‘Sir!’
‘Get the tables, the files—let’s go, man. Lady luck is on our side.’
Fingerprints remain, to date, an important piece of identification in any criminal investigation. Or for that matter, even to get a passport. It is that vital. That’s why we leave them all over. Because we are a nation of clean chits. There is a national clean chit on which all crimes, however heinous, are written. Some of us tick all boxes. But the chit has to be clean. Band-box clean. Wah. Clean cheaters.
Forensic originates from the Latin word forensis. It means on stage, in a public setting, before the forum. It is a form of legal evidence as well as a category of public presentation. We don’t need it because everything is in the public domain. The truth will come out. Eventually. After the burgled and the burglar are both dead and the inspector has retired and the law would have followed its own curse. No crook in India is afraid of facing the law because there isn’t one. When it comes down to it, we visit places of worship to atone in full public view. Entertainment, entertainment and entertainment.
A billion people and we have one DNA fingerprinting machine. Sometimes out of order. A billion people and we have no proper institution in the country that studies forensic science. And if one were to start it, fingerprints would be manufactured. In India, cutting off the thumb of a dead person to ensure ration and pension by proxy is not uncommon. If we can manufacture a thumb, we can manufacture evidence. We are all a biometric pass. Thumb, index finger, middle finger, ring finger, little finger and a little coriander and green chillies for the small change.
Lie detector. Damn fool. Why on earth do we need a machine like that in the land of Satyamev Jayate? At the rate with which we tell the truth, it would shudder, cringe, contort, hiss, steam and break down. So much truth, so little electricity. So much truth, so many power cuts.
It is time to admit that our forefathers and foremothers made a blunder. The tiger isn’t our national animal, pink panther is. Why rummage through the crime scene wearing space-age suits when you can solve cases just by reading jacket blurbs? All these infra-red, ultraviolet, DNA, she-NA—bad Western influence, that’s all they are. Hunh, we are an 8,000-year-old civilisation, older than crime itself. Remember that—older than crime and the origin of crime. We watched it take birth on the banks of our holy rivers, we saw it take its first baby steps and then snatch a lady’s purse and run like mad. ‘Pakdo! Pakdo usko!’ ‘Don’t worry, madam. He’s not going anywhere. We know where he lives.’
Deduction, my friend—Ramanujam, Raman, Khorana, Chandrashekhar, Bose, Inspector Clouseau—use your brain. Make up stories, then read them to the judge.
No seriously, why is it that our sleuths are always air-dashing here and there in search of lies when truth is sitting right next to them? Why must they run when truth stands still—sthir. Why are we always zeroing in on the criminals, chasing thieves, connecting with counterparts all over the world when the culprits are hiding under the bed? Why are we always swinging into action—Darwin needs evidence? Monkey.
What we cannot do at home, we cannot do elsewhere. We cannot find the evidence because we have decided to lose it, never find it and occasionally refer to it to remain credible. Like readymade idlis, there are readymade sentences generally pointing in the direction of truth. We have completed the interrogation, a few witnesses have to be examined, new evidence has been unearthed, in light of the new evidence that is unearthed there is a new angle, our investigators have been sent to Mars. No one is coming back because no one has gone anywhere.
We like to blame others for what we have hidden. So black money is always ‘stashed’ in Switzerland. It is physically impossible to stuff a crore or any other currency in a bank unless it’s a barn. It is common knowledge that criminal money always travels faster than an investigation. You can sell drugs in Medellin, buy a few paintings in Hong Kong and wire the money to the Isle of Man without moving from your desk. Leave it to the mouse. Yes, yes, mouse, stupido. That thing which moves your right hand round and round, up and down, this way and that.
Swiss bankers wonder what a lakh crore means. They understand million, billions and trillions, but a lakh crore? They should train in India to know how money is ‘stashed’ in education, infrastructure, land, sea and spectrum. In passing they may also learn that money does grow on trees. Not that they are green behind their ears but a rich vocabulary never harmed anyone. Especially Indian money vocabulary that can outsmart the smartest sleuths the world has ever seen, much less worked with.
So our sleuths—calling them detectives would sound too close to Char so bees—travel to New York when the fingerprints are in Switzerland. They then travel to Sweden because the fingerprints have moved to Turkey. So they go to Hong Kong because they cannot speak Spanish. Not speaking a language is important. So much can be lost and found in translations.
So why even bother to learn English? Why bother with disciplines like forensic science, criminal law, cross-border treaties and Fevicol? What, Fevicol? No, no, Interpol. Interpol. This is not a travel agency.
Why worry about understanding the difference between the accused and the convicted when we have nothing to hide? We have absolutely no reason to worry about being under the net. Ask the next mosquito. They have never had it so good and now even have competition in the form of other vectors, like new dons in the neighbourhood. See, life imitates art which imitates art all under the same net.
Relax, no one will ever get caught in India. We are not fish. Neither are we firangipani. We are ‘zimble’ human beings who do not want to get caught with our hands in the till. Now if that is not a fair request, what is, thambi?
17
2004—The Sound and the Fury
The Sukumar lab at night resembled Crawford Market during early evening. Packed and chirpy. On the thumbtacked cloth board by the entrance, a full-page newspaper cutting of the wagon wheel of Laxman’s 281 at Eden Gardens, pinned cruelly over with photocopied pamphlets that jostled for visibility: An Idiot’s Guide to Electroporation, Murphy’s Laws for Scientific Publishing, 10 X Buffer Compositions, Tissue Culture Protocol. Next to them was a greeting card that had Samantha Fox bubble-asserting ‘Night time is right time’.
The Sukumar lab, like most research labs, was a microcosm of India’s ethnic diversity. The Himachali Gitaram hummed Rafi as he pushed sodium wires in a three-neck containing diethyl ether, the thin silvery wires sinking listlessly into the ether like jalebis in hot ghee. The UPite Krishen was taking optical density measurements of cell cultures at the spectrophotometer, drumming the instrument lid with his knuckles. The Madrasi Swetha was measuring out five microlitres of radioactive phosphorus, concurrently patting her thighs, now with the inside of her palm, now with the outside, mesmerised by MS. The Bengali Anamika was carolling along parts of Runa Laila as she wrote up the day’s work in her notebook. The Haryanavi Alka was writing a letter to her husband of two months and keeping an eye on the dripping nickel affinity column. The Punjabi Siddharth was rim-rolling a carbon dioxide cylinder by the Laminar-hood—it wobbled dangerously before coming to rest—while he tapped his feet to Mika. And finally, the man without roots, Akhil Sukumar, was inside his office at the far end of the lab, as he always was post dinner until midnight or even later.
It was science at work and everyone seemed as blissful with their lives as they possibly could, or at least until Aparajita Biswas came charging in and knocked hard at the door that said Prof A. Sukumar.
‘Yes? Come in…’ said a voice from inside.
Api cracked open the door and stood half in, half out.
‘Api!’ said Akhil, his jaws dropping.
‘Akhil,’ replied Api, surprisingly gently, then closed the door behind her.
‘Hi. What are you doing here?’
‘Was passing this way and thought why not check up on you. Tried the house first…’
‘What a surprise. Where’s AB? Haven’t heard from him since he rang the lab in the morning to say Elephanta wa
s cancelled. Gita gave me the message. How did you find my lab? Sit, sit, sit. What would you like—some coffee? How have you come?’
‘Oh, I took the local—from Kandivali. I thought I should come and congratulate you on a job well done.’
Akhil showed surprise. ‘Wha…what. Sorry, I didn’t…’
‘But tell me. How did you get back so quick?’
Akhil gave a nervous smile. ‘Dear Api, I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Really. Oh, come now, Akhil, no need to be so modest.’
Akhil shook his head. ‘Api, I repeat, I have absolutely no idea what you are on about. Anyway, if you must know, I have been in the lab since 6 pm.’
‘Oh you have, have you? And I suppose you haven’t even had time for dinner, poor you.’
‘What’s got into you, Aps? What’s going on—will someone please fill me in?’
Api exploded. ‘Shut up, Akhil. Just don’t say a word.’
‘Are you alright, Api? Please tell me, I am beginning to get a little worried now.’
‘It was all for my benefit, wasn’t it? Just to show me.’
‘What? What, Api?’
Api looked straight into Akhil’s eyes. ‘So you have showed me. So I have seen it. Now what? Now what happens, Akhil? You have to tell me. I cannot understand you; maybe I have never understood you.’
‘Look, this has gone too far. Either you tell me what’s going on or you…’
‘Or what? I am next? That’s it, isn’t it? I am next. So go on, then. I am right here before you…do it, like you killed that man in the train. With the dagger I gifted you.’
Akhil pretended to get up. ‘Alright that’s it…’
‘So this was your “every little helps”, was it? But is this your last “little”? Oh, but wait. It can’t be …’
‘Listen, Api, please…’
‘It was all for my benefit, wasn’t it? You wanted to demonstrate how easy it was for you, this “little”. You wanted to show me your power. You knew I was in the other train, didn’t you? Yes, you did.’
Akhil pushed a cardboard carton towards Api. ‘Here—read the label on the box. What does it say, haan? Read it.’
‘…Sukumar. L-32 Chemistry Department, IIT Powai. Ph: 25722545. One Italian crust, onion and capsicum. One garlic bread. 160 rupees.’
‘Read on.’
‘7.30 pm.’
Akhil fell back on the chair. ‘Satisfied?’
‘But…but how can it be? I saw you, Akhil. I saw you kill that man. I saw you stab him. It was you who...’
‘You saw me? You saw my face?’
‘But it had to be you. There’s no getting away from it. You used that dagger I gave you. And then I saw you throwing it from the window. It’s still lying there on the tracks, for all I know—my gift.’
‘So you are saying I can defy Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle—that Akhil Sukumar can be at two separate places any given time. Haan?’
‘But, but…’
‘But what, Api? You thought the guy who killed the railway minister—you thought that was me?’
‘I…yes…’
‘And now. What do you think now?’
Api looked away. ‘I…forgive me, Akhil. I couldn’t see how it…what a fool I have made of myself, gosh, what an ass. I am so sorry…’
‘You needn’t be, Api.’
‘Hah, well, there you are right? I cannot even begin to ask for…’
‘No, I mean you need not be sorry. Look—it is time for you to know. You weren’t entirely off the mark.’
‘Wha-what do you mean by that?’
‘It wasn’t me you saw in that train there. But in a way it was. Yes, you can say I got it done.’
Api gripped the table ledge. ‘No. No.’
‘I got the job done. But it’s not what you think. I didn’t pay for it or anything like that.’
‘You have an accomplice.’
‘Yes. Someone who’d do it anyhow, without me telling him to.’
‘Him. So who is he?’
‘I am sorry, Api. I can’t tell you that. At least not yet.’
‘No. You mean…how…how many more, Akhil? And how many more to come?’
‘That I can tell you. One more.’
Api shook her head. ‘No! God, no Akhil. My Akhil. Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me.’
‘Will you hear me out? Will you at least listen to my story?’
‘Your story? What is your story, Akhil? That you have murdered innocent people in cold blood? Is that your story? How dare you.’
Akhil leaned forward. ‘Api—listen to me. If I hadn’t told you, wouldn’t you have gone home thinking I was eating a pizza and not killing that minister? I told you, Api. I chose to tell you.’
‘Thanks a lot, Akhil.’
‘I am tired of it all, Api. I can’t go on. I can’t. I want to tell you the reasons I have done all this.’
Api smacked her palm on the table. ‘No. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to grant you the pleasure and satisfaction of having explained your crimes away.’
‘I am not trying to explain them away. I have committed them, dammit. I am not happy that I have committed them, but neither am I sad.’
‘You are not sad? You are not sad that you are a murderer? What has become of you, Akhil? What have you turned into? What did you want to do with the blood of innocent people?’
Akhil raised his voice. ‘Don’t call them innocent, Api!’
‘Oh, so what else are they? Do tell me of their sins, then, Judge Sukumar.’
‘They were anything but innocent.’
‘And who proclaimed them guilty? You?’
‘Yes. But along with me, a hundred, a thousand, a million others…’
Api got up then sat down. ‘No, no, no, NO! Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare try and water down your crimes by making millions accessory to it. You alone killed them, Akhil.’
‘Yes, I alone killed them. What makes you think I am shirking my responsibility?’
‘Wah. You call this your responsibility?’
‘It became my responsibility.’
‘Oh, I see. So you are the policeman, the magistrate, the high court, the Supreme Court all rolled into one, is it? Responsibility. You have got some gall saying this.’
‘Perhaps responsibility is the wrong word.’
‘A little late for realisation to dawn, isn’t it Akhil?’
‘Let me finish…’
Api hissed through her teeth. ‘No, you let me finish. There is a word for this—it’s called murder. But you have far exceeded the sphere of that as well. You have become Shiv, the destroyer.’
‘Just listen to me, Api, ple…’
‘You are Akhil no more. You are Shiv.’
‘Listen, Api…’
Api got up. ‘I can’t sit here and turn into a confession chamber for you, Akhil. You better find a church for that. And a father who will keep saying “Yes, child” and absolve you of all your crimes.’
‘Listen to me.’
Api made for the door. ‘I loved you, Akhil. I love you. I have seen many sad and terrible days in my life, and you know most of them, Akhil—but this...Goodbye, Aks.’
‘Half a million people. Would have perished within a year…’
Api turned around.
‘What?’
‘Reduced to eating mango kernels. Relieved—food at last—then dying a slow and horrible death because of the poison. Come, sit.’
Api sat down gingerly, on the edge of the chair.
Akhil continued. ‘Half of those would have had no option but to arrive in Mumbai and sell their bodies in return for some food. But emaciated, pus-ridden bodies don’t go for much—five, maybe ten rupees a go…’
‘Wha…’
‘The children. Yes, the children, pushed from their swings hung on trees that are now to be uprooted to make way for swanky malls, that would then have shops selling toys, all kinds of them. But those kids would only be
allowed to stare through the windows…
‘Whole families, villages, hundreds of them, squashed to dust, with only charpais left for those families to balance them upturned on their heads and walk barefoot, Indian file, to somewhere, to some distant wasteland…’
‘What are you…’
‘And Saane would have accomplished all of that, each and every part, in a matter of three years…’
Api was confused. ‘Saane? How does Saane come into this? You mean you…’
‘Yes, your “innocent” Saane. The very Saane who leased 20,000 hectares of prime agricultural land to the highest bidder. Ever heard of SEZ? The special economic zone? Well, he leased all that land. And mind you, it was not wasteland, but agricultural land.’
‘Saane did that?’
‘Yes. And I won’t bother to tell you how much he stood to make out of all this, this “innocent” transaction. The final signing ceremony was scheduled for next month.’
‘Half a million people?’
‘Maybe more, Api, much more. But no, you wouldn’t call this genocide, would you? After all, it’s all legal, innocent stuff, isn’t it...That was Saane and The Murder on the Links.’
‘But what’s Agatha…No. You mean that message in the bottle stuff last year? No, Akhil.’
Akhil carried on. ‘Twelve thousand families currently making ends meet in matchboxes, recycling the water with which they bathe, recycling it for drinking—can you picture that? Mothers walking to the ends of the city to find a job, some job, any job. Their children, kicked and beaten, their husbands forced to pull the thela, barefoot, in the sun, on the tarred road that has turned all sticky with the heat. Have you ever tried to test your feet on the burning road? How long do you think you can last? Ten seconds? Twenty? Imagine those men, pulling the carts for miles. Why? Because those eight mills in which they were employed for twenty years decided to change into Mediterranean-style condominiums. That was Yashwantrao Palnitkar and The Body in the Library.’
Api was crying. ‘Oh, Akhil, stop. Stop, Akhil!’
‘Manochar Kangda—you know him? Directly responsible for providing livelihood to 80,000 children, all between the ages of six and ten. Why? Because of their little fingers—the way they can fold the tendu leaf into a beedi. And what do these children of Manochar get in return? Two rupees a day. But wait. Mr Kangda was all above board. He was a proud signatory to the National Child Labour Eradication Mission. He was “innocent”, Api. That was Death in the Clouds. You want more?’
The Rat Eater Page 34
