Murder with Bengali Characteristics (14 page)

He pressed his ring. An angry man in spectacles materialized. His hair was white. His jacket was bulging. Above him, and slightly to the right, four small floating heads appeared. ‘Is the nation being shamelessly betrayed?’ demanded the angry man. ‘Are we all victims of a massive conspiracy? Was there really an attack on our telepaths, or are we, once more, being duped, by a government that doesn’t really care?’

One of the smaller heads spoke up. ‘Kindly don’t say this, sir,’ he said, ‘as it is our officers are nervous, because the telepaths are reading them like newspapers. Such types of allegations are unnecessarily hampering their morale. They are unable to perform properly.’

‘Please, let’s not play the morale card,’ said the angry man, expanding visibly, ‘the nation wants to know one thing, and one thing only. Is there a mass conspiracy? Who else is involved in the cover-up? How much longer can you continue to fool people? Because you know, you can fool some of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all the time. Why don’t you just come out and admit it? These telepaths are not in hospital. These telepaths have not disappeared mysteriously. Right now, as we speak, these telepaths are secretly training at a secret training camp, getting ready for a foolhardy and poorly planned attack on Chinese territory. Ladies and gentlemen, the question facing us all today is this—are we, once more, being dragged into a needless and suicidal war, by a callous and insensitive government?’

He glared at the camera accusingly. They leaned back, transfixed. The words ‘GOVERNMENT’S SECRET WAR?’ appeared above his head, changed colour several times, and flashed menacingly.

Propagandist Wang left him frozen in mid-air. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Evidence.’

‘Maybe they just want more viewers,’ said Li.

Wang smiled thinly. The good times were making everyone lazy. It was a good thing he was here to keep them on track. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘the businessmen own the channels. The government owns the businessmen. Their system is very simple. Don’t be fooled by appearances. All of them are one. These telepaths represent your number one priority. Drop your little hobbies and find them.’

‘I thought the anti-Party campaign was my number one priority,’ said Li.

‘That’s also your number one priority,’ said Wang, ‘the Governor will explain to you why.’ The Governor looked at him, appalled, a world of hurt in his eyes. He was used to betrayal, but every stab wound was still fresh agony.

‘Well, Propagandist Wang is a very fine fellow,’ said the Governor, ‘so are you, Li, of course. I admire you greatly. Wang can be a little rough at times, but he always has our best interests at heart, assuming he has, um, and then there’s the general law and order situation, and intelligence reports. Let’s not forget intelligence reports. You need to study those very carefully, along with the Six Precepts of Harmonious Co-Existence, and honestly, Li, telepaths? How can you not be afraid of telepaths? We have no defence against them.’

Governor Wen was terrified of telepaths. He lived in fear that they would peer inside his brain and discover disloyalty to the Young Prince. His transfer to Nagaland as Lesser People’s Liaison Officer would be practically instantaneous.

‘Not that I mind being defenceless, if it’s necessary,’ said the Governor. ‘Personally, I would lay down my life for the Party. It’s the way I was raised, in a village, where we shared bathrooms, and sometimes did it in the fields when it was urgent. But I worry about my colleagues. This could make them nervous and jumpy. Beijing doesn’t like it when they get nervous and jumpy. They seem a little crabby already. Please, Li, for their sake, do something about these telepaths. The Cyber Crimes Department says that quite a few have already slipped in. According to them, some are approaching Raj Bhavan, looking for reading material.’

‘Is that a fact?’ said Li, thoughtfully.

‘You’ll start investigating, won’t you?’ said the Governor, ‘I would be so relieved. You’re so good at it. Isn’t he, Wang?’

‘He’s a prince,’ said Wang. He looked at Li. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘are you going to take action on this personal request that the Governor of the province has just made to you?’

‘Of course,’ said Li.

As soon as he was outside, he called Sexy Chen. ‘Now that you’re good friends with Crazy Wu, I have a job for you,’ he said, ignoring his cries of protest. ‘Track those boys. Get their A-cards. I’ve already given you one. I want to know what they’re doing and whom they’re meeting. I want to know where they are, every minute of the day. I want to know who gives them money and what they do with it. I want to know everything. And while you’re at it, keep an eye on Wu.’

‘You think he’s the one who did it?’ asked Sexy Chen eagerly. ‘How did you figure it out? Have you found proof that he’s guilty?’

‘Everyone’s guilty,’ said Li.

Sanjeev Verma and his partner Agarwal were in Bagbazaar, peering anxiously down the narrowest, darkest lane that either of them had ever seen. The open sewer babbled like a brook. There were things swimming in it. The rickshaw-wallah had refused to go any further. The crumbling, unwashed buildings on either side were close enough for young lovers to kiss across the balconies, through tangled electric wires. On one of the balconies, an old man sat in a rickety chair, reading
The Statesman
and mumbling to himself. ‘Sillyfuckers!’ he shouted, suddenly, and subsided. The news was not to his liking.

‘How can there be a sweet shop in here?’ asked Agarwal, trying not to gag on the stench. ‘What type of sweets must they be serving?’

He was fond of sweets, and often advised his barber to work hard and improve his position so that he could afford cashew barfis. He liked encouraging people to be all they could be. He was used to buying sweets from places near his ancestral seat of business on Vivekananda Road, places where the air was cool and the agarbattis fragrant, and everything was fresh except the samosas.

‘Just don’t buy any,’ muttered Verma, who knew his partner well. He hitched up his pants and waded in, not looking down, hoping that it was just water that he felt flowing over his feet. They were searching for Poltu-da’s Wildlife Supply, and had been informed that it was down this lane, right next to Mahesh Chandra Sen’s Genuine Brother Ganesh Chandra Sen, a sweet shop rated highly by experts. Their ledigeni was supposed to be a work of art. The sweet itself had been created and named in honour of Lady Canning, the wife of the viceroy just after the mutiny, whose husband had been so touched by this gesture that he had ruled the smouldering country with a very gentle hand, and shown unprecedented solicitude for the natives. ‘Darling,’ Lady Canning had said, ‘look what the dear little sweetmonger just made for me!’ ‘By Jove!’ Lord Canning had replied. ‘It looks like these people are all right after all!’ His subsequent acts of kindness had earned him the nickname Clemency Canning, bestowed upon him with an intent to wound by those elements of British society who advocated a sterner line with the wogs.

Nearly two hundred years later, another occupant of Raj Bhavan had set in motion a chain of events that had led them here, to this festering cesspool, in search of Poltu-da. Discovered in Bijli Bose’s home after her escape from the Pandit Batra Institute for the Criminally Insane, the mercurial and magnetic Pishi had suggested that they present Governor Wen with a tiger penis, as revealed to Agarwal by a shaken Verma, the consumption of which would put lead in his pencil, enabling him to more aggressively pursue peace with the Politburo. Peace was vital to their prosperity. Initially they had hoped that ‘tiger penis’ was some sort of metaphor or code, but it had turned out that this was not the case.

They stepped gingerly down the lane, the slime slipping under their shoes, and soon crossed Ganesh Chandra Sen’s sweet shop, where several flies and a single sandesh were trapped in a dusty glass case. Having carefully assessed supply and demand, Mr Sen made small quantities of sweets, which usually sold out by lunchtime. He spent the rest of the day recovering from his labours. He was currently asleep in a chair with a towel over his face.

A tiny board said ‘Poltu-da’s Wildlife Supply’ just above a narrow door, next to a grimy wall with ‘THE PARTY KEEPS 90%’ scrawled across it. They trudged up the narrow staircase, trying not to touch the banister. Some of Poltu-da’s wildlife was roaming free, and skittering up and down the staircase, invisible in the dark, revealed only by the glow of little red eyes, and the chittering of high little voices.

The reception was tiny. A little boy sat asleep in a chair, his feet up on a small table. A pre-war calendar adorned the wall, with a picture of Dal Lake (which was now toxic). Agarwal cleared his throat. The little boy woke up and was instantly alert.

‘Did you bring the stuff?’ he asked.

‘We’ve not come to give stuff, we’ve come to take stuff,’ said Agarwal. The little boy considered this.

‘What kind of stuff?’ he asked cautiously. He was front boy for a variety of enterprises. Their owners lived in a labyrinth of tiny rooms behind him. He provided a bouquet of services, including hospitality, dispatch, catering, office maintenance, massage, and sanitation.

‘The usual stuff,’ said Agarwal. ‘The stuff the others get.’

He was no stranger to this kind of deal. When it came to number-two business, he preferred conducting it personally, since cash was usually involved, but he was always very careful not to incriminate himself.

‘Does the stuff wear sarees?’ asked the little boy.

‘No.’

‘Can you smoke the stuff?’

‘No.’

‘Does the stuff kill your enemies without leaving a trace?’

‘No.’

‘Does the stuff run on batteries?’

This was likely to go on for a while, Verma could see. It was a Calcutta thing. They lived in a world where time had no meaning. He pushed Agarwal aside. ‘We’ve come here because an ex-CM said this Poltu character could supply us with the noonoo of a tiger, preferably Royal Bengal. It’s for a high-class person. If you have it, tell us, otherwise we’ll try some other shop.’

‘POLTU-DA!’ yelled the little boy, ‘TWO ANIMAL CUSTOMERS HAVE COME!’

‘Please follow me,’ said a soft voice with a hint of tuberculosis. Poltu-da had materialized behind them. He was a small man of early middle age, dressed in khaki shorts and a Manchester United jersey. He had a cruel mouth, improbably large hands, and an air of extreme secrecy.

‘I keep the merchandise on the roof,’ he whispered. ‘The sunlight helps them grow.’

It was getting late, and the light was fading on the terrace, which was littered with battered, empty cages big and small, their shapes indistinct in the evening gloom. They followed Poltu-da through the debris to the rear of the terrace, which was modestly illuminated by a single light bulb hanging from a washing line. The first thing they saw was a cage full of rats. The rats climbed over each other in their excitement, hoping they had brought food. Agarwal eyed them with interest. He had no idea there was a market for rats. He had never tracked their price trend.

‘People buy rats?’ he asked.

‘Keep your voice down,’ said Poltu-da, ‘those are Swiss rats. If the matter becomes public, everyone will come.’

‘They don’t look very different from Calcutta rats,’ said Agarwal.

Poltu-da almost burst out laughing, but he stopped himself just in time.

‘Those are just infants,’ said Poltu-da. ‘Fully grown, they’re three to four times the size of local rats, and they shed their baby coats and grow fur as white as the snow-covered Alps. They are much in demand. A leading business family has several. Of course, they take a long time to grow, and the conditions have to be right. Sometimes the transformation is not exact.’

Right next to the Swiss rats was a battered aquarium filled with murky water. Poltu-da noted their interest.

‘Invisible fish. From the sea, near Karwar Naval Base. Radiation has caused them to mutate in such a way that human eyesight cannot detect them. Just throw in a handful of puffed rice every day, a few chopped vegetables once a week. Avoid getting your fingers in the water. One of our most popular items. Maintenance cost very low.’

‘We don’t want Swiss rats or invisible fish,’ said Verma, ‘we’ve come here for a tiger.’

‘Shhh!’ said Poltu-da. ‘Don’t mention the name. If any of my regular customers find out, I’ll have to leave the city. “You had a genuine tiger in stock, Poltu,” they will say, as their servants bugger me with a large bamboo, “and you didn’t even tell us?” After that they will probably feed me to the animals that I myself have supplied. In this way, the circle of life will be complete, but I will not enjoy it.’

‘Look, boss,’ said Verma, ‘I didn’t come all the way from Delhi for someone to fuck me with fekloos. Do you have the goods or not?’

Poltu-da tottered back against a cage, recoiling from all the rudeness. He was the son and grandson of butchers. His great grandfather had played an important role in the Great Calcutta Killings of 1946. More recently, as the population of animals had declined, he had been forced to think out of the box. He was now trading animals wholesale, rather than in bits and pieces. It was much more genteel. The brutishness of this client disturbed him.

‘Please don’t speak to me in such a fashion,’ said Poltu-da, ‘my grandpa would have chopped you up with his chopper, but I’m trying not to be like that. If Pishi says I can make the necessary arrangements, then naturally I will keep her word.’

‘Let’s see the tiger!’ said Agarwal. He smiled encouragingly at Poltu-da. He could see some potential in cultivating this man. Many of his friends were crazy about animals. A pet animal was a bigger status symbol than a Rolls-Royce these days. It was a high margin business. This fellow seemed to know the market. Moreover, he was a talented salesman. If he could sell rats, he could sell anything. It was overconfidence on this very score that was just about to bring Poltu-da very close to death at the hands of Verma.

‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Poltu-da, ‘come see the beauty!’

At the end of the terrace was a huge cage covered in tarpaulin. Poltu-da whipped off the tarpaulin with a flourish to reveal a large yellow Sambhalpur cat who had recently had black stripes painted on him. There were dark smudges on the newspaper lining his cage. The cat poked its nose through the bars, sniffing hopefully, whiskers twitching. He seemed like a nice enough creature. Agarwal would have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t been so horrified.