June 8, 1984.
The incessant rain, which normally aroused pleasurable emotions in her, today was an added source of annoyance for Nivedita.
Like everything else that was happening. Like her brother's casual attitude, his nonchalant shrugging of shoulders wherever she tried to raise that topic with him.
Like her father's sudden intransigence, which would not permit him to even disucss the matter with his hitherto beloved daughter.
Like her mother's air of martyrdom, resigning herself to what she considered was her fate.
Like the pattering of the rain outside on the mosaic-tiled terrace, flooding her precious pots of roses.
Irrelevantly Nivedita acknowledged, in some stratum of her consciousness, that the monsoon that year had caught her napping. That she had not taken the precaution of mixing sand in her rose pots in time.
Drainage, after all, was the important thing where roses were concerned. The excess water could not be allowed to collect, else it would putrefy the roots. Drainage. That was so important! How could she have forgotten?
"Day dreaming again, sis?" Vinod Shahane's voice roused her out of her abstraction.
"Bhaiyya ... do something ... talk to Papa ... don't let him go through with this!" Clutching at his hand and gripping it tight, almost convulsively.
"There's nothing you or I can do," said Vinod shortly, detaching his hand. "It's his life and he should be left free to do what he wants with it."
Resentful of the rejection she thought she sensed, Nivedita rose and started pacing about the room agitatedly, all arms and legs, her awkward adolescent figure almost ungainly in its agitation. Vinod watched her, strangely detached. Curious thing, hysteria ... he thought ... and the attendant compulsions that nourished it, nurtured it. As he watched, she put both her hands on the nape of her slender white neck and pushed up the heavy swathe of black hair in a gesture at once despairing and provocative.
Vinod's eyes narrowed. Probably for the first time, he really noiced her for what she was. An adolescent with a strangely potent sexual promise. Her uncontrolled agitation somehow enhanced the raw sensuality latent within her - the wide curve of the long lip cleaving towards the slash of the high cheekbones; the heavy lids dropping over the elongated slanting eyes veiling depths of passion within; the thin wiry body awakening to its own compulsions. His eyes roved over her young limbs, holding the promise of feline grace beneath their adolescent awkwardness.
Her voice intruded. Resentful. Petulant. "Is he so besotted with her that he can't think what this will do to us? All of us? To mother?" she demanded, the last a trifle belatedly.
"It happends, you know," Vinod ventured, trying to placate.
"What happends?" Nivedita's slanting eyes widened a ther brother's acceptance of the unacceptable. "What happens? This?" Her voice shrilled on the verge of hysteria, her words running into each other. "He must become a Muslim? Just beacuase Mama won't give him a divorce? What'll become of us? What'll we do? Where will we be? ... Hindu children of a Muslim father?!"
Vinod frowned. That aspect of the matter had not struck him. Then he shrugged. Hell, what did it matter? His thirteen-year old sister, a good twelve years younger than him, took things too much to heart.
"This business is going to be the death of her," he thought to himself, with sudden foreboding.
****
June 13, 1984.
At exactly 10.30 am, Prakash Shahane, born and bred a Hindu, married Dina Soneji, born and bred a Parsee, by a Nikah ceremony. After they had both converted into Islam and Prakash had changed his name to `Sattar' in an imagined compromise between the two faiths. That marriage was unusual in more ways than one: it contained within itself, the genesis of murder.
****
Prakash had done what he had to do, undeterred by his wife's sullen silences or his daughter's wan looks. He left early in the morning, before the rest of the family had risen.
Karuna, awakening in a bed bereft of her husband, remained closeted in the room she had shared with him till that tday, shutting the world out. Including her children. Especially her children! They reminded her of him.
Vinod went to the hospital as usual. Nivedita sat on the terrace and worked out in her mind what she wanted to do. What she had to do. Hatred for the unknown Dina had turned into an obsessin. The maid, Shantabai, came looking for her. To get her ready for school. Nivedita surprised her by getting into her uniform docilely and going off.
In the evening, Nivedita deliberately missed her school bus and took the publisc BEST bus home. She got off at the Church on her way back home and bought a wax figurine from the vendors outside.
She had always a fascination for the Church. She would listen avidly to her Catholic friends when they spoke of the mysterious `Box' into which they disappeared, to confess their misdemeanours and be absolved of their sins. Nivedita was seduced by this benign God who apaprently granted absolution for the mere confessing. As yet, she knew nothing of penitence.
Her simplistic perception was fostered by her particular friend, Shirley. Shirley had a deep rooted hatred for the Maths teacher who had once caned Shirley's bottom in front of the whole class as a punishment for cheating from her neighbour. Shirley had told Nivedita that Ms. Savant was soon going to die. Met with hesitant disbelief, Shirley triumphantly produced a smnall wax figurine, stuck with several pins.
"See, this is Ms. Savant. If you keep poking pins into her, she'll die!" she announced gleefully.
"But this is wax! It will melt after some time," objected Nivedita, anxious to find a pin-prick in her friend's plan for Ms. Savant's early demise.
"No, it won't, you dumbo," was the scornful answer. "And even if it does start to melt, I'll get another wax figure to stick pins into. You must keep on at it," she informed Nivedita ghoulishly.
Nivedita was more than receptive. Shirley's words not only took root, they germinated in her disordered mind. Fascinated as she was by the concept of guilt and its expiation, Nivedita was even more fascinated by the possibility of getting rid of the despised Dina by a process so innocuous as sticking pins into a wax figurine. The day her father left to get married to Dina, the idea flowered into a desire for experimentation.
Taht night in the privacy of her room, Nivedita set up the figurine on a crudely built pedestal of black pleistocene, mumbled some prayers and viciously stuck a pin into the figurine. Then she hid the figurine outside on the terrace, under some loose rocks in the rock garden she had so painstakingly made.
She followed this practice faithfully ever since, on the thirteenth of June every year. And the pins multiplied.
****
The year Nivedita turned fifteen, Vinod caught her at it. Foung her hiding the figurine in the rock garden. Outraged, he dragged her from the terrace into his room and locked the door. Then he stripped her of her skirt, pulled her over his knee and began thrashing her backside, causing her enough pain to drag out yelps of protest from time to time.
After a while, however, the pain gave way to a newer sensation in Nivedita, finding is echo in Vinod. The hard slaps of their own volition smoothed into a quite different touch ... and his desire to punish was overwhelmed by a more elemental desire, rising to fulfill the girl's awakening need ... his roving hand aroused her to a pitch beyond herself. Nivedita yielded to him, not fully realizing what she was doing, yet past caring of the consequences. Some of the ache inside her seemed to diminish, overwhelmed by the physical pain that Vinod was causing her ... a welcome pain, blinding her to all else but her initiation at the hands of her brother, her demi-God ... and the blood that spurted from her virgin hymen was symbolic to her disturbed mind ... like that from a sacrificial cockerel, at the altar of a heathen rite ...
This would now become part of her ritual with the figurine. and it would be their secret ... hers and Vinod's ... their very own secret!
Savouring this second delicious secret of her young life, Nivedita was prepared to share the first, with a suddenly approachable elder brother who seemed to accept her compulsive need to find a physical, tangible outlet for her feelings towards Dina.
Her ritual with the figurines continued. Her death-wish gained in strength, crystallizing into a tangible objective.
*
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Crime Novel
Hi!
Some of you may have read my first crime novel, `The Turning' ... but many may have not, sicne distribution, for several reasons, was largely concentrated in Bombay ...
Posting novel shortly, chapter by chapter ...
hope you enjoy ...
Some of you may have read my first crime novel, `The Turning' ... but many may have not, sicne distribution, for several reasons, was largely concentrated in Bombay ...
Posting novel shortly, chapter by chapter ...
hope you enjoy ...
Monday, August 25, 2008
BLOOMERANG
BLOOMERANG
“May you burn in hell,” he’d cursed his daughter’s unknown murderer, gazing agonized into the lovely young face contorted by brutal death.
He hadn’t cried since he was eight years old, when tears of pain and anger and humiliation had been wrung out of him by the vicious beating his father had meted out to him. He was now fifty-two and he couldn’t stop the tears coursing down his cheeks as he stood staring at the corpse of his daughter. His only child.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight he could hardly bear. His nineteen year-old daughter, once so lovely and graceful, now rendered graceless, almost grotesque by the peculiar indignity of a certain kind of death: her face horribly contorted, ugly bruises on her slender neck. As the significance of those bruises sunk in slowly, he raised his hands in a curious gesture suggestive of a helpless amazement at the machinations of fate and gazed at the Inspector, his eyes asking the question his tongue could not utter.
“Yes, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon responded rather awkwardly, answering the unspoken question in the tortured man’s eyes. “It was murder, no doubt. She’s been strangled.” Trying to speak sympathetically, he sounded merely brusque. Hell, there was never an easy way of doing this, Ashir Menon thought to himself. Poor chap. This has really knocked him out.
It had. His daughter meant more to him than anyone in the world, almost including himself. If he overreached himself sometimes in his businesses, it was for her sake. To give her the kind of childhood and adolescence that had been denied to him. To smother her in every luxury she desired. And to buy her love and respect and admiration. She was part of him after all, and hence the sole recipient of his unconditional love.
His creation. Now destroyed.
He would suffer, the man who had done this to her, he promised himself. He would make him suffer agonies beyond Hell. Whoever he was, the man responsible for Dipannita’s death.
“May you die a thousand living deaths,” he enunciated slowly and clearly, to the added unease of the policemen in the morgue. “May you burn in hell and continue to burn for eternity,” he cursed.
*
The news had been brought to him within rather less than a half an hour of reaching his house, straight from the airport after his business trip to the Middle East. He had barely finished his cup of tea when the doorbell rang, ushering the two policemen, bringing with them the news of the death of his daughter. They had not said anything more at the house, in the presence of his wife and mother.
It had not really registered, not for quite some time. His tired eyes had flickered round the room, taking in the figures arrayed like some ghastly tableau in a surrealistic play --- the carefully expressionless face of his wife as she stood rigid and catatonic --- his mother, who let forth an unearthly ululation --- his weeping servants, the Maharaj making a particularly loud racket --- and the two slightly embarrassed cops who had come with the news.
On being asked if he would accompany them to the morgue for the purpose of official identification, he made a futile gesture, and then walked out of the room, out of the house, followed by the policemen. It had not occurred to him to say a word to his wife, to even ask her if she’d like to accompany him.
Of course she wouldn’t! Women were to be spared such horrors. There were some decisions meant for men to take. The premise had served them both well, he was sure, all through the years of their marriage. Why make a departure now, in the midst of such a crisis? His mother was bound to wail, of course. Women of her generation always did, when confronted by death or disaster. As for him . . . as for Bhavik Chaudhary . . . he could not even begin to gauge the depths of his devastation. Dipannita’s death, to him, meant the negation of his own life. Whatever remained now was gall and wormwood.
* * *
It happened as she passed under the jambul tree. Something plonked on her head, even as that ubiquitous chattering song assaulted her ears yet again. She’d find the bird now, she was determined. It was in that tree --- it had to be! She looked up, standing as still as possible under the fruit-laden tree. Plonk! There it fell, again. But this time it just missed her head. It was a jambul. Her eyes followed the trembling branch and she found herself looking into two brown eyes, deep and still as forest pools.
She stared, fascinated, as the squirrel plucked a jambul, held it between its forepaws, and nibbled it as delicately as a Victorian debutante at the Vicarage Tea Party.
Then plonk! The fruit all consumed, the seed dropped nonchalantly. Not on her head this time, though.
So that’s one mystery solved, she mused as she sauntered along almost jauntily, invigorated by the delicious air --- the smell of the rain-watered earth --- the cool nip in the breeze --- and, of course, the birdsong, now a solo aria, then a sharp counterpoint, yet again a soaring, full-throated orchestral symphony. Maheshwar was at its gorgeous best right now, at the tail end of the monsoon. The vegetation was lush, wildflowers there were aplenty, and the Karvi was in full bloom, a portent signifying some momentous happening.
The season had not yet begun, so the hillstation was mercifully as yet free of the hordes that would descend on it in the next two weeks. And he would arrive tomorrow, she told herself, happily. Pity she’d had to fib to her parents --- given them some gup about going with college friends to Patang. She’d given Rashida’s name of course. There was nobody at her place right now, so no one would know.
She was staying at the hotel under an assumed name. Funny how difficult it could be, to think up a name on the spur of the moment. The idea had occurred to her at the last minute, and had seemed a good one. Even more adventurous! For a moment she’d wondered what name to put down. Then her gaze had fallen upon the edit page of The Chronicle, which the clerk slapped down on the reception table when she approached. The famous byline caught her eye. Why not assume that identity? She’d pass off, she was fair enough!
It had gone smoothly enough. The receptionist had looked rather admiring, when she’d given him the name. It gave her a cachet, that name! Of being someone famous! She’d already warned him on telephone He’d be here tomorrow, also staying at the same hotel. That’s why she’d decided on this long walk, today. She enjoyed walking in the forest, but he didn’t.
She was walking along a muddy trail, away from the main road, through a fairly dense wood. She came again to that faint, intriguing trail she had noticed on her way to the market. To the left of the kachha path, a shortcut to the hotel away from the main road, rose a sudden, steep incline. There was this faint trail snaking up the incline, beneath the jambuls and the oaks, leading probably to the top of the hill. It seemed to be an interesting trail, worth following, with a sparkling rill bubbling past. The forest floor was covered with dense undergrowth. She could distinguish the delicate fronds of the maidenhair and the silver fern, and the white and green hoods of the cobra lily punctuating the path like so many magnified commas. The trees were covered with trailing moss and epiphytic ferns, brushing her face and arms with ghostly caresses.
She took a couple of tentative steps up the trail, glancing at her watch. It was still just about 10 in the morning. She negotiated a sudden sharp bend and looked up to see where the trail was leading her. It was then that she noticed the boundary wall just about visible over the tops of the trees where the hill had plateau’d out. Almost like the rampart of some ancient castle or manor house, she told herself, hastening her ascent in excitement.
She came to a green-painted wicket gate standing slightly ajar in half-hearted invitation. Dipannita opened it wider and walked into the compound. Inside was a two-storied structure, of quite charming design. Rather sprawling, covering a considerable area, with detached outhouses. The gardens were nicely laid out, if not imaginatively planned.
The scent of magnolia assailed her sensitive nostrils. A little away from the main building, the boundary wall seemed to give way, curving downwards. She walked towards the curve as though impelled, and found steps leading down into what seemed to be a sunken garden. The scent of the Magnolia grew stronger. Yes, she caught sight of a branch --- two branches actually, one bearing pinkish white flowers, and the other flaunting blooms of gold, both entwined into each other. The shrubs must be planted very close, she thought idly, breathing deep, her eyes closed.
“Looking for someone?”
The brusque voice, sounding almost in her ear, made her jump. Literally. She swung round sharply to face her interrogator, and was annoyed to find herself swaying on her feet. A hand reached out and gripped her soft upper arm.
Her sudden clumsy movement had made her drop her bag. As she tried to retrieve it, the press button that held the flap burst open, scattering some of her belongings on the ground. He immediately bent and picked them up, before she could . . . a compact, her wallet, her room-key which she had retained with her, a lipstick . . .
She shoved the stuff back into her bag, higgledy-piggledy, with a murmur of thanks. She secured her bag and looked up at him. He seemed decent enough, if a bit rough-hewn. Mid-fortyish, stocky, solidly built. Dark glittering eyes under beetling brows, a bushy black beard trying to subdue full, somewhat coarse lips. His voice was at variance with his appearance, thought Dipannita. More educated than he appeared to be.
“Sorry about all this,” she said awkwardly, startled into being on the defensive. “I am . . . I was . . . on my way to my hotel, when I came across this trail and . . . I wondered where it led . . .” she trailed off.
“Where are you staying?” he asked . “Which hotel?”
“Hotel Windcliffe .”
“That’s some distance from here. And quite isolated. Have you lost your way?” he seemed concerned.
“N.n.no …. No, but … am I trespassing?” she asked apologetically, wondering who the hell this chap was. He was definitely not one of the owners of this fairly grand-looking place. Clothes and appearance all wrong, she naively told herself. Even if he sounded educated. Was he the caretaker? He seemed a cut above the usual caretaker-type. Maybe an estate manager or steward or something, she thought doubtfully. She lived in a world where such things were not quite unheard of.
The man did not enlighten her. And something in his demeanour, in his gaze, precluded her from asking him the questions she was dying to. Like what was this place? A private residence? Rather a large, rambling place. It had an Atmosphere. Whom did it belong to? Were the owners around? Could she look around a bit?
“Would you like to look around a bit?”
“Yes, please, if I’m not trespassing?”
“You are not . . . not if I invite you.” Those words should have been accompanied by a smile. But weren’t. It struck her that he had perhaps forgotten how to smile.
“What’s down there?” she asked, pointing to the flight of steps.
“A holy place.” The word sounded strange on his lips.
“A garden?”
“Indeed! Watered by holy water straight from the Gaumukh. Come.”
She followed him, intrigued. Water from ‘Gaumukh’ in the Sahyadris?
The stone staircase was spiral, and the steps slippery with moss and lichen. He let her go first, and came close behind her, his arm once more grasping her bare upper arm. An involuntary thrill coursed through her. She stiffened. The fingers bit more deeply.
She went down gingerly. A light drizzle had started, bringing a slight nip into the atmosphere, redolent with the heady perfume of the magnolia and the jasmine. As they neared the bottom of the steps, the garden slowly came into view. Apart from the magnolia, and the jasmine and the jui, and several ferns and climbers, there were shrubs of night jasmine, which would flower only after sunset. Lilies and crocus sprung up at random in the tall grass.
Dipannita rounded the last bend, descended the last step, and caught sight of it --- the `water from Gaumukh’! And she laughed aloud. It was a spout in the shape of a cow’s head, probably connected to an underground spring, from which issued forth a stream of water. She ventured closer, and found the stream fell into a kind of a well. She leaned to look into the well. And she screamed.
*
At the precise moment that Dipannita caught sight of the boundary wall of her imagined castle in Maheshwar, an elderly man entered the Colaba Police Station, about 200 km. away, in the city of Bombay, to report a murder. A rather unusual murder. That of a beggar who seemed to be sort of stationed a short distance from the Taj Hotel. A mutilated creature. Armless. Right from the shoulder downwards. Both arms, Ramramram! A sorry looking specimen, the elderly gent told the Sr. Police Inspector, one wondered why anybody should bother to kill him, but killed he was, in cold blood, apparently. Stabbed! That too in broad daylight! What was the world coming to, for shame! Of course, these ruddy beggars were a nuisance and a pain, and should be got rid of, but not stabbed to death! What were the police doing nowadays, the elderly man muttered. Time was …
How did he notice? Well, on Tuesdays, he always gave alms to at least one beggar. Eased his conscience, somewhat. They were a nuisance, of course, whining and dirtying the roads and pawing decent people who themselves could barely make both ends meet in these hard days, but well, they too had to live, he supposed, and he wouldn’t miss a couple of rupees each week, would he?
Well, here was this poor chap, his head sagging on his chest. He thought he’d give him some money. It was when he bent to drop some coins into the tin can that hung on his chest, suspended by a tin wire round his neck, that he noticed the red stain. It took him just a moment to realize that the poor devil was dead. Of course, he knew better than to touch him. Blood and all. Of course he knew it’d be a police case! Why, he wouldn’t have touched the chap even if he hadn’t been so damned stinking filthy!
Yes yes, of course he would take the Inspector to the spot. He’d be late for his lunch, and his wife would be waiting for him, but well, duty called, didn’t it? He’d never been one to shirk his duty, No Sir! Hadn’t he come to inform the police? Going out of his way too, when all those younger men, good-for-nothing rascals, most of them, just stood round gawking and making lewd comments, no respect for death, not enough gumption to go to the Police . . .
By this time they had reached the dead body. Even the young rascals had disappeared. There were one or two curious lookers-on, and a young, well-dressed woman who was arguing with her male friend that something should surely be done, while the friend was trying to haul her away, assuring her it was no use getting mixed up in something like that, only a waste of time, and who knew what the cops would do, and who the hell was bothered, it was only some armless beggar anyway, who was probably better off dead. Why, he doubted if the poor devil could have risen up off the pavement without help. He wondered how he had managed to eat and drink and stay alive even that long!
At first sight he appeared to be dozing, his great shaggy head lolling on his chest. SI Pereira squatted by the dead man. Without touching him. He was stabbed all right. Not much external bleeding, just a slight red on the left side of his chest. Almost obscured by the tin can, but not quite. The murderer had known what he was about. The classic stab point was chosen. Probably a thin, very sharp blade.
“Was there any weapon lying around, Mr. Gupta?” Senior Inspector Geoffrey Pereira felt foolish even as he asked the question. He knew, of course, what the answer would be. But the question had to be asked.
No, he had seen no weapon, asserted Gupta. And of course, he had looked around for one, before going off to fetch the police. He had that much common sense, after all! Even if he hadn’t read so many detective novels, he’d have known enough, to look for the murder weapon.
Hiding a grin, Pereira reassured him, telling him he was an excellent witness --- just the kind of informant the Police prayed for. “And I only hope the pompous windbag doesn’t haunt the Station now,” he had muttered savagely to his Sub-Inspector later on.
*
It was the topic of discussion at Rashne’s party. Her article in ‘The Chronicle’.
“Absolutely thrilling, Sharmeen! Where did you get all those gory details?”
“ Too too gruesome, darling! Do such things really happen? I mean --- it’s worse than watching Ramsay brothers or whatever!”
“You mean you actually watch that tripe . . . ?”
“Hey Sharm, you’d better be careful, or you’ll have some of the Beggar Mafia gunning for your lovely neck. Better get some police protection. What say, Rashne? Where’s that cousin of yours?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind police protection myself, if personally provided by Arshan.”
“What am I supposed to provide, and to whom?” The tall, lean man, who’d seemed to Sharmeen to be a bit out of place at the party came up, glass in one hand, and put his free arm round Rashne. So he was Rashne’s famous Police Commissioner cousin! Deputy Commissioner, she corrected herself mentally.
Rashne laughingly introduced them --- “Sharmeen Turel . . . Arshan Chinoy. Sharmeen is a free-lance journalist, Arsh. And her beat is crime … or should I say passion! She refuses to touch Society stuff. She’s after real dangerous stuff, like underworld dons and nasty slumlords, and her latest pet hate, the Beggar Mafia. Did you read her article in yesterday’s Chronicle?”
Deputy Commissioner Chinoy grinned sheepishly. “You know I don’t have time to read the papers, Rash! Nothing except the comics! Anyway, you’re bursting to tell me all about it.”
“Well, it’s pretty interesting, in a way. And I do think someone should investigate further. I mean the Police absolutely must do something about it!” Knowing his cousin of old, Arshan waited patiently . . .
Everybody knew, of course, that there was some kind of racket going on --- there were these Mafiosi, controlling beggars --- it was they who ran the racket, housing the beggars, placing them in strategic spots in the city, rotating them if thought fit, teaching them the tricks of the trade, making a fortune from money given to these wretched dregs of humanity as alms. That’s why quite a few people in Bombay stopped giving money to beggars. God knows who really benefitted!
Sharmeen’s story, however, had a different, quite horrifying angle, Rashne informed her cousin in thrilling tones. Sharmeen said people actually ran this as a sort of business, and `manufactured’ beggars --- by deliberately well, blinding people, or …or mutilating them. Could anybody be so depraved and cruel? Children kidnapped and `made suitable’ for begging! Sharmeen was sure there was some kind of base where these Beggar Mafia operated from. And that there was some head honcho who pulled the strings from behind the scenes. She felt if only the cops took some trouble, they would unearth these chaps and bust the racket. What did Arshan think? After all, he was the Deputy Commissioner, Crime Branch! Couldn’t he do something?
“Perhaps. But I’ll have to interrogate Ms. Turel, first.” The mocking eyes quizzed Sharmeen under raised brows.
“Oh, for God’s sake call her `Sharmeen’” Rashne said irritably.
She didn’t know quite how it came about, but Sharmeen found herself being dropped home by Arshan after the party. He too lived in Bandra, and she hadn’t taken her car. It was a hell of a hassle, getting parking space on Peddar Road in the evening.
After essaying `Commissioner Chinoy’ a couple of times and thinking she sounded silly, she switched to Arshan without his invitation. He was too savvy to let her know just how interested in her he was, in so brief a meeting. Actually, he knew quite a bit about Ms. Sharmeen Turel. He had read her article. Not only this recent one, but also most of the stuff she’d written. Had long admired the way she wrote. And what she wrote.
Her articles, especially her investigative pieces, had caused considerable comment in the top echelons of the Police. And now, in certain quarters, there was fear that she was attracting attention from dangerous quarters. Just recently they’d had a tip-off that some very undesirable types were keeping a close watch on Sharmeen Turel’s movements. Arshan had come to this blessed party only because Rashne had let drop that Sharmeen Turel would be there. He had wanted to meet her informally, socially, if possible.
He’d had no idea what she looked like. She did not permit her photograph to embellish her columns. She’d turned out to be a stunner. Not strictly beautiful, but an amazingly interesting face. He was in danger all right.
They talked mostly about her article. He admitted he had read it. He felt she had a point. But he also felt, quite seriously, that she was indeed courting danger. Especially after she revealed to him how often she had stood about in the streets at night, alone, around some beggar or the other, waiting for him to be approached by what she termed his (or her, of course), `minder’. Then she’d try and follow them if she could without doing it too obviously. He heard her out gravely. Then asked her if her efforts had met with any success.
“Have you really managed to follow these chaps? Discovered anything?” His voice was stern all of a sudden, the face grim, the brow furrowed.
“Silly little idiot,” he thought to himself. “She seems determined to rush in where any sane person would hesitate to tread. Does she not realize what they’d do to her if ever they got an inkling of what she was up to? And writing articles under her own name, on top of that. Damn fool woman,” he raged inwardly, even as he could not help admiring her guts. And her resourcefulness.
For Sharmeen was resourceful, all right. She had come pretty close to her objective. And she was determined, not to give up now. She knew the area where the hideout was, she was sure. A hillstation, not too far from Bombay, But she couldn‘t pinpoint the exact location, the actual spot.
“You’d better tell me what you’ve discovered,” he told her grimly, as she kept silent.
“Want me to do your job for you, Commissioner?” The delicious voice held more than a tinge of mockery.
Notorious for biting sarcasm himself, he was nonetheless in no mood to appreciate hers. His hands clenched on the steering wheel. He’d have shaken her hard had he not been driving, and never mind whether he had any right to do so or not. This girl was a calamity! To herself, above all.
Sharmeen grinned to herself in the darkness. She had some inkling of what her companion was feeling and thinking, and was glad. She knew she’d need police help to really succeed in what she hoped to do. Bust the Beggar Mafia.
She had reached a crucial point in this particular investigation, which was fast becoming an obsession with her. She was leaving for Maheshwar on Monday morning, the day after, (tomorrow, really! It was almost Sunday) to do a bit of a recce there. She had lost that van she’d been following, somewhere in the marketplace of that hill-station, when her own car had struck a puncture. She was pretty certain that that was where the Beggar Mafia had some kind of a hide-out --- somewhere in or around Maheshwar. Or even Patang, which was a sort of a satellite hill-station, famous for its boarding schools. If she did indeed find anything, she’d need back-up, and swift action. Also someone to SOS to, if she ran into any danger. She was bound to, she thought fatalistically. She’d often felt she herself was being followed or observed, even while she herself was doing the following or the observing. This was much too big to handle on her own. She’d need reinforcements. Meeting this chap at this juncture could well be a blessing. Why not exploit it? He was definitely intrigued, if not smitten. She knew the signs.
As he brought the car to a halt outside the building where she lived, she turned to him, placing a seemingly impulsive hand on his arm. “Will you help me, Arshan?” she asked.
“Get out,” was the cold, uncompromising response. “I’m seeing you to your flat,” he added in a tone that brooked no protest, parking the car and getting out himself.
*
In their opulent flat at Napean Sea Road, barely a 15-minute drive from Rashne’s place, the Chaudhary family was at dinner, en famille for once, at around the same time that Sharmeen’s article was being discussed at Rashne’s party. It was indeed a rare occasion when the Head of the family managed to get home in time for Dinner. The bahu, Sudha, had long since given up trying to assemble the family together at meal times. Caught between her mother-in-law’s interfering dominance and her husband’s general indifference to matters domestic, she took the line of least resistance. Even her daughter, thoroughly spoilt by Bhavik, and alternately indulged and bullied by Maaji, was totally out of her control.
So Sudha had taken refuge in God. Her days were filled with prayer and devotion. She visited temples, held Poojas for every conceivable occasion, good or bad, gave alms to priests and the poor, and prostrated herself at the feet of every visiting Guru or Maharaj. For the Maharaj that ruled her own kitchen, however, she reserved a quite different form of devotion.
Even before the rice was brought to the table, the dinner was interrupted by the trilling of Bhavik’s mobile, which lay on the side of his thali. It was his ‘special’ mobile, reserved for very special people and very urgent messages. Which he carried even to the loo. Since he had not made love to his own wife in the last five years, Sudha had no idea if he kept it on in bed, permitting its ubiquitous intrusion even into that most private of intimacies.
Maaji clucked and Dipannita sighed, as Bhavik rose and walked out of the room, the mobile glued to his ear. He was back in a couple of minutes, frowning heavily.
“What’s happened, beta? Any bad news?”
“Just a bit of nuisance,” he answered his mother.
“What nuisance,” she would not be put off so easily.
“One of our trucks, carrying rather valuable cargo, has been overturned on the ghats. They wanted to know what to do.” He looked at his wife. “I’ll have to leave, in an hour or so. See to my packing, will you? Enough clothes and stuff for a couple of days.”
“But Papa, you’re going to the Middle-East, shortly,” protested Dipannita.
“Yes, gudiya, but that’s next week. I’ll be back before then.”
“Well, if you don’t come back by Wednesday, I’ll have left myself.”
“Yes, you’re off with your college friends, aren’t you? To that hill-station?”
“Patang.”
“Oh! Yes of course. You’re going to Patang. Will you be staying there only, or are you moving around?”
“Oh no, we’ll be in Patang only. Rashida’s younger brother is in school there, and they’ll have half-term while we’re there. So we’ll be visiting the school, and maybe taking walks, and generally chilling out.”
“Let’s see, it’s Saturday today. Oh, of course I’ll be back by Wednesday. I’ll make sure I am,” he assured her.
“You’d better be,” she waved her fork at him mock-threateningly. He ruffled her hair caressingly and rose from the table, his mind already on this latest mishap and how to overcome it. It was worrisome. Hmmn … it was definitely worrisome!
Maaji clucked again. Bhavik was really spoiling the child. Had she dared to do that to her father, she’d have had her knuckles well rapped. But Bhavik would not let anyone so much as touch that girl in anger. The only time she, Maaji, had tried to physically chastise Dipannita for her own good, Bhavik, on hearing of it from his daughter, had flown into a rage with his mother, warning her never again to dare raise her hand or take a cane to Dipannita. Sudha herself had never dared, knowing her husband’s almost violently obsessive love for their only child.
Behind her light-hearted badinage, Dipannita’s mind was churning with speculation. Her father ran a recruiting business. Recruiting unskilled labour from UP and Bihar, and other such places and got them jobs in the Middle East.
“That’s the business to be in ---labour! No dearth of raw material for that, in this country. Too much population, mostly ignorant and illiterate, easy to handle and manage,” she’d heard him once expound to a group of friends, who’d come over for drinks and cards.
What did a truck in the ghats have to do with recruiting business? wondered Dipannita. Most of the labourers came by train, from Bihar or UP. She knew, her father did organize transport and stuff for his recruits. Maybe he was getting people from other places, now. She had heard rumours that times were bad, and that Gulf jobs were getting scarcer, the Middle-Eastern governments getting stricter. Maybe even labour was hard to get. Luckily, her father’s agency or whatever seemed to be thriving. There was no shortage of money in the Chaudhary household. She herself had only to express a desire to have it instantly gratified by her adoring Dad. Oh well, maybe he had some other business she knew nothing about, she shrugged. Not that she knew much about his businesses, anyway.
She forgot all about the truck on the ghats, and thought pleasurably about her own projected trip.
* * *
Sharmeen returned to the Hotel Windcliffe late evening, dead tired. It was the same day that Dipannita had discovered `Gaumukh’ in Maheshwar.
Sharmeen had registered as Avan Fraser. Arshan had insisted on that. As he’d insisted on her carrying the mobile he gave her, with a special roaming facility.
“You take this, keep it with you always, and keep it on”, he’d ordered. Noticing the spark of mutiny in her fine dark eyes he’d added grimly, “You either promise you’ll do as you’re told and take proper precautions, or I’ll take you into protective custody. And enjoy doing it,” he assured her. They’d met at her flat again on Sunday, to work out all the details of her trip to Maheshwar.
Sharmeen returned to the hotel to find cops swarming round the place, and the hotel manager in a state of near apoplexy. And, amazingly, astoundingly, to find Arshan Chinoy there. He seemed to be the cause of the manager’s apoplexy!
He noticed her as soon as she walked into the reception area. But he made no move towards her. He was looking grim as hell. She wondered what was up. About to go up to him, she noticed, on the sofa, the body covered in white sheet up to the face. As though impelled, she walked up to it. It was a young face. Once a pretty face. Now grotesque. Seemed to have been strangled.
Despite herself, she swayed. And found her arm caught in a hard grip which was oddly reassuring. It managed to convey strength and anger and reassurance and comfort, all at once. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “What’s happened? Who . . . who is she?”
“Sharmeen Turel.” The mockery in his voice was bitter.
Tears suddenly sprang into her eyes as she turned to look up at him, horror mingling with hurt reproach. In that moment he realized how vulnerable she could be. He was ashamed of his bitter tongue. He put his arm around her and hugged her slightly. “That was the name she’s registered under. Lord knows why. Her real name is Dipannita Chaudhary. At least that’s what all credit cards in her wallet indicate!”
She was stunned. “But . . . why did she . . . how . . . I suppose she’d read it in some paper?” He nodded. A killing thought struck her. She clutched the hand resting on her shoulder. “Arshan . . . this means . . .”
“. . . Someone wanted to kill you, but killed her instead, thinking she was you,” he completed for her. “That’s why I came racing down. Made it in three hours, from Bombay. The news received there was that `Sharmeen Turel’ had been found, murdered. By the time I reached here, Inspector Mahadik here had searched her room and discovered her real identity.”
His tone told her what his words did not. Part of his anger had been due to anxiety. But oh God, what a mess. And this girl, this poor, poor girl!
“Come,” said Arshan, clasping her hand. “I’ll take you to your room. Pack up. I’m taking you back to Bombay. We’ve made arrangements for the body to be taken to Bombay. I’ll depute some chaps to go to her folks once we find out where she lives. I’m sure the address given here is bogus, but she seems to be from Bombay, all right."
“If she’s been killed instead of me,” Sharmeen said huskily, looking straight into Arshan’s eyes, “there could only be one reason . . . that I’m right, and that hide-out is somewhere here.”
“Yes, I’d gathered that,” he said dryly. “Instructions have been given --- for a discreet but thorough search of every likely place in Maheshwar. If need be, even the unlikely ones --- then they’ll move to Patang. I’m taking no chances, now. This gang just has to be busted, and the ringleader caught. We’ll have a detailed talk later, in Bombay.”
She knew what that meant, of course. She was now in greater danger than ever. He’d probably insist on police protection for her. Oh well, she’d think about it later. Right now, she could not rid her mind of the thought that another young girl, a much younger girl, had been killed for her sake --- instead of her! It was bitter gall to swallow, for someone so sensitive as Sharmeen.
* * *
The Constable on duty brought Bhavik a cup of tea. He choked on the very first sip. He tried to compose himself. He could see they were waiting to ask him some questions. He must help them. Help them catch this bastard, who’d done this to his daughter.
He’d been told that she was found, strangled, in the gardens of some hotel in Maheshwar. So she’d lied about going to Patang. Not that it mattered now. Nothing mattered. Except to avenge her murder.
“I don’t understand . . . my daughter . . . why should anyone . . . was there any . . . was there . . . ?”
“Yes, Mr. Chaudhary, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon cut in swiftly. Of course, we yet have to do the PM, but preliminary examination by the Medical Officer does show evidence of rape. Probably shortly before she was killed.”
“There’s perhaps one thing you could help us with, sir,” continued the Inspector. “Something that’s been bothering us a great deal.”
Bhavik looked at him in dumb inquiry.
“Did your daughter know a lady called Sharmeen Turel?”
Bhavik’s face had turned even more ashen. “W..why do you ask that, Inspector?” He asked, a tremor in his voice.
“Because for some reason, your daughter had assumed that name, when she registered herself at Hotel Windcliffe, in Maheshwar. She told the hotel clerk her name was Sharmeen Turel. And that was the name she was known by, at that hotel. . . . Mr. Chaudhary? Mr. Chaudhary? Are you all right, Mr. Chaudhary? Get a glass of water, quickly,” the Inspector ordered the Constable on duty, as Chaudhary seemed to visibly shrink, guttural, keening sounds emitting from his lips.
That conversation . . . that fatal telephone conversation, just a day before he was to leave for the Gulf . . . after Dipannita had left . . .
“Bahadur speaking Boss, from Gaumukh. We’ve found out who’s been snitching on us, Boss. It’s that haramkhor Malloo, whose arms we took off last month. Necessary steps will be taken, Boss. We’ll make an example of him.”
“Good,” he’d said. Well, he couldn’t have people snitching, in his business, could he? They’d have to set an example!
“More good news, Boss, we’ve also located that dame . . . that Sharmeen Turel, who’s been troubling us. She’s here right now, at Maheshwar, in Hotel Windcliffe. Go ahead, Boss?”
“Yes, dammit,” he’d snapped into the phone. “Finish her off. Khatam kar dalo, saali ko. But listen, her body must be found. If she disappears, there’ll be a search. We don’t want that. But finish her off as soon as possible.”
“Will do, Boss! She’s some babe, though! You’d have enjoyed her, Boss. Er, mind if . . .”
“Do what you like with her, the bitch,” he’d laughed crudely. “Have your fun, but finish her off. I’m off to Muscat, tomorrow. I want a full report when I return.”
The full report. He’d got it all right.
He stood frozen, gazing blankly at the sympathetic Inspector, as flames flickered all around him, leaping higher and higher, engulfing him till he was burning in Hell.
XXXX____________________XXXX
“May you burn in hell,” he’d cursed his daughter’s unknown murderer, gazing agonized into the lovely young face contorted by brutal death.
He hadn’t cried since he was eight years old, when tears of pain and anger and humiliation had been wrung out of him by the vicious beating his father had meted out to him. He was now fifty-two and he couldn’t stop the tears coursing down his cheeks as he stood staring at the corpse of his daughter. His only child.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight he could hardly bear. His nineteen year-old daughter, once so lovely and graceful, now rendered graceless, almost grotesque by the peculiar indignity of a certain kind of death: her face horribly contorted, ugly bruises on her slender neck. As the significance of those bruises sunk in slowly, he raised his hands in a curious gesture suggestive of a helpless amazement at the machinations of fate and gazed at the Inspector, his eyes asking the question his tongue could not utter.
“Yes, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon responded rather awkwardly, answering the unspoken question in the tortured man’s eyes. “It was murder, no doubt. She’s been strangled.” Trying to speak sympathetically, he sounded merely brusque. Hell, there was never an easy way of doing this, Ashir Menon thought to himself. Poor chap. This has really knocked him out.
It had. His daughter meant more to him than anyone in the world, almost including himself. If he overreached himself sometimes in his businesses, it was for her sake. To give her the kind of childhood and adolescence that had been denied to him. To smother her in every luxury she desired. And to buy her love and respect and admiration. She was part of him after all, and hence the sole recipient of his unconditional love.
His creation. Now destroyed.
He would suffer, the man who had done this to her, he promised himself. He would make him suffer agonies beyond Hell. Whoever he was, the man responsible for Dipannita’s death.
“May you die a thousand living deaths,” he enunciated slowly and clearly, to the added unease of the policemen in the morgue. “May you burn in hell and continue to burn for eternity,” he cursed.
*
The news had been brought to him within rather less than a half an hour of reaching his house, straight from the airport after his business trip to the Middle East. He had barely finished his cup of tea when the doorbell rang, ushering the two policemen, bringing with them the news of the death of his daughter. They had not said anything more at the house, in the presence of his wife and mother.
It had not really registered, not for quite some time. His tired eyes had flickered round the room, taking in the figures arrayed like some ghastly tableau in a surrealistic play --- the carefully expressionless face of his wife as she stood rigid and catatonic --- his mother, who let forth an unearthly ululation --- his weeping servants, the Maharaj making a particularly loud racket --- and the two slightly embarrassed cops who had come with the news.
On being asked if he would accompany them to the morgue for the purpose of official identification, he made a futile gesture, and then walked out of the room, out of the house, followed by the policemen. It had not occurred to him to say a word to his wife, to even ask her if she’d like to accompany him.
Of course she wouldn’t! Women were to be spared such horrors. There were some decisions meant for men to take. The premise had served them both well, he was sure, all through the years of their marriage. Why make a departure now, in the midst of such a crisis? His mother was bound to wail, of course. Women of her generation always did, when confronted by death or disaster. As for him . . . as for Bhavik Chaudhary . . . he could not even begin to gauge the depths of his devastation. Dipannita’s death, to him, meant the negation of his own life. Whatever remained now was gall and wormwood.
* * *
It happened as she passed under the jambul tree. Something plonked on her head, even as that ubiquitous chattering song assaulted her ears yet again. She’d find the bird now, she was determined. It was in that tree --- it had to be! She looked up, standing as still as possible under the fruit-laden tree. Plonk! There it fell, again. But this time it just missed her head. It was a jambul. Her eyes followed the trembling branch and she found herself looking into two brown eyes, deep and still as forest pools.
She stared, fascinated, as the squirrel plucked a jambul, held it between its forepaws, and nibbled it as delicately as a Victorian debutante at the Vicarage Tea Party.
Then plonk! The fruit all consumed, the seed dropped nonchalantly. Not on her head this time, though.
So that’s one mystery solved, she mused as she sauntered along almost jauntily, invigorated by the delicious air --- the smell of the rain-watered earth --- the cool nip in the breeze --- and, of course, the birdsong, now a solo aria, then a sharp counterpoint, yet again a soaring, full-throated orchestral symphony. Maheshwar was at its gorgeous best right now, at the tail end of the monsoon. The vegetation was lush, wildflowers there were aplenty, and the Karvi was in full bloom, a portent signifying some momentous happening.
The season had not yet begun, so the hillstation was mercifully as yet free of the hordes that would descend on it in the next two weeks. And he would arrive tomorrow, she told herself, happily. Pity she’d had to fib to her parents --- given them some gup about going with college friends to Patang. She’d given Rashida’s name of course. There was nobody at her place right now, so no one would know.
She was staying at the hotel under an assumed name. Funny how difficult it could be, to think up a name on the spur of the moment. The idea had occurred to her at the last minute, and had seemed a good one. Even more adventurous! For a moment she’d wondered what name to put down. Then her gaze had fallen upon the edit page of The Chronicle, which the clerk slapped down on the reception table when she approached. The famous byline caught her eye. Why not assume that identity? She’d pass off, she was fair enough!
It had gone smoothly enough. The receptionist had looked rather admiring, when she’d given him the name. It gave her a cachet, that name! Of being someone famous! She’d already warned him on telephone He’d be here tomorrow, also staying at the same hotel. That’s why she’d decided on this long walk, today. She enjoyed walking in the forest, but he didn’t.
She was walking along a muddy trail, away from the main road, through a fairly dense wood. She came again to that faint, intriguing trail she had noticed on her way to the market. To the left of the kachha path, a shortcut to the hotel away from the main road, rose a sudden, steep incline. There was this faint trail snaking up the incline, beneath the jambuls and the oaks, leading probably to the top of the hill. It seemed to be an interesting trail, worth following, with a sparkling rill bubbling past. The forest floor was covered with dense undergrowth. She could distinguish the delicate fronds of the maidenhair and the silver fern, and the white and green hoods of the cobra lily punctuating the path like so many magnified commas. The trees were covered with trailing moss and epiphytic ferns, brushing her face and arms with ghostly caresses.
She took a couple of tentative steps up the trail, glancing at her watch. It was still just about 10 in the morning. She negotiated a sudden sharp bend and looked up to see where the trail was leading her. It was then that she noticed the boundary wall just about visible over the tops of the trees where the hill had plateau’d out. Almost like the rampart of some ancient castle or manor house, she told herself, hastening her ascent in excitement.
She came to a green-painted wicket gate standing slightly ajar in half-hearted invitation. Dipannita opened it wider and walked into the compound. Inside was a two-storied structure, of quite charming design. Rather sprawling, covering a considerable area, with detached outhouses. The gardens were nicely laid out, if not imaginatively planned.
The scent of magnolia assailed her sensitive nostrils. A little away from the main building, the boundary wall seemed to give way, curving downwards. She walked towards the curve as though impelled, and found steps leading down into what seemed to be a sunken garden. The scent of the Magnolia grew stronger. Yes, she caught sight of a branch --- two branches actually, one bearing pinkish white flowers, and the other flaunting blooms of gold, both entwined into each other. The shrubs must be planted very close, she thought idly, breathing deep, her eyes closed.
“Looking for someone?”
The brusque voice, sounding almost in her ear, made her jump. Literally. She swung round sharply to face her interrogator, and was annoyed to find herself swaying on her feet. A hand reached out and gripped her soft upper arm.
Her sudden clumsy movement had made her drop her bag. As she tried to retrieve it, the press button that held the flap burst open, scattering some of her belongings on the ground. He immediately bent and picked them up, before she could . . . a compact, her wallet, her room-key which she had retained with her, a lipstick . . .
She shoved the stuff back into her bag, higgledy-piggledy, with a murmur of thanks. She secured her bag and looked up at him. He seemed decent enough, if a bit rough-hewn. Mid-fortyish, stocky, solidly built. Dark glittering eyes under beetling brows, a bushy black beard trying to subdue full, somewhat coarse lips. His voice was at variance with his appearance, thought Dipannita. More educated than he appeared to be.
“Sorry about all this,” she said awkwardly, startled into being on the defensive. “I am . . . I was . . . on my way to my hotel, when I came across this trail and . . . I wondered where it led . . .” she trailed off.
“Where are you staying?” he asked . “Which hotel?”
“Hotel Windcliffe .”
“That’s some distance from here. And quite isolated. Have you lost your way?” he seemed concerned.
“N.n.no …. No, but … am I trespassing?” she asked apologetically, wondering who the hell this chap was. He was definitely not one of the owners of this fairly grand-looking place. Clothes and appearance all wrong, she naively told herself. Even if he sounded educated. Was he the caretaker? He seemed a cut above the usual caretaker-type. Maybe an estate manager or steward or something, she thought doubtfully. She lived in a world where such things were not quite unheard of.
The man did not enlighten her. And something in his demeanour, in his gaze, precluded her from asking him the questions she was dying to. Like what was this place? A private residence? Rather a large, rambling place. It had an Atmosphere. Whom did it belong to? Were the owners around? Could she look around a bit?
“Would you like to look around a bit?”
“Yes, please, if I’m not trespassing?”
“You are not . . . not if I invite you.” Those words should have been accompanied by a smile. But weren’t. It struck her that he had perhaps forgotten how to smile.
“What’s down there?” she asked, pointing to the flight of steps.
“A holy place.” The word sounded strange on his lips.
“A garden?”
“Indeed! Watered by holy water straight from the Gaumukh. Come.”
She followed him, intrigued. Water from ‘Gaumukh’ in the Sahyadris?
The stone staircase was spiral, and the steps slippery with moss and lichen. He let her go first, and came close behind her, his arm once more grasping her bare upper arm. An involuntary thrill coursed through her. She stiffened. The fingers bit more deeply.
She went down gingerly. A light drizzle had started, bringing a slight nip into the atmosphere, redolent with the heady perfume of the magnolia and the jasmine. As they neared the bottom of the steps, the garden slowly came into view. Apart from the magnolia, and the jasmine and the jui, and several ferns and climbers, there were shrubs of night jasmine, which would flower only after sunset. Lilies and crocus sprung up at random in the tall grass.
Dipannita rounded the last bend, descended the last step, and caught sight of it --- the `water from Gaumukh’! And she laughed aloud. It was a spout in the shape of a cow’s head, probably connected to an underground spring, from which issued forth a stream of water. She ventured closer, and found the stream fell into a kind of a well. She leaned to look into the well. And she screamed.
*
At the precise moment that Dipannita caught sight of the boundary wall of her imagined castle in Maheshwar, an elderly man entered the Colaba Police Station, about 200 km. away, in the city of Bombay, to report a murder. A rather unusual murder. That of a beggar who seemed to be sort of stationed a short distance from the Taj Hotel. A mutilated creature. Armless. Right from the shoulder downwards. Both arms, Ramramram! A sorry looking specimen, the elderly gent told the Sr. Police Inspector, one wondered why anybody should bother to kill him, but killed he was, in cold blood, apparently. Stabbed! That too in broad daylight! What was the world coming to, for shame! Of course, these ruddy beggars were a nuisance and a pain, and should be got rid of, but not stabbed to death! What were the police doing nowadays, the elderly man muttered. Time was …
How did he notice? Well, on Tuesdays, he always gave alms to at least one beggar. Eased his conscience, somewhat. They were a nuisance, of course, whining and dirtying the roads and pawing decent people who themselves could barely make both ends meet in these hard days, but well, they too had to live, he supposed, and he wouldn’t miss a couple of rupees each week, would he?
Well, here was this poor chap, his head sagging on his chest. He thought he’d give him some money. It was when he bent to drop some coins into the tin can that hung on his chest, suspended by a tin wire round his neck, that he noticed the red stain. It took him just a moment to realize that the poor devil was dead. Of course, he knew better than to touch him. Blood and all. Of course he knew it’d be a police case! Why, he wouldn’t have touched the chap even if he hadn’t been so damned stinking filthy!
Yes yes, of course he would take the Inspector to the spot. He’d be late for his lunch, and his wife would be waiting for him, but well, duty called, didn’t it? He’d never been one to shirk his duty, No Sir! Hadn’t he come to inform the police? Going out of his way too, when all those younger men, good-for-nothing rascals, most of them, just stood round gawking and making lewd comments, no respect for death, not enough gumption to go to the Police . . .
By this time they had reached the dead body. Even the young rascals had disappeared. There were one or two curious lookers-on, and a young, well-dressed woman who was arguing with her male friend that something should surely be done, while the friend was trying to haul her away, assuring her it was no use getting mixed up in something like that, only a waste of time, and who knew what the cops would do, and who the hell was bothered, it was only some armless beggar anyway, who was probably better off dead. Why, he doubted if the poor devil could have risen up off the pavement without help. He wondered how he had managed to eat and drink and stay alive even that long!
At first sight he appeared to be dozing, his great shaggy head lolling on his chest. SI Pereira squatted by the dead man. Without touching him. He was stabbed all right. Not much external bleeding, just a slight red on the left side of his chest. Almost obscured by the tin can, but not quite. The murderer had known what he was about. The classic stab point was chosen. Probably a thin, very sharp blade.
“Was there any weapon lying around, Mr. Gupta?” Senior Inspector Geoffrey Pereira felt foolish even as he asked the question. He knew, of course, what the answer would be. But the question had to be asked.
No, he had seen no weapon, asserted Gupta. And of course, he had looked around for one, before going off to fetch the police. He had that much common sense, after all! Even if he hadn’t read so many detective novels, he’d have known enough, to look for the murder weapon.
Hiding a grin, Pereira reassured him, telling him he was an excellent witness --- just the kind of informant the Police prayed for. “And I only hope the pompous windbag doesn’t haunt the Station now,” he had muttered savagely to his Sub-Inspector later on.
*
It was the topic of discussion at Rashne’s party. Her article in ‘The Chronicle’.
“Absolutely thrilling, Sharmeen! Where did you get all those gory details?”
“ Too too gruesome, darling! Do such things really happen? I mean --- it’s worse than watching Ramsay brothers or whatever!”
“You mean you actually watch that tripe . . . ?”
“Hey Sharm, you’d better be careful, or you’ll have some of the Beggar Mafia gunning for your lovely neck. Better get some police protection. What say, Rashne? Where’s that cousin of yours?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind police protection myself, if personally provided by Arshan.”
“What am I supposed to provide, and to whom?” The tall, lean man, who’d seemed to Sharmeen to be a bit out of place at the party came up, glass in one hand, and put his free arm round Rashne. So he was Rashne’s famous Police Commissioner cousin! Deputy Commissioner, she corrected herself mentally.
Rashne laughingly introduced them --- “Sharmeen Turel . . . Arshan Chinoy. Sharmeen is a free-lance journalist, Arsh. And her beat is crime … or should I say passion! She refuses to touch Society stuff. She’s after real dangerous stuff, like underworld dons and nasty slumlords, and her latest pet hate, the Beggar Mafia. Did you read her article in yesterday’s Chronicle?”
Deputy Commissioner Chinoy grinned sheepishly. “You know I don’t have time to read the papers, Rash! Nothing except the comics! Anyway, you’re bursting to tell me all about it.”
“Well, it’s pretty interesting, in a way. And I do think someone should investigate further. I mean the Police absolutely must do something about it!” Knowing his cousin of old, Arshan waited patiently . . .
Everybody knew, of course, that there was some kind of racket going on --- there were these Mafiosi, controlling beggars --- it was they who ran the racket, housing the beggars, placing them in strategic spots in the city, rotating them if thought fit, teaching them the tricks of the trade, making a fortune from money given to these wretched dregs of humanity as alms. That’s why quite a few people in Bombay stopped giving money to beggars. God knows who really benefitted!
Sharmeen’s story, however, had a different, quite horrifying angle, Rashne informed her cousin in thrilling tones. Sharmeen said people actually ran this as a sort of business, and `manufactured’ beggars --- by deliberately well, blinding people, or …or mutilating them. Could anybody be so depraved and cruel? Children kidnapped and `made suitable’ for begging! Sharmeen was sure there was some kind of base where these Beggar Mafia operated from. And that there was some head honcho who pulled the strings from behind the scenes. She felt if only the cops took some trouble, they would unearth these chaps and bust the racket. What did Arshan think? After all, he was the Deputy Commissioner, Crime Branch! Couldn’t he do something?
“Perhaps. But I’ll have to interrogate Ms. Turel, first.” The mocking eyes quizzed Sharmeen under raised brows.
“Oh, for God’s sake call her `Sharmeen’” Rashne said irritably.
She didn’t know quite how it came about, but Sharmeen found herself being dropped home by Arshan after the party. He too lived in Bandra, and she hadn’t taken her car. It was a hell of a hassle, getting parking space on Peddar Road in the evening.
After essaying `Commissioner Chinoy’ a couple of times and thinking she sounded silly, she switched to Arshan without his invitation. He was too savvy to let her know just how interested in her he was, in so brief a meeting. Actually, he knew quite a bit about Ms. Sharmeen Turel. He had read her article. Not only this recent one, but also most of the stuff she’d written. Had long admired the way she wrote. And what she wrote.
Her articles, especially her investigative pieces, had caused considerable comment in the top echelons of the Police. And now, in certain quarters, there was fear that she was attracting attention from dangerous quarters. Just recently they’d had a tip-off that some very undesirable types were keeping a close watch on Sharmeen Turel’s movements. Arshan had come to this blessed party only because Rashne had let drop that Sharmeen Turel would be there. He had wanted to meet her informally, socially, if possible.
He’d had no idea what she looked like. She did not permit her photograph to embellish her columns. She’d turned out to be a stunner. Not strictly beautiful, but an amazingly interesting face. He was in danger all right.
They talked mostly about her article. He admitted he had read it. He felt she had a point. But he also felt, quite seriously, that she was indeed courting danger. Especially after she revealed to him how often she had stood about in the streets at night, alone, around some beggar or the other, waiting for him to be approached by what she termed his (or her, of course), `minder’. Then she’d try and follow them if she could without doing it too obviously. He heard her out gravely. Then asked her if her efforts had met with any success.
“Have you really managed to follow these chaps? Discovered anything?” His voice was stern all of a sudden, the face grim, the brow furrowed.
“Silly little idiot,” he thought to himself. “She seems determined to rush in where any sane person would hesitate to tread. Does she not realize what they’d do to her if ever they got an inkling of what she was up to? And writing articles under her own name, on top of that. Damn fool woman,” he raged inwardly, even as he could not help admiring her guts. And her resourcefulness.
For Sharmeen was resourceful, all right. She had come pretty close to her objective. And she was determined, not to give up now. She knew the area where the hideout was, she was sure. A hillstation, not too far from Bombay, But she couldn‘t pinpoint the exact location, the actual spot.
“You’d better tell me what you’ve discovered,” he told her grimly, as she kept silent.
“Want me to do your job for you, Commissioner?” The delicious voice held more than a tinge of mockery.
Notorious for biting sarcasm himself, he was nonetheless in no mood to appreciate hers. His hands clenched on the steering wheel. He’d have shaken her hard had he not been driving, and never mind whether he had any right to do so or not. This girl was a calamity! To herself, above all.
Sharmeen grinned to herself in the darkness. She had some inkling of what her companion was feeling and thinking, and was glad. She knew she’d need police help to really succeed in what she hoped to do. Bust the Beggar Mafia.
She had reached a crucial point in this particular investigation, which was fast becoming an obsession with her. She was leaving for Maheshwar on Monday morning, the day after, (tomorrow, really! It was almost Sunday) to do a bit of a recce there. She had lost that van she’d been following, somewhere in the marketplace of that hill-station, when her own car had struck a puncture. She was pretty certain that that was where the Beggar Mafia had some kind of a hide-out --- somewhere in or around Maheshwar. Or even Patang, which was a sort of a satellite hill-station, famous for its boarding schools. If she did indeed find anything, she’d need back-up, and swift action. Also someone to SOS to, if she ran into any danger. She was bound to, she thought fatalistically. She’d often felt she herself was being followed or observed, even while she herself was doing the following or the observing. This was much too big to handle on her own. She’d need reinforcements. Meeting this chap at this juncture could well be a blessing. Why not exploit it? He was definitely intrigued, if not smitten. She knew the signs.
As he brought the car to a halt outside the building where she lived, she turned to him, placing a seemingly impulsive hand on his arm. “Will you help me, Arshan?” she asked.
“Get out,” was the cold, uncompromising response. “I’m seeing you to your flat,” he added in a tone that brooked no protest, parking the car and getting out himself.
*
In their opulent flat at Napean Sea Road, barely a 15-minute drive from Rashne’s place, the Chaudhary family was at dinner, en famille for once, at around the same time that Sharmeen’s article was being discussed at Rashne’s party. It was indeed a rare occasion when the Head of the family managed to get home in time for Dinner. The bahu, Sudha, had long since given up trying to assemble the family together at meal times. Caught between her mother-in-law’s interfering dominance and her husband’s general indifference to matters domestic, she took the line of least resistance. Even her daughter, thoroughly spoilt by Bhavik, and alternately indulged and bullied by Maaji, was totally out of her control.
So Sudha had taken refuge in God. Her days were filled with prayer and devotion. She visited temples, held Poojas for every conceivable occasion, good or bad, gave alms to priests and the poor, and prostrated herself at the feet of every visiting Guru or Maharaj. For the Maharaj that ruled her own kitchen, however, she reserved a quite different form of devotion.
Even before the rice was brought to the table, the dinner was interrupted by the trilling of Bhavik’s mobile, which lay on the side of his thali. It was his ‘special’ mobile, reserved for very special people and very urgent messages. Which he carried even to the loo. Since he had not made love to his own wife in the last five years, Sudha had no idea if he kept it on in bed, permitting its ubiquitous intrusion even into that most private of intimacies.
Maaji clucked and Dipannita sighed, as Bhavik rose and walked out of the room, the mobile glued to his ear. He was back in a couple of minutes, frowning heavily.
“What’s happened, beta? Any bad news?”
“Just a bit of nuisance,” he answered his mother.
“What nuisance,” she would not be put off so easily.
“One of our trucks, carrying rather valuable cargo, has been overturned on the ghats. They wanted to know what to do.” He looked at his wife. “I’ll have to leave, in an hour or so. See to my packing, will you? Enough clothes and stuff for a couple of days.”
“But Papa, you’re going to the Middle-East, shortly,” protested Dipannita.
“Yes, gudiya, but that’s next week. I’ll be back before then.”
“Well, if you don’t come back by Wednesday, I’ll have left myself.”
“Yes, you’re off with your college friends, aren’t you? To that hill-station?”
“Patang.”
“Oh! Yes of course. You’re going to Patang. Will you be staying there only, or are you moving around?”
“Oh no, we’ll be in Patang only. Rashida’s younger brother is in school there, and they’ll have half-term while we’re there. So we’ll be visiting the school, and maybe taking walks, and generally chilling out.”
“Let’s see, it’s Saturday today. Oh, of course I’ll be back by Wednesday. I’ll make sure I am,” he assured her.
“You’d better be,” she waved her fork at him mock-threateningly. He ruffled her hair caressingly and rose from the table, his mind already on this latest mishap and how to overcome it. It was worrisome. Hmmn … it was definitely worrisome!
Maaji clucked again. Bhavik was really spoiling the child. Had she dared to do that to her father, she’d have had her knuckles well rapped. But Bhavik would not let anyone so much as touch that girl in anger. The only time she, Maaji, had tried to physically chastise Dipannita for her own good, Bhavik, on hearing of it from his daughter, had flown into a rage with his mother, warning her never again to dare raise her hand or take a cane to Dipannita. Sudha herself had never dared, knowing her husband’s almost violently obsessive love for their only child.
Behind her light-hearted badinage, Dipannita’s mind was churning with speculation. Her father ran a recruiting business. Recruiting unskilled labour from UP and Bihar, and other such places and got them jobs in the Middle East.
“That’s the business to be in ---labour! No dearth of raw material for that, in this country. Too much population, mostly ignorant and illiterate, easy to handle and manage,” she’d heard him once expound to a group of friends, who’d come over for drinks and cards.
What did a truck in the ghats have to do with recruiting business? wondered Dipannita. Most of the labourers came by train, from Bihar or UP. She knew, her father did organize transport and stuff for his recruits. Maybe he was getting people from other places, now. She had heard rumours that times were bad, and that Gulf jobs were getting scarcer, the Middle-Eastern governments getting stricter. Maybe even labour was hard to get. Luckily, her father’s agency or whatever seemed to be thriving. There was no shortage of money in the Chaudhary household. She herself had only to express a desire to have it instantly gratified by her adoring Dad. Oh well, maybe he had some other business she knew nothing about, she shrugged. Not that she knew much about his businesses, anyway.
She forgot all about the truck on the ghats, and thought pleasurably about her own projected trip.
* * *
Sharmeen returned to the Hotel Windcliffe late evening, dead tired. It was the same day that Dipannita had discovered `Gaumukh’ in Maheshwar.
Sharmeen had registered as Avan Fraser. Arshan had insisted on that. As he’d insisted on her carrying the mobile he gave her, with a special roaming facility.
“You take this, keep it with you always, and keep it on”, he’d ordered. Noticing the spark of mutiny in her fine dark eyes he’d added grimly, “You either promise you’ll do as you’re told and take proper precautions, or I’ll take you into protective custody. And enjoy doing it,” he assured her. They’d met at her flat again on Sunday, to work out all the details of her trip to Maheshwar.
Sharmeen returned to the hotel to find cops swarming round the place, and the hotel manager in a state of near apoplexy. And, amazingly, astoundingly, to find Arshan Chinoy there. He seemed to be the cause of the manager’s apoplexy!
He noticed her as soon as she walked into the reception area. But he made no move towards her. He was looking grim as hell. She wondered what was up. About to go up to him, she noticed, on the sofa, the body covered in white sheet up to the face. As though impelled, she walked up to it. It was a young face. Once a pretty face. Now grotesque. Seemed to have been strangled.
Despite herself, she swayed. And found her arm caught in a hard grip which was oddly reassuring. It managed to convey strength and anger and reassurance and comfort, all at once. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “What’s happened? Who . . . who is she?”
“Sharmeen Turel.” The mockery in his voice was bitter.
Tears suddenly sprang into her eyes as she turned to look up at him, horror mingling with hurt reproach. In that moment he realized how vulnerable she could be. He was ashamed of his bitter tongue. He put his arm around her and hugged her slightly. “That was the name she’s registered under. Lord knows why. Her real name is Dipannita Chaudhary. At least that’s what all credit cards in her wallet indicate!”
She was stunned. “But . . . why did she . . . how . . . I suppose she’d read it in some paper?” He nodded. A killing thought struck her. She clutched the hand resting on her shoulder. “Arshan . . . this means . . .”
“. . . Someone wanted to kill you, but killed her instead, thinking she was you,” he completed for her. “That’s why I came racing down. Made it in three hours, from Bombay. The news received there was that `Sharmeen Turel’ had been found, murdered. By the time I reached here, Inspector Mahadik here had searched her room and discovered her real identity.”
His tone told her what his words did not. Part of his anger had been due to anxiety. But oh God, what a mess. And this girl, this poor, poor girl!
“Come,” said Arshan, clasping her hand. “I’ll take you to your room. Pack up. I’m taking you back to Bombay. We’ve made arrangements for the body to be taken to Bombay. I’ll depute some chaps to go to her folks once we find out where she lives. I’m sure the address given here is bogus, but she seems to be from Bombay, all right."
“If she’s been killed instead of me,” Sharmeen said huskily, looking straight into Arshan’s eyes, “there could only be one reason . . . that I’m right, and that hide-out is somewhere here.”
“Yes, I’d gathered that,” he said dryly. “Instructions have been given --- for a discreet but thorough search of every likely place in Maheshwar. If need be, even the unlikely ones --- then they’ll move to Patang. I’m taking no chances, now. This gang just has to be busted, and the ringleader caught. We’ll have a detailed talk later, in Bombay.”
She knew what that meant, of course. She was now in greater danger than ever. He’d probably insist on police protection for her. Oh well, she’d think about it later. Right now, she could not rid her mind of the thought that another young girl, a much younger girl, had been killed for her sake --- instead of her! It was bitter gall to swallow, for someone so sensitive as Sharmeen.
* * *
The Constable on duty brought Bhavik a cup of tea. He choked on the very first sip. He tried to compose himself. He could see they were waiting to ask him some questions. He must help them. Help them catch this bastard, who’d done this to his daughter.
He’d been told that she was found, strangled, in the gardens of some hotel in Maheshwar. So she’d lied about going to Patang. Not that it mattered now. Nothing mattered. Except to avenge her murder.
“I don’t understand . . . my daughter . . . why should anyone . . . was there any . . . was there . . . ?”
“Yes, Mr. Chaudhary, we are afraid so,” Inspector Menon cut in swiftly. Of course, we yet have to do the PM, but preliminary examination by the Medical Officer does show evidence of rape. Probably shortly before she was killed.”
“There’s perhaps one thing you could help us with, sir,” continued the Inspector. “Something that’s been bothering us a great deal.”
Bhavik looked at him in dumb inquiry.
“Did your daughter know a lady called Sharmeen Turel?”
Bhavik’s face had turned even more ashen. “W..why do you ask that, Inspector?” He asked, a tremor in his voice.
“Because for some reason, your daughter had assumed that name, when she registered herself at Hotel Windcliffe, in Maheshwar. She told the hotel clerk her name was Sharmeen Turel. And that was the name she was known by, at that hotel. . . . Mr. Chaudhary? Mr. Chaudhary? Are you all right, Mr. Chaudhary? Get a glass of water, quickly,” the Inspector ordered the Constable on duty, as Chaudhary seemed to visibly shrink, guttural, keening sounds emitting from his lips.
That conversation . . . that fatal telephone conversation, just a day before he was to leave for the Gulf . . . after Dipannita had left . . .
“Bahadur speaking Boss, from Gaumukh. We’ve found out who’s been snitching on us, Boss. It’s that haramkhor Malloo, whose arms we took off last month. Necessary steps will be taken, Boss. We’ll make an example of him.”
“Good,” he’d said. Well, he couldn’t have people snitching, in his business, could he? They’d have to set an example!
“More good news, Boss, we’ve also located that dame . . . that Sharmeen Turel, who’s been troubling us. She’s here right now, at Maheshwar, in Hotel Windcliffe. Go ahead, Boss?”
“Yes, dammit,” he’d snapped into the phone. “Finish her off. Khatam kar dalo, saali ko. But listen, her body must be found. If she disappears, there’ll be a search. We don’t want that. But finish her off as soon as possible.”
“Will do, Boss! She’s some babe, though! You’d have enjoyed her, Boss. Er, mind if . . .”
“Do what you like with her, the bitch,” he’d laughed crudely. “Have your fun, but finish her off. I’m off to Muscat, tomorrow. I want a full report when I return.”
The full report. He’d got it all right.
He stood frozen, gazing blankly at the sympathetic Inspector, as flames flickered all around him, leaping higher and higher, engulfing him till he was burning in Hell.
XXXX____________________XXXX
Of crimes Crimes CRIMES
Of crimes and Crimes and CRIMES …These are tough times for a writer of crime fiction --- true-life threateningly impinges on the fictional, and imagination reels under the onslaught of newspaper reports. It would appear we are surrounded by crime --- and crime graded on scales of Czerniesque variations --- crimes of social nuisance and traffic offences to Crimes of kidnap and theft and murder to CRIMES, the organized crimes of terror and mayhem, crimes against the State, crimes planned and directed by the nether-world. The boundaries in between are getting increasingly blurred. There’s an upward mobility from crime to Crime to CRIME! The Police by and large remain the Police --- only sometimes, the Politicians take over. But that’s not upward mobility, that could be an overlap of jurisdiction, leading sometimes to ultimate usurpation. Can we then, any longer, afford the apathy of the uninvolved? Can any of us survive in an Ivory Tower of Olympian uninvolvement, without being ultimately engulfed? Not only do we suffer regular assault on our senses and sensibilities, but we perforce have to walk the tightrope between different kinds of Terrorism unleashed by divergent entities. To counter the terrorism of the underworld, the State unleashes Terrorism of its own, almost welcomed by the average citizen suffering a surfeit of crimes of all descriptions, till one gets caught in the pincer movement. Draconian laws enacted to contain one evil can become instruments of coercion in unscrupulous hands. To the general unease of a populace rendered vulnerable there’s the added danger of unrest deliberately created by the agents provocateur, trained, infiltrated and controlled by that nebulous but pervasive Foreign Hand. This infiltration is perhaps more invasive than we are wont to credit. Identity of skin-colour, physical characteristics, language, culture, food habits, etc., between these hostile agents and the general populace make detection virtually impossible, and the spread of inflammatory propaganda and incendiary action through innocent but gullible tools so much easier! A whisper becomes a rumour resulting in rowdiness culminating in riots.So stretched are the limits of credulity that nothing appears incredulous any more. And therein lies the danger that the Innocent may pay for Crimes or CRIMES they have not committed, that the victims may be portrayed as the perpetrators, the unwary associates as the active accomplices. Courts take too long, cases drag on for years, so whatever is fed to and by a multi-pronged media assumes the veneer of authenticity, even for the discerning viewer. The role of the information-givers gets confused with the role of the investigators. A query becomes a fact, a thought becomes a quote. By the time one’s Innocence is proclaimed, after prolonged proceedings, public imagination is seized with other sensations of that moment; what price, then, the liberty and reputation of the Innocent? Does that really matter, unless it happens to Us? That it can, does not occur to us until it does!Just as the commission of crime tends to have a spiralling effect, so could containment of crime have a diminishing effect. We have today a scenario where nearly every Citizen indulges in some crime or the other --- be it traffic offenses, municipal offenses, social crimes --- and then resorts to corrupting officials to overlook that offense; leading from corruption to Corruption to CORRUPTION! If crime and corruption could be contained by Citizens themselves, there would be that much less burden on our overburdened Police and Courts. Let us not think that if we can `get away’ with it, we should! In the long run, we all suffer the consequences of what some of us may have contributed to.Bombay has always preened itself on being the Melting Pot --- of diverse people, cultures, talents . . . the melting pot has unfortunately become a simmering cauldron, with faggots of fire being continually thrown from all directions. It’s time to bank down those fires before they conflagrate. For this, the People need to pull together as much as the Police and the Politicians and refrain from committing or tolerating crimes, as much as Crimes or CRIMES. Sigh! I know! We’ve all said it, ad infinitum. Now how about really, truly, getting down to it? We all CAN, you know!
Khatling Glacier Trek
ALMOST UP TO HEAVEN . . .ALONG A GLORIOUS TRAIL. Ice-crusted peaks soaring heavenward, cleaving the azure expanse overhead . . . steep, craggy slopes dense with oak, deodar, birch and pine . . . lush meadows randomly dotted with a myriad species of exquisite streams gushing forth from glaciers, cutting deep gorges through stratified rock and icy moraines along their tempestuous course . . . words can convey just so much, give but the merest inkling of the aloof grandeur, the awesome beauty of that northern stretch of India : the Garhwal Himalayas. It is a region of remote, uncompromising beauty --- and yet accessible to those game enough to take up the challenge. To trek in the Himalayas, you merely need to be stout of heart and will --- not necessarily particularly strong of limb. I’m not ! And yet, with three of my friends, (all of us city slickers), we made it almost up to Heaven, along a gloriously dicey path --- with a few heart-stopping moments but without any mishap --- to Khatling Glacier . . . The name itself sounds somewhat intiimidating : like the rattling of a sabre . . . K H A T L I N G ! A pristine lateral glacier in the midst of dense forests, at a height of around 12,200 feet in the Garhwal Himalayas, slightly West of Gaumukh (considered to be the source of the holy River Ganga). It was rather early in the season when we decided to do the trek (generally not too difficult for regular high altitude trekkers) --- just the beginning of May . We knew we would face heavy snow in the higher reaches, and rains and hail along the way. What we did not know was, that last August there had been some glacier bursts in that region, resulting in heavy floods and major landslides; the path was all but washed away, rendering the mountainside treacherous. Blithely unaware of what was in store for us, we rushed in where Angels may perhaps have feared to tread . . . but we did return, limbs intact ! Khatling Glacier is the source of the Bhilangana River, which empties into the holy Bhagirathi. Bhagirathi confluences with the vivacious Alaknanda at Deoprayag, to form the legendary Ganga. Yes, the Indian Rivers have very definite adjectives applicable to them ! Eternal Eves, they have their consorts, the mountains, well and truly in their coils --- literally and figuratively ! Legend has it the Bhilangana is the transmigrated soul of a heavenly nymph, who tried to seduce the austere Lord Shiva, and failed. Unable to bear the humiliation of being spurned, she transformed herself into the River ! In the Garhwals, every River is a Goddess, and a God sits atop every snow-clad peak. You do not need to suspend disbelief to believe this, if you’re actually there. The very air exudes divine wonderment . . . and gets into the skin of even a cynical agnostic. Legend and myth are woven into the very fibre of Uttarakhand where untamed, untamable Nature holds Man in thrall and rational doubt gives way to fatalistic belief in the incredible, almost as a matter of course. Despite the dangers we faced, this was one trek I would not have liked to have missed. The Himalayas do that to you : hardships get trivialized beneath notice when you experience first-hand the breathtaking grandeur of the snow-dappled mountains, the fragrant aroma of the forests, the invigorating sight of Rhododendrons in full bloom and the soothing caress of wet leaves and trailing moss as you inch your way under the dense canopy of oak and deodar and pine. Somehow, from somewhere, you get the strength. Even if you collapse on reaching civilization ! We met at New Delhi. Rajan, Shishir and Kunal landed up at the New Delhi Railway Station to meet me at the platform. There was no bus to Rishikesh for at least another hour; we decided to take a taxi. From Bombay to Rishikesh is quite a leap --- in space, time, and ambience. The town resounds with spirituality : an agnostic could not escape the vibrations if he tried ! The River Ganga is the mainstay of the residents, and the focal point of attraction for the transient tourists and pilgrims. The Ganga is indeed the life-blood of Rishikesh. It is Rishikesh ! We stayed a day in Rishikesh, mainly to hire tents and equipment from the Garhwal Mangal Vikas Nigam (GMVN). We had hoped to get in a day’s river-rafting, but it was the tail-end of the season and instructors were not available. The GMVN does not permit rafting after May 1st. From Rishikesh, we took a cab to Ghuttu. Ghuttu is the last motor-head, before we start trekking. I fell ill at Rishikesh itself, and was trudging along with fever, a throat worse than sandpaper, and six antibiotics a day. (I normally never touch the stuff!) Not the ideal conditions for a trek, even to heavenly destination. But I still wouldn’t have liked to miss this one. Ghuttu, a delightful town on the banks of the Bhilangana River, was the last halt where we could get anything we needed for the trek ahead : food, medicines, provisions, etc. Normally, of course, everything likely to be needed during a trek is packed from home itself, before you take off. But one tends to forget, or run out of things. As one goes ahead, on the way to Khatling, there is nothing but wilderness . . . and breathtaking scenery. Food enough for the soul, no doubt --- but you do need to stock up food for the body, especially when you’re trekking 20-30 km. in about half a day, at altitudes above 10,000 feet. (In the mountains, it’s by and large advisable to reach your next camping spot by the afternoon). At Ghuttu, Reeh and Gangi, you can stay in the guest-houses run by the GMVN, as we did. The guest house at Ghuttu is well equipped, the canteen is rather good, and the view superb! (Most of the guest-houses of the GMVN are ideally located.) All the guest houses have an impressive number of tube-lights, bulbs, switches, etc. The only problem is the actual electricity, which is as unreliable as the weather in the hills! Most of the time, we had to make do with a hurricane lamp and our torches. Make sure you carry at least two powerful torches per person, and plenty of extra cells. In the Himalayas, the darkness envelopes you like an all-pervading blanket in which torch-beams get reduced to pathetic flickers. At Ghuttu, we hired four porters-cum-guides for the trek. We were carrying, apart from our personal baggage, tents, carry-mats, sleeping bags, a small stove, pressure cooker, a couple of vessels to cook in, food, provisions, medicines, kerosene, the works. And of course, provisions for the porters, including rice, daal, masala, etc. From Ghuttu to Reeh, (around 10-11 km.), the trek is along a fairly easy path, with few ups and downs. This trail too was washed away by the floods last August, but mercifully was rebuilt by the forest department and the villagers. The Reeh-Gangi stretch, also 10 km., is rather steep. Along the trails from Ghuttu to Gangi we met quite a few local inhabitants: rosy-cheeked children came running to us, with a cheerful Namaste, and the inevitable request for `mithai : sweets! The elderly stopped us with demands for medicines --- `goli, as they put it, for fever, headaches, and sore-throats : the usual ailments plaguing the mountain-dwellers. The women (almost all wearing the most elaborate and gorgeous gold nose-rings I had ever seen), eyed me curiously, asking the most personal questions without inhibition --- was I married, why wasn’t my husband with me, how many children did I have ? etc. etc. etc. . . Upto Gangi, there was a definite path, and though the trek was rather steep and tiring in parts, it was not life-threatening. The local inhabitants had terraced considerable chunks of the mountainside for cultivation, and golden patches of wheat swaying in the nascent sunshine were a common sight, before they fell prey to the cutting edge of the scythe. From time to time we would come across mounts of freshly-dug earth --- those turned out to be potato farms. Potato is the one vegetable freely available in those regions, apart from lingdi, which the locals call `99’, because the veggie is shaped like a `9’! The locals busy themselves with cultivation, and grazing herds of goats, sheep, cows and buffaloes on the gentler slopes. During the trekking season, some make money acting as porters and guides. Having shaken off the heat and dust of the plains, we revelled in temperatures ranging from 5 degrees Celsius to 15 degrees. We crossed numerous small streams along the way, some having rickety bridges, some having no bridges, merely stones and boulders over which we hopped across. It rained heavily every afternoon till the night, and at Gangi it actually hailed quite heavily. The evening we reached Gangi, the weather became so bad that we had grave apprehensions, whether or not we’d be able to go ahead. Because beyond Gangi all was wilderness --- we were warned by the porters and guides that they themselves were not too sure of the way. Ours was virtually the first team, that season, to proceed towards Khatling. It was rather early in the year, and the path had all but disappeared. Traversing the mountains had now indeed become a Himalayan task (pun intended)! The horsemen had to abandon their horses and carry all luggage on their backs. From now on, there were no guest-houses, no cultivated patches, no villages, no herds of goats, cows or buffaloes. Just the forested mountains, the river and streams. And us. We reduced our luggage almost by half, leaving behind the rest of the stuff in the guest-house at Gangi. Fortunately, the day we left Gangi was quite sunny and bright. We started off at a brisk pace, determined to brave the way ahead . . . . . . What lay ahead was a squelchy mass of treacherous, pathless mountainside! Large chunks of mountains had been washed away by the landslides and glacier bursts. In parts, entire mountains had been cloven almost into half, completely stripped of all vegetation from the peak to the foot. Huge trees lay uprooted and we had to clamber ahead over the felled trunks of the once majestic oaks and gracious deodars which now lay dying, supporting colonies of mushrooms and a profusion of ferns. The mountainside had become dangerous, in parts almost life-threatening. It became difficult to get any safe foot-hold. The earth was wet and lumpy, causing our feet to slip; there were loose boulders and rocks all round, giving way at the slightest touch, likely to go hurtling down if we stepped on them; we could not hold on to the trees for support as their roots had been weakened by the landslide --- they were likely to come off in our hands, as we teetered at the edge of a praecipice above a 1000-foot fall into the Bhilangana ! At times, we found it easier to sit and slither across, or roll across, almost lying on the ground. The porters were tremendous help on such stretches. One of them had attached himself quite firmly to me and would not let me out of his sight. From time to time he would murmur encouragingly : “Don’t worry Didi, I won’t let you fall. I’ll take you on my shoulders, if need be!” I did not have the heart to tell him I’d be even more terrified of being carried on his shoulder, in those stretches! At that altitude, it is necessary to stay close to the ground, to ensure gravitational balance. However, the guide’s helping hand was tremendously reassuring. But what really saved us was the humble forest bamboo! Bamboo has roots that go deep into the earth and the shoots are extremely flexible, yet strong. (The green ones that is; the dry ones would snap.) Whenever we saw a clump of bamboos, we would sigh with relief, “Jaan bach gayee!” Clinging on to the bamboo for dear life, the porters and the four of us made it across from Gangi to Kharsoli. Nonetheless, the trek was extremely rewarding and the sights, sounds and smells that assaulted our senses will stay encapsulated in our memories for a long time to come. The views were stupendous : looming all around were the snow-clad peaks glittering in the sun; the Khatling itself, a huge expanse of virgin ice, glowing with a cold fire, as alluring as any Lorelei, beckoning us farther; the forest, daily laundered, exuding a heady aroma a perfumer may well covet; the canopy of trees soothing the eye and invigorating the spirit; the frothy Bhilangana bubbling away alongside, feeding numerous small streams and waterfalls which added enchantment to the trek . . . and all along the trail bloomed the spectacularly gorgeous Rhododendron. Blooming on shrubs that grow higher than eye level, the Rhododendron provided for us a phatasmagoria of colours: deep reds, scrumptuous pinks, tender mauves, pristine whites --- heavy, dew-drenched blooms balanced delicately on slender stems swaying gently in the breeze. The oak and birch and deodar hosted huge quantities of moss and epiphytic ferns that tickled our faces as we walked underneath. Occasionally we would come across a patch of the graceful silver birch --- the bhojpatra, whose bark can be peeled into strips, which the Ancients used to write text on, and store grain in. And the birds . . . the birds! Tits, Himalayan wood pigeons, bee-eaters, Himalayan magpies, Himalayan Eagles and numerous other species were seen and heard all along the trail, the birdsong now a glorious symphony, then a muted harmony, yet again a sharp counterpoint. Near Kalyani, on the way to Kharsoli, Rajan’s attention was attracted by a rock which seemed to move ! A strange, brown-coloured rock. Under our astonished gaze, the rock metamorphosed into a huge grizzly bear; it ambled around for a while, then caught hold of a tree trunk in the distance. We waited, breath bated, to see if it would climb the tree, when the porters started a ruckus, and the grizzly fled. We also sighted some foxes, a lone mongoose, and lots of langurs. Fortunately, all from a comfortable distance. Kharsoli, around 16 km. ahead of Gangi, is a good tenting spot to pitch camp. From a distance, the ground seemed level, and running water, the pre-requisite of any camping site, was available close by. Closer inspection, however, revealed that the ground was covered with stinging nettles and was not really that level. But there was no help for it ! We had to pitch tents there. The guys gallantly tried to choose the best site for my two-man tent, where I would stay alone, being the lone lady in the group. Even the `best’ site had a good-ish slope and every night I would find myself and the sleeping bag sliding down, down, down, and almost out of the tent ! The days we spent at Kharsoli and its environs were bliss indeed, despite the hassles . . . rising every morning to a spectacular view of the Khatling: the expanse of ice was at its most pristine white, powdered daily by fresh snow-fall. Glaciers have a crystalline quality that render them dazzling to the eye, especially in the nascent sunshine of early morn. The Khatling seemed a large drop of opal suspended in the distance, refracting the light into a myriad delicate hues. There was no other habitation around, and we were alone among the elements. The stars at night seemed a benediction and the bird-song at dawn, an enchanting call to rise ! From Kharsoli we trekked ahead farther. Crossing a couple of ice-fields, we made it up to Belbhagi, around 14 km. from the Khatling. We could not go beyond Belbhagi, as indeed we had been warned. There was heavy snow ahead, and the weather was worsening. We ultimately broke camp and returned to Ghuttu, perforce in half the time. The day we reached Ghuttu, the heavens opened up in a deluge. We had made it back just in time . . . after reaching almost up to Heaven . . . with a tantalizing bit of the way left for some other time . . . when the Rhododendron would bloom again.! and the Khatling not rattle quite so much.* * * *FACTSHEET The best season for trekking in the Garhwals, generally, is from end-May till end-September. From Ghuttu one can also go up to Panwali Kantha, (instead of to Khatling Glacier), and then onward to Kedarnath; another scenic route is from Reeh to Sahastratal. If one does not wish to walk too much, one can just go up to Gangi --- or can even stay put at Ghuttu, which is a charming Himalayan town, on the banks of the Bhilangana river. This area, unlike the Yatra line, is not crowded at all. The GMVN rest houses are clean, comfortable, have attached bathrooms, and very reasonable rates, from Rs.60/- per day to Rs. 200 per day, double occupancy ! The rest houses provide food. Tents, etc. can be hired from Rishikesh, or even Ghuttu. Guides and porters may be engaged from Ghuttu. The rates of the porters vary from around Rs.150/- to 200/- per day, plus food and tent accommodation. Tent hire-charges are quite reasonable, but you have to put in a refundable deposit of around Rs.2000/- per tent. From Ghuttu to Rishikesh there is a daily bus service, leaving at 7 am. There is a later bus, which terminates at Tehri. It is not easy to get taxis at Ghuttu, unless one is booked in advance, from Rishikesh or Tehri.
Idyll on an Isle - Tasmania
IDYLL ON AN ISLE …TASMANIAIt caused consternation, my decision to take off alone on a backpacking trip to Tasmania barely five days after I had landed in Melbourne. “But what’s to see in Tasmania?” protested one of my brother’s friends. “Nothing but jungles!”It was indeed the lure of the bush that drew me to the tiny island south of mainland Australia. Tasmania, however, has lots more to offer …Melbourne is the ideal departure point for Tasmania --- you can either fly down to Hobart or Launceston, or take the boat, aptly called `The Spirit of Tasmania’ which takes you to Devonport, across the 240 km. Bass Strait. That’s what I did --- far more romantic, even when you’re travelling alone!The Apple Isle, as it is also called, the only island state of Australia is stated to have been discovered in 1742 by Abel Tasman, the Dutch navigator. Once used as an outpost of an Empire to hold the convicts deported from `genteel’ lands, this tiny island is now one of Australia’s major tourist attractions, the gory history of the convict past being but an added attraction to hold visitors in thrall. I was told one week would be enough to explore the entire island --- I found that even the fortnight I’d scheduled for myself was insufficient. This tiny island offers a fascinating diversity of natural splendour, has several places of historical interest, (including ghostly ruins), charming towns with excellent facilities for tourists, heritage buildings and old-world cottages, warm, friendly people, and to top it all, is cheaper than mainland Australia! Like most cliches, this one is oh-so-true of the island of Tasmania: it has a bit to offer every taste. Whether you are a mountain person or a beach bum, a history and heritage buff, one of the kulture-klatura, or an indefatigable trekker preferring long stretches in the woods, whether you love wild life or have an eye for the birds, whether you have a yen for tribal lore or a passion for flora-fauna, Tasmania offers it all. The Tasman House Backpacker’s Hostel, in Devonport, was the only place where I’d pre-booked, from Bombay. The town of Devonport, cleft by the River Mersey, despite its laid-back ambience, is an important business and retail centre. There are several attractions surrounding Devonport, but I was keen to trek in the Cradle Mountain. David and Mike drove down a motley group of us from the hostel to the Cradle Mountain. This is the starting point of the world-famous `Overland Track’, the dream of most trekkers round the world: an 85 km trek from Cradle Mountain to Lake St. Clair, through rainforests, alpine highlands, ancient pines, and deciduous beech, ablaze with colour during autumn. Cradle Mountain was so named by one Joseph Fossey, in 1827, for reasons which become only too apparent at first sight. The area however boasts several wonders not so readily apparent, and the best way to enjoy this or any other of Tasmania’s National Parks would be to camp inside. Half a day is just not enough, though I was lucky enough to spot a couple of wallabies, one delicately perched on a fallen log, feeding off the leaves, by the side of a crystalline rippling stream cascading into a minor waterfall by the side of the beech-wooded mountainside … “Not enough time to go rambling too much, but we’ll make it round the Dove Lake all right,” David assured me. We did.Strahan, on the West Coast, has been listed as the world’s best `little’ town by the travel editor of the Chicago Tribune. It is also the gateway to the Franklin-Gordon National Park, part of the famed World Heritage site in Tasmania. I’d been devoured by the desire to visit Strahan much before I left Bombay. Strahan is indeed a lovely little town and the Youth Hostel correspondingly so, set in a rather wild garden with a stream boasting a real, live platypus in it! Strahan is the gateway to the Gordon River, which leads up to the Wild Rivers National park --- the Wild rivers being the Franklin and the Gordon, which hurtle down rainforested wilderness to empty into the vast Macquarie Harbour, on which the town of Strahan is situated. These untamed rivers, which flow through lush valleys, spectacular gorges or `narrows’, thundering over rapids, were very nearly tamed in the 1980’s, when a major controversy erupted over a decision to dam the rivers for hydroelectricity. They were saved by a major environmental campaign, which is said to have caused a change of government!As you cruise down the Gordon, as I did, on the Wanderer III, you thank the campaigners, that the Gordon remains untamed, enjoying the reflection of the Huon pines and the celery-top pines in the clear waters, stained the colour of tea, the tannin leached down into the water from the button-grass proliferating along the banks.As the Wanderer III proceeded its majestic course up the river Gordon, we passed several `farms’, breeding fish. (Tasmania, incidentally is a foodies’ paradise, especially if you enjoy sea-food!”)“We are now approaching the Hell’s Gates”, came the sudden announcement, abruptly jolting me out of pleasant thoughts of grilled crayfish washed down by sauvignon blanc.Hell’s Gates is a narrow stretch of water between two huge rocks, beyond which lies Sarah Island, from 1822 to 1833 the site of a brutal penal colony, dreaded by the transported convicts, who termed its approach the Gates to Hell.The name seems strangely incongruous in present times, the two dramatically rising rocks framing an island that seems serenely green in the sun, from afar. However, as you go around the island in the wake of a guide realistically conjuring horrific visions of the convict past, foreboding seeps into the atmosphere rendered sinister by the imagined sound of the whiplash singing through the air to fall on bare flesh, wrenching heartrending cries from the convicts, the ruins of the original buildings a concrete reminder of that dark period of Tasmania’s history. A pleasanter halt was the Heritage Landing, where we rambled through an ancient rainforest, the highlight of the walk being a gigantic 2000 year-old Huon Pine, which, having survived man and nature alike, is now protected in this World heritage Area.Strahan is a delightful to walk around, especially along the Esplanade on the water front … and if you walk long enough, you can make it to the Hogarth Falls. The actual waterfall is situated at the far end of a rainforest full of huge man-ferns, almost my height, (5’7”) and swamp gums towering overhead. From Strahan it was to Hobart, the capital of the State, of which Charles Darwin had opined, way back in 1836: “If I was obliged to emigrate I certainly should prefer this place … “Hobart is indeed one of the world’s loveliest cities, with a historic waterfront, elegant colonial architecture, stylish Georgian sandstone warehouses, (now housing boutiques, cafes, jewellery stores, art galleries!), and several patches of green.It was in Hobart that I had a proper introduction to the unique flora and fauna of Tasmania, at the Botanical Gardens, and at the Bonorong Wildlife park, where I could cuddle a koala, a creature after my heart --- in a day, it sleeps for twenty hours, feeds for three and a half, and moves about for --- at the most --- half an hour! Angry yapping sounds attracted me to the adjoining enclosure, holding the Tasmanian Devils. The Devil, found only in Tasmania, more than lives up to its name. It was feeding time, and the creatures were fighting over a leg of lamb. The Devil is a small creature, black with a whitish patch on the back or the rump, and, to my prejudiced perception, red eyes! Weighing barely 4.5 kg, it has a jaw strength of three tonnes, and is a voracious eater. Known as the vacuum cleaner of the bush, one Tassie Devil can polish off a whole cow in one week, bones and horns and all! It is a marsupial, rearing its young in its pouch; (the mother is known to eat her young); a nocturnal creature with bad eyesight and a keen sense of smell. To top it all, it is basically a coward. The high point of Hobart, literally, is Mt. Wellington, and a drive to the top is de rigueur indeed. The view, however, depends upon the weather. When I went up, it was windy, squally, chilly. And no view!Otherwise, the high point is the Salamanca Market, on Saturdays --- so try to be in Hobart then! In the space of a Saturday afternoon, I picked up a gorgeous hand-knitted blouse, found myself talking to a well-known historian, buying several souvenirs for friends back home, and eating Tayberry Ice-cream; (what’s a tayberry? It’s somewhat like a loganberry, was the helpful answer. what’s a loganberry? ummnn… a sweet and sour berry.) It was yum all right!There were still several places I wanted to visit, and time was running out. I discovered a couple of companies running one-day tours. One of these was aptly named `Bottom Bits’. I took the Bottom Bits tour (4 – 5 persons, in a jeep) to Mt. Field National Park, and to Freycinet, which boasts the spectacular Wine Glass Bay.The main attraction of Mt. Filed are the Russell Falls, water cascading at several levels, more dramatic than any designer set could be! What struck me about the trek from the entrance of the Park to the Falls was that not only was the path well maintained, but it allowed for access to handicapped persons as well! Our tourism departments in India could take several lessons from the Tasmanians.Freycinet is a park of staggering contrasts --- rich forests full of wild flowers including a variety of gorgeous orchids, towering, jagged peaks of bare rock, mainly pink and gray granite, towering straight out of waters of the clearest aquamarine.The Wineglass Bay is listed as one of the ten best beaches in the world by the Travel Magazine, `Outside’. It does live up to its name --- it’s almost a perfect wine glass! But the best vantage point is from the top of Mt. Amos, around 4000 feet of solid, yet slippery rock. I was determined to climb up. “You must be crazy!” protested Rob, the driver/guide/owner of Bottom Bits.I told him not to worry about me. But he wouldn’t let me go alone. Ultimately, Rob, a British girl, Kate, and myself decided to venture up. We made it. And the view from the top was worth each grazed shin.A visit to Tasmania would not have been complete without taking in the Port Arthur Historical Site, on the Tasman Peninsula. On the way to the Site, past what is called the Blow Hole (yes, it is, water blowing though a hole in a huge rock!), is a town called `Doo’. There is an unwritten rule, by and for all who live there, that each cottage must have the word `Doo’ in its name --- you can imagine the names: “She’ll Doo,” “Have-to-doo”, “Just Doo It”, “Love Me Doo”, “Make Doo” … think up some more?Initially colonized as a timber station, Port Arthur almost immediately became the gaol for an Empire. Between 1830 and 1877, about 12,500 transported convicts were imprisoned at Port Arthur on the Tasman Peninsula, which was considered to be the ideal site for his new gaol by Lt.-governor George Arthur, being almost entirely surrounded by water, the only available escape being the narrow isthmus of Eaglehawk Neck, which was guarded by as many as 18 vicious dogs chained across the neck of the isthmus, double guard of sentries and armed constables. It is perhaps a triumph of the human spirit and ingenuity that despite this formidable guard, three bushrangers managed to escape in the 1840’s.The sandstone prison buildings, as also parts of the Church, are well preserved, and there are night-time lantern-lit guided tours, which tell chilling tales of ghostly apparitions and the clanking of chains in the chill of the night, evoking memories of the bloody punishments meted out to transportees, some barely in their twenties, some for offences no worse than stealing loaves of bread or a bundle of clothes!One of the girls I had met at a youth hostel had raved to me about Bruny Island. Luckily, I found it was possible to do a short trip. A car-cum-passenger ferry from Kettering, on the outskirts of Hobart, took me to Bruny Island. And the manager of the YHA there, Simon, had come to fetch me in his car, right from the doorstep of my hostel in Hobart!Simon was a kindred soul! A nature lover, and a keen conservationist.A narrow isthmus separates north Bruny from south Bruny, and a ride across the isthmus is a treat for the senses: almost like driving through water. With a slight leap of imagination, it was driving through water!Bruny Island had several other delightful surprises in store: it was in Bruny that I saw my first echidna in the wild, spotted the first white wallaby at night; it was in Bruny that I stayed overnight in a caravan for the first time in my life. The YHA, where I stayed the first night, was in an idyllic location, bang on the beach at Adventure Bay. I went for a long walk at night, alone on the beach, in the light of the moon, startled out of my skin to find something cold and wet rubbing against my knee --- it was Billy, the dog from the YHA --- He’d constituted himself my protector, and refused to go back to the hostel till I did!Bruny was a fine way to end the idyll on the Apple Isle, back to the beckoning lights of Melbourne. It was a rare idyll, however, that would very well bear a revisit.****
Humble Pie
HUNTINGThe Humble Pie.In the beginning there was nothing.And then there was the Word.And then God said, Let there be Light. And so there was Light.And then came the heat. So human beings, who proliferated on the Earth, could stave off the cold. And fashion implements. And cook. Above all, cook. Boil and roast and bake. One of the easiest dishes humans learnt to bake, since the beginning of Time, was the Pie. A crust, with a filling. And the filling could be so versatile, so divergent! Anything and everything could go into the Pie, to suit any and every taste; the seasoning too could vary, to please the palate. Some of the Pies were baked with the choicest of victuals. Sometimes anything and everything went into the making of the Pie: a hotchpotch of mismatched leftovers. Such Pies did not even last long enough to be savoured and ingested. They crumbled within a short time, and the mess had to be cleared up by other Pie-makers. As Pie-making became more complicated and competitive, Pie-makers congregated into groups to make Pies jointly, so the Pies became bigger, more crusty, more weighty. Each group looked the other askance, warily at first, then with increasing hostility. Of course, there were some Pie makers who could not rest content in their own group. They wanted their fingers in other Pies as well! Sometimes their fingers got bitten off when stuck into other Pies. If fingers were stuck into other very large pies, there was tragedy. Because such fingers got sliced off, not merely bitten. Carving knives are required to carve up large Pies, a bite isn’t nearly enough. But those sticking fingers do not have the sense to realize that!Then some groups came together, and loose confederations of Pie-makers came into being. As confederations grew larger, recipes became more rigid, weights and measures more precise. The individuality of Pie-making was getting lost in the mechanization of the entire process. Some groups baked Pies they themselves could not digest!One disgruntled Pie-maker decided to give up Pie-making for a while and go round the world, tasting different Pies, till he found a taste that was to his taste, which group he could join. The night before he started on his travels round the world, the Archangel came to him in his dream to bless him for his forthcoming sojourn. Before parting, the Archangel whispered in Konphuzaid’s ear, (for that’s the name of our disenchanted friend), “Be sure to try a bite of the Humble Pie. You will know it the minute you taste it.”This was a new one on Konphuzaid. But he was determined to obey the Archangel to the letter, and grab a huge bite of the Humble Pie, and determined to seek it out, wherever it may be lurking in the world. Konphuzaid trudged round the world, throwing himself into an orgy of Pie-eating. He grabbed huge bites of each Pie, in his anxiety not to miss anything, and to eat his fill of each taste. That of course led to the inevitable result. Sometimes he was forced to eat a mishmash of Pies of differing groups in the same day, leading to terrible rumblings in his insides. The fillings don’t agree, he would mutter to himself, they don’t agree at all. To make matters worse, the conglomerates of Pie-makers readjusted from day to day, and the fillings changed accordingly. Konphuzaid was mixed-up in the mind and sore in the stomach. But still he soldiered on. No one knew of the Humble Pie. No one had heard of it. No sudden revelation came to him, as he gulped Pie after Pie after Pie. Ultimately, tired and dispirited, Konphuzaid returned to the point of his beginning and lay down his weary self, praying for another audience with the Archangel. He was determined to get to the bottom of this Humble Pie business.The Archangel reappeared in his dream. Konphuzaid could not forbear a glance of reproach. “I searched high and low for your Humble Pie,” he grumbled. “But could find it no place. You’d better tell me now, before you send me again on a wild Pie chase, where to find this esoteric Pie!”“My dear friend,” smirked the Archangel. “You have taken many bites out of it, without even realizing it was the Humble Pie that you were eating. Each group makes it, each group has to eat it, sometime or another. The secret lies not in the Pie, but in one’s tongue. The wise know well when they are eating the Humble Pie, and hence always bite off only what they can chew, and chew only what they can digest. As for the fools --- they grab huge bites of everything they can lay their hands on, whether they can digest it or not! That’s when the stomach begins to grumble, when there is upheaval in the intestines, and we all know what’s let loose then, don’t we?”****
Murud-Janjira
BEACHFULL OF PARADOXES:
MURUD JANJIRA
Armin ...
It’s strange, what a pile of ruins in the middle of the ocean can do to fire the imagination!
It’s a brooding, sinister presence. Still. Awesome. Remote. Viewed in the gathering dusk from the Murud beach, bathed in the diffused rays of the sinking sun poised directly above, it appears the perfect perch for a Lorelei, luring sailors to their doom . . .
As I was to discover, the Kasa Fort --- indeed, the whole of Murud-Janjira --- is much too steeped in history to require the illusory aura of imagination.
Maharashtra too is green! But not many of us know that.
Driving down from Bombay along the Konkan coast, you will discover small hamlets and tiny towns, clean, green, and quaint, set amidst sleeping fields and swaying palms dotting the jagged coastline. Past Karnala sanctuary, past Pen and Alibaug and Korlai and Revdanda and Nandgaon, and Kashid, (yes, you can do a bit of beach-hopping, here!) onward to Murud . . .
The location is a rare one: between one massive island Fort and a Palace on a hillock, across the sea from yet another Fort, lies this stretch of sandy beach lapped gently by the Arabian Sea. This is not a beach full of sound and fury. It’s a quiet, contemplative beach, the tide running up before you even realize it’s got there. Here, breakers do not crash onto the shore; rather, waves roll up with languorous, easy motion. It’s a peaceful beach, still and serene, crying out for a Mathew Arnold; and yet the atmosphere seems suffused with the latent potential for drama … the looming presence of the fortifications across the waters in the visible distance suggests the violence of centuries past, not quite Nun-like quietude and calm!
We drove down from Bombay, on New Year’s Day, past fields and scrub and haystacks, with occasional glimpses of the sea sparkling along the coast road fringed with cashew and coconut and betelnut, listening to Jethro Tull rhapsodize about the poet and the painter casting shadows on the water … Bliss is made of This!
As we neared Murud there suddenly arose, on a slight incline, a turreted, castle-like edifice. Could that be the resort? we wondered rather uneasily. An architect with imagination run amok, I murmured to Shiraz apprehensively. His objection was that the place didn’t seem bang on the beach. Luckily, that wasn’t `the place’; it turned out to be the Nawab’s Palace. Sighs of relief. I mean, a Palace is all very well, in its place --- but you don’t want a beach resort built like one!
Our expectations were not dashed down by the reality. The resort did have direct access to the beach, through a wicket gate, past a fringe of casurina trees. It also had a tiny artificial pond of water in which floated, somewhat cramped but perky, three geese and a couple of mandarin ducks. From time to time Abdullah, the diminutive waiter, would chivvy the geese to `make noise’ --- “Awaaz kar, awaaz kar,” he’d urge the trio whenever they fell silent.
The beach is clean and uncrowded. And utterly safe, ideal for swimming and wading. There’s a fine strip of sandy beach just outside the resort, but it gets rocky as one goes towards the northern end, where the Nawab’s imposing Palace stands on a small hillock, with the cliff falling sharply into the sea. At the southern end is a village of the koli fisherfolk, who provide for this sleepy town one of the most delicious reasons for visiting it: the daily fresh catch from the sea.
The seafood in Murud is not only delicious, it’s amazingly light on the pocket! The resort did have a canteen and the food was quite good; but we got a tip-off to a gem: the Hotel Kinara, a short walk along the sea-front, locally known as the `Murud Chowpatty’, with stalls of nariel-pani and `Bombay Bhel . The crab curry at Hotel Kinara is to die for, the fried tiger prawns sinful, the pomfret, the surmai and the rawas, freshly-caught, delicately fried so as to almost appear grilled, or steamed in typical Konkani masala.
As we were waiting for our food, we noticed a distinctly well nourished cow amble up to the door of the hotel restaurant. The proprietor hurried into the kitchen and came out with what looked like a couple of white dosas and fed them reverently to the cow.
“This is a daily ritual”, he explained sheepishly. “This cow only eats bhakhri, nothing else.”
The bhakhri was chapatti made from rice flour. The cow had good taste. It was delicious!
The people are easy-going and laid-back; the main occupations, fishing and farming; Murud is among the largest producers of betel-nut in the country. It figured --- the slogans shrieked from every makeshift stall: “No tension, only Fashion”; the mystification deconstructed when we realized that “Fashion” was the brand-name of the locally-available ghutka!
Janjira Fort is a must-see, of course. Among the most important maritime forts in India, it is held to have been unconquered in all the centuries of its existence --- one report does suggest ultimate conquest by Shivaji, but that is highly doubtful --- even the Marathas could not win this impregnable stronghold of the Siddis, (originally Abyssinian traders/sailors, some of whom later joined the army of the Bahmani Kingdom) who ruled the State of Janjira (corruption of the Arabic Jazeera, meaning `island’), of which Murud was the capital.
A sail-boat ferried us to the fort. Our guide-cum-boatman was named Afzal Khan!
The provenance of the fort is shrouded in the confused renderings of history: Some say the fort was built by Siddi Johar; construction work started in 1118, and took 22 years to complete; work could go on only during low tide, as the fort was constructed on a massive rock island 2 km or so into the Rajpuri creek, 5 km. from Murud `City Centre’.
Another account states the fort was built initially by the Kolis under the headmanship of one Rambhau Patil, with permission from the Siddi’s Thanedar, in the early 1100’s. It was originally a wooden structure. As Rambhau began to assert his independence, the Siddis sent a commander, Piramkhan, disguised as a trade merchant, who turned out to be for the unsuspecting Kolis the Abyssinian Trojan Horse: he took 300 boxes, supposedly of imported wares, with him into the fort, each harbouring a soldier inside, and thus wrested control of the Fort from the Kolis. Piramkhan’s successor pulled down the wooden structure and constructed the massive, impregnable stone fort.
Yet another version reports that the fort was built by the Siddis themselves, possibly Mallik Ambar, a Regent in the Court of the Bahmani Kings, sometime between 1567 to 1571. Some reports even place the construction of the Fort in the 13th century!
It’s like what Rona Greer said: after you hear two eyewitness accounts of the same accident, you begin to wonder about history!
Inside the Fort, paradoxes continue to abound, co-existing harmoniously: like the dargah of a Muslim Pir; the carving of a Hindu Goddess; a Ganpati temple, together with four mosques; two deep, fresh-water ponds, in the middle of the salty sea; and a population mix of Hindu Kolis and Muslim Habshees. (It is said the last group of villagers left the Island Fort as recently as 1972, when the Ganpati Temple was relocated in the village.)
This population mix of Muslims and Hindus endures even today, and the paradoxes extend to the town of Murud itself: the same hillock holds a Hindu Temple as also an Idd-Gah, where the Muslim populace offer Namaaz twice a year, on the days of Idd; it’s a sleepy, peaceful town; and yet, on the quiet beach of Dighi, a ferry-ride across the Rajpuri creek, was landed the RDX used in the 1993 Bombay bomb blasts!
The Janjira Fort is indeed a marvel of architectural design, and engineering skill. The walls still stand secure and unbroken, withstanding admirably the constant lash of the sea. Afzal Khan explained that the joints in the stone were cemented together by a mixture of jaggery, flour and lead! The Palace of the Siddis was originally seven stories high, decorated with mirrors and coloured glass; the fort has several levels, with chor gates to enable a hasty, unobserved retreat. From the 165 (or 265?) cannons in its heyday, some still stand, bearing individual names: Kalal Bangadi, Chavari, Landa Kasam, Gaimukhi … The Siddis were apparently a formidable force: neither the Portuguese, nor the British, nor the Marathas were able to win Janjira Fort. Interestingly, the Siddis made two attempts to invade Bombay, but were driven back; the second invasion, around 1692, was reportedly repulsed by a Parsee General, Rustom Dorabji Nanabhoy, with the help of an army of Kolis.
Shivaji (or his son Sambhaji ? ) built a Fort NorthWest of Janjira, also in sea, to get at Janjira, named Padmadurga (later nicknamed Kasa, meaning `tortoise’, by the locals) sometime in the 17th century. Legend has it that an underwater tunnel was attempted between the Kasa Fort and Janjira Fort; some say the attempt failed, some swear the tunnel exists even today! The ruins of the Kasa Fort provide a picturesque backdrop for the setting sun, viewed from the beach just outside the resort.
An interesting carving at the entrance of the Janjira Fort, reportedly used as an insignia on coins during the Siddi reign, says it all; the carving is of six elephants in the grip of one tiger; The tiger has each of its four paws on the backs of four elephants. the tail of another elephant grasped in its own tail, and the tail of the sixth elephant caught in its mouth. Etched in stone, the might of the Janjira Siddis! But as the poet said, even this shall pass away … it did! The Siddis no longer rule Janjira, the fort is in the indifferent hands of the Archeological Society of India, and the tiger is becoming extinct!
The enduring images of Murud however remain: sunset over Kasa fort; a gull in flight; sandpipers fleeting along the ocean’s edge; the Islamic Khokar Domes looming on the road to the Buddhist caves of Kuda-Leni; the sea aflame with a myriad sparkles; cattle lying recumbent in the shade of the haystacks; green fields alongside aquatic prawn farms; the Idd-Gah on the hilltop, the Temple nestled nearby …
And the final 21st century paradox to top ‘em all: Sumos and Hondas turning in at the gates of the resort, even as just outside on the beach, a skeletal yet wiry Koli woman heads home into the dusk, a huge pile of firewood balanced on her head.
****
MURUD JANJIRA
Armin ...
It’s strange, what a pile of ruins in the middle of the ocean can do to fire the imagination!
It’s a brooding, sinister presence. Still. Awesome. Remote. Viewed in the gathering dusk from the Murud beach, bathed in the diffused rays of the sinking sun poised directly above, it appears the perfect perch for a Lorelei, luring sailors to their doom . . .
As I was to discover, the Kasa Fort --- indeed, the whole of Murud-Janjira --- is much too steeped in history to require the illusory aura of imagination.
Maharashtra too is green! But not many of us know that.
Driving down from Bombay along the Konkan coast, you will discover small hamlets and tiny towns, clean, green, and quaint, set amidst sleeping fields and swaying palms dotting the jagged coastline. Past Karnala sanctuary, past Pen and Alibaug and Korlai and Revdanda and Nandgaon, and Kashid, (yes, you can do a bit of beach-hopping, here!) onward to Murud . . .
The location is a rare one: between one massive island Fort and a Palace on a hillock, across the sea from yet another Fort, lies this stretch of sandy beach lapped gently by the Arabian Sea. This is not a beach full of sound and fury. It’s a quiet, contemplative beach, the tide running up before you even realize it’s got there. Here, breakers do not crash onto the shore; rather, waves roll up with languorous, easy motion. It’s a peaceful beach, still and serene, crying out for a Mathew Arnold; and yet the atmosphere seems suffused with the latent potential for drama … the looming presence of the fortifications across the waters in the visible distance suggests the violence of centuries past, not quite Nun-like quietude and calm!
We drove down from Bombay, on New Year’s Day, past fields and scrub and haystacks, with occasional glimpses of the sea sparkling along the coast road fringed with cashew and coconut and betelnut, listening to Jethro Tull rhapsodize about the poet and the painter casting shadows on the water … Bliss is made of This!
As we neared Murud there suddenly arose, on a slight incline, a turreted, castle-like edifice. Could that be the resort? we wondered rather uneasily. An architect with imagination run amok, I murmured to Shiraz apprehensively. His objection was that the place didn’t seem bang on the beach. Luckily, that wasn’t `the place’; it turned out to be the Nawab’s Palace. Sighs of relief. I mean, a Palace is all very well, in its place --- but you don’t want a beach resort built like one!
Our expectations were not dashed down by the reality. The resort did have direct access to the beach, through a wicket gate, past a fringe of casurina trees. It also had a tiny artificial pond of water in which floated, somewhat cramped but perky, three geese and a couple of mandarin ducks. From time to time Abdullah, the diminutive waiter, would chivvy the geese to `make noise’ --- “Awaaz kar, awaaz kar,” he’d urge the trio whenever they fell silent.
The beach is clean and uncrowded. And utterly safe, ideal for swimming and wading. There’s a fine strip of sandy beach just outside the resort, but it gets rocky as one goes towards the northern end, where the Nawab’s imposing Palace stands on a small hillock, with the cliff falling sharply into the sea. At the southern end is a village of the koli fisherfolk, who provide for this sleepy town one of the most delicious reasons for visiting it: the daily fresh catch from the sea.
The seafood in Murud is not only delicious, it’s amazingly light on the pocket! The resort did have a canteen and the food was quite good; but we got a tip-off to a gem: the Hotel Kinara, a short walk along the sea-front, locally known as the `Murud Chowpatty’, with stalls of nariel-pani and `Bombay Bhel . The crab curry at Hotel Kinara is to die for, the fried tiger prawns sinful, the pomfret, the surmai and the rawas, freshly-caught, delicately fried so as to almost appear grilled, or steamed in typical Konkani masala.
As we were waiting for our food, we noticed a distinctly well nourished cow amble up to the door of the hotel restaurant. The proprietor hurried into the kitchen and came out with what looked like a couple of white dosas and fed them reverently to the cow.
“This is a daily ritual”, he explained sheepishly. “This cow only eats bhakhri, nothing else.”
The bhakhri was chapatti made from rice flour. The cow had good taste. It was delicious!
The people are easy-going and laid-back; the main occupations, fishing and farming; Murud is among the largest producers of betel-nut in the country. It figured --- the slogans shrieked from every makeshift stall: “No tension, only Fashion”; the mystification deconstructed when we realized that “Fashion” was the brand-name of the locally-available ghutka!
Janjira Fort is a must-see, of course. Among the most important maritime forts in India, it is held to have been unconquered in all the centuries of its existence --- one report does suggest ultimate conquest by Shivaji, but that is highly doubtful --- even the Marathas could not win this impregnable stronghold of the Siddis, (originally Abyssinian traders/sailors, some of whom later joined the army of the Bahmani Kingdom) who ruled the State of Janjira (corruption of the Arabic Jazeera, meaning `island’), of which Murud was the capital.
A sail-boat ferried us to the fort. Our guide-cum-boatman was named Afzal Khan!
The provenance of the fort is shrouded in the confused renderings of history: Some say the fort was built by Siddi Johar; construction work started in 1118, and took 22 years to complete; work could go on only during low tide, as the fort was constructed on a massive rock island 2 km or so into the Rajpuri creek, 5 km. from Murud `City Centre’.
Another account states the fort was built initially by the Kolis under the headmanship of one Rambhau Patil, with permission from the Siddi’s Thanedar, in the early 1100’s. It was originally a wooden structure. As Rambhau began to assert his independence, the Siddis sent a commander, Piramkhan, disguised as a trade merchant, who turned out to be for the unsuspecting Kolis the Abyssinian Trojan Horse: he took 300 boxes, supposedly of imported wares, with him into the fort, each harbouring a soldier inside, and thus wrested control of the Fort from the Kolis. Piramkhan’s successor pulled down the wooden structure and constructed the massive, impregnable stone fort.
Yet another version reports that the fort was built by the Siddis themselves, possibly Mallik Ambar, a Regent in the Court of the Bahmani Kings, sometime between 1567 to 1571. Some reports even place the construction of the Fort in the 13th century!
It’s like what Rona Greer said: after you hear two eyewitness accounts of the same accident, you begin to wonder about history!
Inside the Fort, paradoxes continue to abound, co-existing harmoniously: like the dargah of a Muslim Pir; the carving of a Hindu Goddess; a Ganpati temple, together with four mosques; two deep, fresh-water ponds, in the middle of the salty sea; and a population mix of Hindu Kolis and Muslim Habshees. (It is said the last group of villagers left the Island Fort as recently as 1972, when the Ganpati Temple was relocated in the village.)
This population mix of Muslims and Hindus endures even today, and the paradoxes extend to the town of Murud itself: the same hillock holds a Hindu Temple as also an Idd-Gah, where the Muslim populace offer Namaaz twice a year, on the days of Idd; it’s a sleepy, peaceful town; and yet, on the quiet beach of Dighi, a ferry-ride across the Rajpuri creek, was landed the RDX used in the 1993 Bombay bomb blasts!
The Janjira Fort is indeed a marvel of architectural design, and engineering skill. The walls still stand secure and unbroken, withstanding admirably the constant lash of the sea. Afzal Khan explained that the joints in the stone were cemented together by a mixture of jaggery, flour and lead! The Palace of the Siddis was originally seven stories high, decorated with mirrors and coloured glass; the fort has several levels, with chor gates to enable a hasty, unobserved retreat. From the 165 (or 265?) cannons in its heyday, some still stand, bearing individual names: Kalal Bangadi, Chavari, Landa Kasam, Gaimukhi … The Siddis were apparently a formidable force: neither the Portuguese, nor the British, nor the Marathas were able to win Janjira Fort. Interestingly, the Siddis made two attempts to invade Bombay, but were driven back; the second invasion, around 1692, was reportedly repulsed by a Parsee General, Rustom Dorabji Nanabhoy, with the help of an army of Kolis.
Shivaji (or his son Sambhaji ? ) built a Fort NorthWest of Janjira, also in sea, to get at Janjira, named Padmadurga (later nicknamed Kasa, meaning `tortoise’, by the locals) sometime in the 17th century. Legend has it that an underwater tunnel was attempted between the Kasa Fort and Janjira Fort; some say the attempt failed, some swear the tunnel exists even today! The ruins of the Kasa Fort provide a picturesque backdrop for the setting sun, viewed from the beach just outside the resort.
An interesting carving at the entrance of the Janjira Fort, reportedly used as an insignia on coins during the Siddi reign, says it all; the carving is of six elephants in the grip of one tiger; The tiger has each of its four paws on the backs of four elephants. the tail of another elephant grasped in its own tail, and the tail of the sixth elephant caught in its mouth. Etched in stone, the might of the Janjira Siddis! But as the poet said, even this shall pass away … it did! The Siddis no longer rule Janjira, the fort is in the indifferent hands of the Archeological Society of India, and the tiger is becoming extinct!
The enduring images of Murud however remain: sunset over Kasa fort; a gull in flight; sandpipers fleeting along the ocean’s edge; the Islamic Khokar Domes looming on the road to the Buddhist caves of Kuda-Leni; the sea aflame with a myriad sparkles; cattle lying recumbent in the shade of the haystacks; green fields alongside aquatic prawn farms; the Idd-Gah on the hilltop, the Temple nestled nearby …
And the final 21st century paradox to top ‘em all: Sumos and Hondas turning in at the gates of the resort, even as just outside on the beach, a skeletal yet wiry Koli woman heads home into the dusk, a huge pile of firewood balanced on her head.
****
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Hello ... Welcome!
Hello, folks ...
welcome to my blog ...
musings, thoughts, words ...
ideas shared, information exchanged, and even some cribs ventilated ...
A warm welcome to all those who visit, and here's hoping attunement across continents ...
ArminVey
welcome to my blog ...
musings, thoughts, words ...
ideas shared, information exchanged, and even some cribs ventilated ...
A warm welcome to all those who visit, and here's hoping attunement across continents ...
ArminVey
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
