” asked Premna.

  “Why not? I’m a Muslim now. I have a Muslim name—Saroya, he called me.”

  “It’s out of the question,” insisted Premna. “The directive is very clear. Abducted women are to be reunited with their families.”

  Resentment flashed in Saroya’s narrowed eyes. “So I’m a captive again,” she said.

  “Didi, please don’t say that,” implored Koomi. “We’re trying to help you. We brought you here for your own good. Better to go to India than stay in Pakistan. No one can guarantee your security here. Now, please, cooperate and tell us your name.”

  But Saroya refused to speak again.

  • • •

  Mummy was standing in the doorway of the living room.

  “So late it is, Chubby. You’ve been sitting all this time, na?”

  It was seven o’clock. Three hours had passed. “I lost track, actually,” he answered.

  “Must be hungry, na. Come. Rajma chawal is there.”

  They sat at the dinner table eating the spicy kidney-bean stew and rice with freshly made buttered rotis and curd. Puri had also helped himself to a generous portion of his mother’s homemade mango aachar.

  Neither of them spoke during the meal except to ask the other to pass this and that. Only when Mummy had cleared the plates and made tea and they were back in the living room did Puri put to her the question he had been itching to ask for the past hour:

  “So must be this Saroya woman, Kiran Singh, she absconded from the camp, is it?”

  “Everything is written there, na.”

  “I failed to reach the end, Mummy-ji.” He picked up the last diary. “I should carry on reading, is it?”

  “No need, Chubby. I’ll tell you. You are quite correct. She left in dead of night. Captain Sahib and we people searched here and there for three days, but not one trace we could find.”

  “Could be she reverted to Faheem Khan’s house in order to take revenge,” suggested the detective.

  “Our thinking, also. Captain Sahib drove directly to the village, in fact. But Saroya—sorry na, Kiran Singh—was totally absent.”

  Still, Mummy had not given up the search. In the coming days and weeks, she went through the ledgers containing the names of the thousands of women still listed as missing—many of whom would never be located, nor see their families again. Going by age, location and religion, she made a list of roughly 150 possible candidates. She then set about trawling through letters and photographs sent from families in India asking the IRRO for news of wives and daughters. This helped narrow the field down to twenty-seven.

  By the time Mummy returned to India in April 1948, hundreds more abducted women had been located and the list stood at eleven.

  “So now you understand, Chubby, na? It is my case. So many years I’ve been waiting. Just imagine my shock when Faheem Khan dropped dead here in Dilli. Before my very eyes!”

  “Mind-blowing,” agreed Puri. “But it is by no means certain Kiran Singh murdered Khan. She may be dead also.”

  His mother let out a loud tut. “One of those ladies present is the one responsible. Just she changed her identity after coming to India,” she affirmed.

  “You’ve proof?”

  “Certain things you come to know in here,” she said, patting her heart.

  Puri rolled his eyes. This was exactly why he never allowed her to get involved in his cases. “Mummy-ji, I’m afraid we would be needing a little more than your say-so,” he said.

  “Not just ‘say-so,’ thank you very much kindly, Chubby.”

  “What, then?”

  She hesitated. “Certain information came to me while staying in Haridwar, na.”

  “You mean you went looking, most deliberately in fact, for certain information.”

  Mummy glared at him defiantly and sat up straight in her chair. “Correct,” she said.

  • • •

  Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Mummy divulged everything she’d discovered in Haridwar.

  Harnam Talwar, wife of the infamous politician, was not who she claimed to be.

  Jasmeet Bhatia, mother of the Call Center King, had been born in Rawat, close to Faheem Khan’s native place.

  And Megha Dogra, wife of the Prince of Polyester, had grown up near Lahore, but strangely, there was no record of what had become of her relatives since.

  “None of this is at all conclusive, Mummy-ji,” said Puri.

  “It’s a start, na,” she retorted. “Now we can do follow-up.”

  The mention of “we” sat uncomfortably with him. She would dri
ve him crazy with her so-called auntie’s intuition and half-baked clues. And yet on this occasion, given everything she had revealed, he couldn’t bring himself to shut her out.

  “Fine, Mummy-ji, we’ll do teamwork—but on this case only,” he stressed. “How do you wish to proceed exactly?”

  “Simple, na. Just I’ll do checking in National Archives. Must be Kiran Singh’s father, Manjit, got registered and all in 1947.”

  “How will that help?”

  “Obvious, na. His relatives can do identification of her.”

  “Tip-top,” said Puri, not in the least convinced that this line of investigation would work, but happy for Mummy to be safely tucked away in the archives while he tested Aslam’s claim about Aga being in the hands of the Americans.

  “You’re certain you’ve told me everything?” he asked.

  “Actually one thing is there, Chubby. Harnam Talwar, wife of that goonda politician, is not the one.”

  “You mean you don’t believe she killed Faheem Khan, Mummy-ji?”

  “Correct.”

  Puri asked her how she’d reached that conclusion.

  “It’s come to my attention Harnam is not her real name,” she said.

  “What then, Mummy-ji?”

  “She was born Fatima.”

  “A Muslim? How you found out?”

  “I came to know she’s going to Old Delhi every Friday for prayers and all.”

  “You followed her?”

  “Just I happened to go to Old Delhi this past Friday also, na,” she said, all innocence.

  Puri shook his head. His astonishment was derived as much from his mother’s brazenness as the revelation about Sandeep Talwar’s wife.

  By God, no wonder sahib had warned him off his wife. In all likelihood he’d abducted her in 1947 and forced her to become a Hindu—hence her continuing devotion to Islam. Most probably not even the Talwars’ own children knew the truth.

  “Anything else, Mummy-ji?” he asked, his tone a mix of exasperation and incredulousness.

  “No, Chubby, that is all,” she answered. “Just I was trying to do research on last remaining two suspects, Jasmeet Bhatia and Megha Dogra. But time was totally lacking. Energy also. No longer I’m twenty-one, na.”