1
The sun was homeward bound, when Sadanand, thin, prematurely balding, pursed lips, a perennially sinned against expression pasted to his face, emerged from the crematorium. He carefully placed a baseball cap on his head, hiding his sparse, prematurely thinning hair and revved up his motorbike, turning in a wide circle precariously close to a stray, rousing it from its slumber, scarcely noticing though, its startled yelp and mildly reproachful bark as it circled itself and settled down for another snooze.
Five minutes of purposeful biking brought him to the outskirts of the town of Shirpur.
Shirpur sprouted in the middle of nowhere, surprising many a traveler by appearing to unexpectedly spring out of the flat, featureless stretches, without the telltale signs of approaching habitation. Ugly and shabby, devoid of any aesthetic, industrial or commercial significance, Shirpur would have existed, unnoticed, ignored, irrelevant, had it not been for the Shirpuri devi yatra, a festival in honor of the town’s presiding deity held in the month of May every year.
Sadanand turned off the Highway, spitting out a mouthful of soot, courtesy a state-owned passenger bus, a red-yellow tin-can on wheels and was promptly assaulted by the sour stench of rotting garbage from the open landfill mere yards away, drilled into his nostrils by wafts stirred up by the startled flapping of wings of a dozen crows disturbed in their feeding frenzy by his approach.
The narrow potholed lane lined with small low shanties layered with dried cow dung, abruptly giving way to cemented houses and shops, was the beginning of a winding route to the market area in the middle of the town.
Sadanand braked, twisted and turned to avoid bumping into pedestrians and other vehicles as he weaved past the small railway station and the bus terminus now drowned in a sea of people and a steady hubbub of noise. A clutch of beggars sat at the mouth of a public toilet, oblivious of the oozing goo and the sharp pungent stink; two stared blankly, at some indeterminate point in the distance, one ate a vada-pav slowly, yet another fed tid-bits, now and then, to a dog as soiled and scraggly as himself. A trio of raucous boys, barely in their teens spat tobacco-laced red spittle one after the other as if in concert and badgered the panwala for a cigarette on credit.
The brightly lit sweetmeat shops, lodges and hotels were doing brisk business courtesy the thousands of devotees pouring in for the yatra, now only a week away. A blood splattered Shah Rukh Khan glared down fixedly from the two-storied building of the Andaz Theater at a sprinkling of dejected stragglers and bright-eyed touts squaring off cash an hour into the six o’ clock show. A sourly group of rikshawalas sat in the two rickshaws at the head of a long queue, idly chewing tobacco and sifting through the crowd, their eyes latching on, lecherously, to an even vaguely curvaceous figure. The roads were abuzz with people. And vehicles jostled each other like giant ants, rubbing shoulders (sometimes literally) with each other or with an occasional bullock-cart or two. The glitzy beer bars were now slowly beginning to come to life, as were the dance bars, their glitzier cousins.
The long-suffering statue of the Mahatma, frozen in time and stride, white with bird droppings stood mute, watching; a melancholy look in its eye.
The central market-into which Sadanand fearlessly threw his wheels at appreciable speed, avoiding deftly a handcart but almost colliding with a bicycle which had to veer off at the last possible moment eliciting from its rider a fusillade of robust curses-was a long, narrow serpentine lane swarming with people and lined with shops big and small, stretching into infinity.
He parked untidily in front of one.
“Ram Ram Sadabhau, welcome, welcome.’ The short, blue-shirted beer-belly behind the counter chirped.
‘Ram Ram Rajuseth!’ answered Sadanand loudly, “Let’s see what you have got for me.”
The beer-belly grinned, showing a row of dirty teeth and gently tossed a box on the glass-topped counter.
Sadanand opened the box with his knobby fingers and carefully pulled out the contents.
“iphone 3g.” beamed Rajuseth. “You are one of the first 100 owners in the country Sadabhau!”
Sadanand smirked and deftly dislodged the phone to reveal the hidden compartment at the bottom of the box. It was only when he gently licked his powder-smeared index finger that his eternally pursed lips broke into a wide smile.
2
It was nearing midnight when Police Sub-Inspector Sunil Satam closed the file and placed it gently on the glass-topped table.
“You are right sir.” He said to Inspector Abhay Ranade slumped untidily in his chair across the table. “The murder weapon has been found. The motive has been clearly established. The murderer has been arrested. Moreover, he has confessed to the crime. It’s an open and shut case. I really fail to understand why this case has ended up with this unit!”
Inspector Ranade sighed tiredly, “Strange are the ways of those upstairs…” he said pointing to the ceiling.
PSI Satam smiled. He liked working with Ranade, his senior by more than a decade. Although pushing fifty, the full head of (mostly) black hair, the athletic frame and a deceptively boyish face combined to take a decade off his age.
Satam had been Inspector Ranade’s deputy for close to three years now as part of a rather obscure unit of the Maharashtra Police to which only unsolved or out of the ordinary cases were referred. This unit was known throughout the Department as the drought zone. Half of the twelve people that the unit consisted of were on perpetual leave and most of the other half spent their time tapping their contacts to get transferred out.
Inspector Ranade and PSI Satam were exceptions. Their dedication to the unit baffled their colleagues no end.
“Love the intellectual challenge.” Ranade would say smiling mischievously at his incredulous audience, when queried about their unseemly devotion.
Inspector Ranade waited for the ancient clock on the wall behind him to finish tolling; rubbed his sleep weary eyes and pulled himself into a more presentable posture. “Go over the case once again Satam. Then we will call it a day.’
Satam nodded. “The victim’s name is Sadanand. Murdered on 10th May last year in Shirpur.” “That’s exactly a year ago!” He added as an aside and continued, “Head smashed by a heavy stone. Age about 26 years. Married, two children. Was a BSc (Geology) from Pune University. Schedule caste. Lived with his parents, Shripati and Mangalabai, at the Shirpur crematorium. They make their living by supplying firewood for funeral pyres.”
“The accused, Bhima. Same age and caste as victim. Dropped out of school. Married, no children. No fixed job. His family has traditionally scavenged from funeral pyres. Was into drugs, gambling, bootlegging. Once arrested for pimping.
Surrendered and confessed to the double murder of his wife Shantabai and Sadanand. Wife it seems was screwing around with this Sadanand.”
“Same old story.” Satam smirked and Ranade waved a dismissive hand.
“Then there’s this forensic report. Murder weapons found on the respective crime scenes-a ten kg rock and knife. Both with Bhima’s fingerprints.
Then there’s Bhima’s confession in front of the magistrate.” Finished PSI Satam.
“Hmmm… one more thing, the file notes that the victim worked for an NGO-India Against Superstition.” Yawned Ranade
“The one founded by the famous Dr. Dapolikar.” Added Satam.
“Yes. And Dapolikar, if you recall” said Inspector Ranade, rubbing his neck gently, “was himself shot in Pune a couple of years ago.”
“Ah yes! The case we expected would come to us, but didn’t.” said Satam dryly.
“And the computer probably flagged that reference and some bright soul higher up sent the file to us without reading it.” Inspector Ranade smiled standing up to signal the end of the conversation and the day. “We will pay a visit to Shirpur in a couple of days and file a report.”
“Actually,” said Satam enthusiastically, “let’s go tomorrow sir, so that we can catch the annual jatra and also witness the miracle.’
Inspector Ranade gathering some loose papers strewn across the table stopped and looked at Satam curiously.
“Miracle? What miracle.”
“You don’t know sir?” said Satam excitedly, “Every year at the Shirpuri devi temple, at the peak of summer, when even drinking water is scarce, the kund, the pool, in the temple courtyard fills up with water and a copper pot materializes out of nowhere. This has been happening for centuries, at the stroke midnight, on new moon night in the month of Vaishakh…which is tomorrow.”
Inspector Ranade’s first instinct was to dismiss the story with an expletive.
“Seriously, Satam, you don’t believe in that sort of stuff do you.” He said looking at Satam quizzically.
Satam smiled sheepishly.
Ranade carefully extricated a crumpled cigarette packet from his trousers, lit an equally crumpled cigarette and let the smoke curl towards the ‘No Smoking’ sign.
“Come to think of it Satam, a miracle, garnished with the murder of a member of an anti-superstition group! This could turn out to be a very interesting recipe indeed!”
Satam nodded wearily.
“Satam, suddenly, I want to see this miracle too.” said Inspector Ranade, absently, lost in thought, sinking back deep into his chair again. “Ask Constable Jadhav to get the car ready. We leave for Shirpur at five.”
3
Sadanand almost missed the lilting whistle, absorbed as he was negotiating the myriad features, functions and applications of his new acquisition. He heard it again and turned to see the thin, heavily mustached, dark-skinned, unwashed figure of Bhima-his friend since childhood- as it advanced towards him from across the road, a flat white box under its arm, tossing away, with a careless flick, the butt of a half smoked beedi.
Bhima was the same caste as Sadanand- his friend, yet never his equal. While Sadanand lived in a two storey pukka house abutting the Mahadeva temple in the crematorium, Bhima lived in a rickety shed made of rotting tin sheets, dried mud and discarded tires, one amongst a clutch of hovels just outside the north wall of the crematorium. For generations, Sadanand’s family had been in the business of arranging funeral pyres. Bhima’s ancestors scavenged the ashes of the same pyres for gold jewelry and other trinkets in the night, before the relatives came to collect the remains the next morning. Half the pickings went to Sadanand’s family.
Bhima had had to drop out of school after seventh grade. There was just no money and the family could not keep an able hand idle at school. He grew up doing menial jobs during the day and scavenging funeral pyres in the night. Sadanand on the other hand was dispatched to Mumbai for further studies and allowed to return to Shirpur only after his graduation.
‘It’s a game of money bhidu.’ Bhima had remarked to Sadanand over a bottle of cheap rum and a plateful of steamed peanuts when they had met in Mumbai. Sadanand was in the second year of his Bachelor of Science course. ‘Your father has some number two business bhidu. He always seems to have money while we don’t. How come?’ “Magic!” He had added hiccupping a little.
“He is a Trustee on the Shirpuri Devi Temple Trust. That’s why.” Sadanand had retorted testily.
Bhima had laughed contemptuously, “Go tell that to an outsider bhidu…not me…”
Sadanand knew Bhima was right. They were the lowest of the low caste. Unemployable in Shirpur. Arranging funeral pyres was not the kind of activity that could have paid for his education or the dowry given away with his sister. The position on the Trust was nothing more than ornamental. A mere requirement under law. There was something different about his family. He had confronted his father about this when he had returned to Shirpur after completing his studies. His father had told him. Sadanand was stunned and overjoyed at the same time.
He had junked his plans for further studies, given up his dream of migrating to the city, married the girl his family had chosen for him and joined his father in their traditional business.
Five years had passed since then and their prosperity had only grown.
“Wah Sadabhau! What a phone! Must be expensive no?” exclaimed Bhima bringing Sadanand back into the present.
“Heard that you had made a packet today bhidu!’ He continued in a cheerful voice, winking, slapping Sadanand on the shoulder.
Sadanand gave a tight-lipped smile, shifting uncomfortably, now on one foot, now on the other. He shrugged carelessly, “It was OK business today, especially with Manekshet’s mistress dropping off. Took a lot of wood to burn. Sandalwood. I was arranging the pyre for a full hour.”
“Lucky You. How much?” asked Bhima rubbing his thumb and index finger together.
Sadanand merely smiled in response.
Bhima felt an insane anger welling up inside. He stopped it before it could pour out of his eyes.
He laughed loudly.
“Come on now, I have bought something too!” He said opening the flat white box to reveal a delicate pink saree with heavy gold embroidery along its border.
“For the wife.” “She will look beautiful wearing it won’t she.” Said Bhima softly holding Sadanand’s gaze a fleeting second longer than necessary.
Sadanand lowered his eyes quickly and chuckled nervously. Bhima pretended not to notice. He fished out a folded bundle of five hundred rupee bills and fanned himself with it. ‘Twenty Thousand kadak! I am the king of matka.’ He said, eyes gleaming.
He caught Sadanand by his arm and almost dragged him from the shop, riding roughshod over his meek, half-hearted protests.
“Come’n bhidu, don’t do nakhras... not today,”
“Today we have to celebrate!!”
4
Inspector Madhukar Khonde, returning late from the extra bandobast duty because of the annual pilgrimage, had been asleep for less than an hour when he was roused from his rapidly deepening slumber, by the relentless ringing of the phone. It was three in the morning and the caller at the other end was a constable from the Special Branch HQ in Mumbai.
After three hours of tossing and turning and a severe bout of acidity, Inspector Khonde heaped some choice curses on Inspector Ranade, his ancestors and his descendents and reached for his phone. He knew it was very early to rouse such an important person from his sleep, yet he could wait no longer. This call, he had to make.
***
It was past eleven in the morning and by the time they were on the outskirts of Shirpur, Satam was in deep slumber and Inspector Ranade, an expert on the town, its residents and their shenanigans, all courtesy Constable Jadhav whose maternal uncle happened to be a resident of Shirpur. Jadhav, aghast at Inspector sahib’s lack of knowledge about the jatra and its host town had quickly embarked on remedial measures.
“Look to your right Sir.” Constable Jadhav gushed, “The Trust is constructing an engineering college. Adjacent to it is the proposed medical college.”
Ranade wondered what use a medical and an engineering college was to residents of a town which did not even have a proper secondary school. He kept his thoughts to himself. It was none of his business.
“Everything has changed since Shankarrao became chairman of the Trust last year Sir. The Trust has taken over the administration of the entire town. Shankarrao has done a lot for the town Sir. Changed the face of Shirpur in one year.” Finished Constable Jadhav reverentially.
“Shankarrao….hmmm…that’s Appasaheb Patil’s son right? They say he is sure to be elected to the state assembly in this election” said Satam, suddenly waking up from his slumber.
Jadhav nodded and turned off the highway into a narrow lane.
An indescribable stench assaulted the car’s air-conditioning and overwhelmed it. They pitched and rolled past a gang of strays standing guard around a landfill that reminded Ranade of a half healed scab. Reduced to a crawl, time and distance were now merely a measure of relative respite between two potholes. Many such respites later, they lurched to a halt in front of a freshly whitewashed one storey building. The mega-sized board courtesy the Shirpuri Devi Temple Trust left none in doubt that they were standing in front of the Shirpur Police Station.
Inspector Madhukar Khonde short, balding and brimming with acid and gas burped out to greet the visitors, his enormous behind jiggling with the effort.
Inspector Ranade spent the better part of the next hour wolfing down a plateful of the famous Shirpuri missal, two vadapavs and a large cup of very sweet tea. Satam gorged on two samosas in addition to the above mentioned fare. It was only then that they turned their attention to the increasingly fidgety Khonde.
Inspector Khonde shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Yes, I was the investigating officer in this case.” He said knotting his leathery brown forehead into a frown. “The case was fully investigated. The paperwork is complete and through. What’s the need to reopen the case?”
“Yes, Yes, I understand…I understand.” Said Ranade smiling, almost apologetic.
“Orders from above. What to do.” Shrugged Satam.
“I haven’t slept for days. There’s the bandobast for the festival and now this.” Grumbled Khonde.
“Bitch of a job. They don’t understand at the HQ. Look at us we have been travelling since five.” Said Inspector Ranade soothingly. “Just one or two questions so that we can make out a report and wrap up quickly. We also want to attend the ceremony at midnight. You will make arrangements for us wont you Khonde sahib.”
Inspector Khonde stopped frowning and relaxed visibly. “Sure…sure…I will ensure VIP treatment for you Sir. Don’t worry.”
“Did Sadanand have any enemies?” asked Satam abruptly, scribbling away on his notepad.
Khonde shook his head slowly, “No. I don’t think he had any enemies as such. Jealousy maybe. Enmity no.”
“Jealousy because he was quite well off as compared to other people from his caste?” observed Ranade helpfully.
“Yes and some upper caste people too. Nothing illegal there though. Just that his grandfather was at the right place at the right time. Used to work for the Patils…they made him a trustee…a person from the backward caste has to be on the board of a Trust. Legal requirement.” Shrugged Khonde. “We had interrogated a number of people mostly from his caste…they all said they had heard rumors about the affair…”
“Hmmm…I see.” Said Ranade gravely.
“Ranade Sahib, we have the murderer, we have his lawful confession, we have a motive, we have the murder weapons and the fingerprints of the murderer on the weapons and the crime scene. Case solved. What else do you want? It is a straight forward crime of passion.”
“Right…Right…absolutely. Its air tight” Said Ranade quickly, “This is just a formality.”
Inspector Khonde nodded and looked at his watch wearily. “Look, can we finish this quickly. You can access any file you want. Just ask Constable Kamble here. I have to report for bandobast immediately.”
“Yes, yes…of course I understand.” Said Ranade nodding vigorously even as he scribbled furiously on a paper. “There’s not much that we hope to add to the case here. You have done a good job. Just formality though. Those interrogations have to be conducted.”
“Procedure.” Sighed Satam shrugging his shoulders resignedly.
Inspector Khonde glanced at the paper and quickly made out the order granting them access to Bhima. “The case has not been brought to trial yet. So he is lodged at the town jail in our custody.’ He explained. “About Sadanand’s father, I will ask Kamble to send a constable to bring him to the police station ASAP. Okay?”
Inspector Ranade smiled broadly, “Thanks. You have been a great help. See you tonight at the temple.”
“One last question Sir.” Said Satam. “The file says that there was considerable cash found on Bhima when he surrendered. Bhima says in his statement that he won twenty thousand at the matka that day. Did you check out if he was telling the truth?”
Khonde smirked, “You think someone put out a supari don’t you?”
Satam shrugged.
Khonde laughed curtly. “This is not Mumbai Satamji and Sadanand was not a filmwalah or builder. Of course we checked out with some of Bhima’s friends who were regulars at the matka. We also crosschecked with our informers. He was telling the truth. Anything else?”
“No.” said Satam pushing back his chair and striding toward the door.
Inspector Ranade was already at the car. Satam could not resist one last poke at Khonde. “By the way Sir,” he said standing at the door of the police station, “just curious. Do you know who controls the matka operations in Shirpur?”
Khonde cracked his knuckles nervously as Satam looked on with amusement.
“Well, you know how it is…” he mumbled.
Satam smiled broadly.
“Relax Khonde sahib. You don’t have to say it. We know its Shankarrao Patil.” He said dryly, putting on his shades and stepping out into the bright, hot May sun.
Satam noticed Ranade smiling at him impishly.
“He is on the take.” Smirked Satam.
“Who isn’t?” said Ranade calmly getting into the car.
Jadhav winced as Satam slammed the car door
Ranade closed his eyes thoughtfully. “Come on now, don’t act like a juvenile and stop wasting your energies on things that you can’t change. We have work to do”
“You know sir...you know what I would really like at this moment.”
Ranade opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“A hot cup of cappuccino.” Sighed Satam.
Ranade chuckled.
5
Bhima put a hand over Sadanand’s shoulders as they turned into the temple lane, so called because it led to the Shirpuri devi temple. Bhima touched his fingers first to his chest, then to his forehead and then finally to his lips as they passed the temple. He repeated it several times in quick succession.
Sadanand disentangled himself from Bhima’s bear hug as they turned into the small space between the temple wall and an adjacent house and emerged abruptly, into a lane flush behind the temple. It was one of those lanes which every town has, damp, dinky, inexplicably empty and eerily quiet; a world removed from the noisy people filled streets. The letters ‘Permit Room’ in bright red neon at the bottom of the lane beckoned.
“Let’s have English today! Whiskey, what say?”
“Only one Quarter between us.” Said Sadanand, already feeling the whiskey on his tongue.
Bhima nodded gravely.
“Tell me,” said Bhima, pouring a generous amount of the amber liquid into Sadanand’s glass as they settled down in the dimly lit, smoke filled room at a table covered with a smelly table cloth of unfathomable color, “Where did they burn her. Tell me the exact spot. I want to be home well before dawn.”
Sadanand chuckled as he drank deep from his glass, “So, you are making the walk tonight, eh? I am surprised. I thought you would give up stealing from the dead, now that you are the king of matka.”
Bhima ignored the barb. “Was she wearing gold? She must have been.”
“The pyre is near the smaller Pipal, not the one near the shed, but the one near the river.”
“Is she wearing gold?” enquired Bhima once again, popping a peanut in his mouth.
“I don’t know about that, I didn’t see the body actually... wasn’t allowed inside after the priest Raghuram sprinkled holy water on the pyre. Purified it and what not...you know how it is. But she must have been wearing gold. I am sure of it.”
Bhima spat out a sour nut, nodding in agreement.
The dim red light in the room cast dark, grim shadows on the walls.
Bhima and Sadanand drank deep into the night.
6
They had finished interrogating Bhima within an hour and as expected had learnt nothing new from him. It was late afternoon by then and with nothing more to do than wait for Inspector Khonde to get hold of Shripati, they had checked into a hotel.
Since then they had twiddled their thumbs and then twiddled them some more. It was nearing nine in the evening and now Inspector Ranade was losing both his patience and temper.
“I don’t believe this nincompoop cannot get hold of an old man in this pipsqueak of a town!” fumed Ranade.
Satam wished that he would stop pacing around the small room. It made him dizzy.
“To be fair to him Sir, Khonde called a couple of times. They are trying Shripati’s phone continuously. I have tried it myself too. He is not reachable on phone. His wife thinks he has gone to the jatra and will return after the midnight ceremony. Khonde’s posted a constable at Shripati’s house. Nothing more he can do.”
“Yes I know,” Said Ranade sitting down heavily on one of the beds, much to Satam’s relief.
Satam nodded. “Sir, you still think there’s something more to this case than a mere crime of passion angle?”
“Straws in the wind Satam.” Said Ranade starting to pace about the room again much to Satam’s chargin. “Straws in the wind. It’s just a hunch Satam. Just a wild hunch.”
“Your hunches are known to come true quite often Sir.”
“It would require a miracle for this one to come true.”
“There’s one happening less than three hours from now.”
Ranade chuckled.
“It’s almost nine thirty. Order some food for the three of us. And have Jadhav bring some bottles of chilled water immediately. It’s bloody hot!”
Satam had just finished talking to Jadhav and was in the midst of unraveling the rather confused operator who had tied himself in knots while taking down their order, when his cell rang. It was Inspector Khonde.
There was a soft knock on the door. Ranade opened it to let in Constable Jadhav hugging an armful of bottles filled with water to his chest.
Satam tossed his phone onto the bed. “No joy with Shripati Sir. Khonde says he has definitely gone to the temple for the midnight ceremony like everyone in town.”
“Dammed” said Ranade.
“Sorry to interrupt Sir.” Said Jadhav suddenly, “Khonde is lying!” “Shripati won’t go to the temple. The townspeople will kill him if he even steps into the temple premises.”
“Why?” asked Satam. But he already knew the answer.
There was only one crumpled cigarette left in the crumpled cigarette packet. Ranade lit it.
“Well Satam,” he said watching the smoke curl towards the ceiling, “Looks like we may get our miracle after all!”
7
Inspector Ranade left Constable Jadhav with the car about half a mile from the crematorium.
“You have twenty minutes.” He said. Jadhav nodded as he drove off.
Exactly twenty-five minutes later Ranade stole into the crematorium through a break in the wall, carefully avoiding the northern wall and the clutch of hovels where Bhima had lived. A charred hand, still retaining its shape showed from under the embers of a rapidly cooling pyre on the cement platform. Ranade gave other such cement platforms a considerably wide berth and hid behind a tree from where he could see Shripati’s house clearly.
He put his cell on ‘silent’ noting the time before the screen blinked off. It was ten-thirty.
At precisely eleven, Shripati, short and painfully thin, emerged from the house wearing a dirty brown kurta and dhoti. He walked briskly to the small mahadeva temple next to his house. Ranade counted the minutes. After an agonizing wait for about thirty, he tiptoed into the temple.
The temple consisted of one large room for the devotees to sit and the much smaller sanctum sanctorum. There were no windows and only one door, the one through which he had entered. The dim pale yellow light from the tiny incandescent bulb revealed that the temple was empty except for the jet-black shivlinga in the center of the sanctum sanctorum.
Shripati had disappeared without a trace.
Ranade spent several minutes examining each square inch of the wall and the floor minutely. Each minute he spent confirmed what he already knew. He heard the faint roar of the crowd in the distance. It was midnight.
“Thirty minutes, forty on the outside…” thought Ranade as he sat himself down cross-legged in front of the shivlinga.
He did not have to wait too long. Some thirty minutes later the shivlinga slid aside with a grating sound. Shripati climbed out of the gaping hole and found himself staring into the muzzle of Ranade’s service revolver.
“Hello there!” said Inspector Ranade conversationally, “I think Shripatiji, it’s time we had a small chat.”
8
It was midnight and the copper pot magically surfaced out of the churning water. Satam watched the head priest carefully climb down the now submerged steps leading into the kund, lift the copper pot, touch it to his forehead and hold it up for the crowd to see. The crowd roared in appreciation. The head priest then handed the copper pot to Shankarrao Patil, who carried it slowly and ceremoniously inside the temple.
Satam felt a strong arm grip his shoulder. It was a policeman. He grimly signaled to Satam to follow him.
The room, empty except for a table and three chairs was part of the temporary control center set up in one of the buildings located inside the temple perimeter. A furious Khonde paced the length of the small room, kicking aside chairs that invariably kept getting in his way.
“Where’s Ranade?” he yelled as soon as he saw Satam.
Satam ignored the question and hoisted himself smoothly onto edge of the table. “The chapie following us is sleeping peacefully in our room at the hotel.” He said calmly, “the one at the crematorium is sleeping in the backseat of the car.”
“Ranade is at the crematorium?” It was more a statement than a question.
Satam shrugged.
Khonde summoned the two constables standing outside the room. “Satam sahib will not leave the room until I give you the order in person.”
“It’s no use, we know everything now.”
“No you don’t. You have no idea what you have got yourselves into.” said Khonde fiercely; the blazing anger in his eyes, a thin veneer, barely hiding the fear underneath.
“It’s all my fault…You should have ignored it.” He said suddenly leaning against the door as if all his strength had drained away.
“What have I done…Bloody f**k…What have I done.” He kept repeating.
“Are you alright Khonde? Said Satam, a little alarmed at seeing the man disintegrating before him. “What have you done?”
Inspector Khonde looked at Satam for a long moment. Then he whirled around and dashed out of the room at considerable speed.
***
Ranade’s proposed tete-a-tete with Shripati never materialized. They stood silently, unmoving, fifty zombies waiting for orders from their master. The flickering flames from their torches danced in the warm night air and the naked swords in their hands glinted dully.
A sleek black BMW made its way slowly through the mob. A man with a short clipped mustache and badly dyed hair climbed out of its passenger seat.
“Sir, I am Balasaheb Borude, Mr. Shankarrao Patil’s personal assistant.” He said with an exaggerated bow, “Sahib has requested the pleasure of your company.”
Ranade gazed at Borude coldly, making him squirm.
“And about time too.” He said softly.
9
Shankarrao Patil, chairman of the Shirpuri Devi Trust, met Ranade in his study. Surrounded by thick tomes of law, politics and autobiographies and dressed in a silk kurta and chudidar, he was courteous to a fault. He pushed the delicate rimless glasses further up the bridge of his beaklike nose as he poured expensive whiskey into three short, stubby glasses from the bottle taken from the small bar artfully hidden behind the six volumes of Winston Churchill’s “The Second World War.”
In one glass, which he placed in front of Ranade, he added four cubes of ice, one he topped up with soda. Satam seated next to Ranade eyed the glass greedily, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“A little bit of chilled water for me and we are set.” muttered Shankarrao to himself as he sat down in the large chair behind the tastelessly ornate desk.
“Cheers.” He said raising his glass. Ranade and Satam made no move toward their drinks. Shankarrao sighed and took a long sip from his glass.
“There’s an underground lake some two kilometers from the temple.” He said without preamble. “It is fed by hundreds of tiny underground rivulets throughout the year. Drop by drop the water accumulates and by some quirk of nature, it breaches the banks of the lake on a particular day and a particular time. Precisely, unfailingly, year after year. Then it flows through an underground tunnel to the temple kund. This tunnel is manmade. No one knows who built it. The copper pot is kept at a precisely calculated location in this tunnel such that the force of the flowing water carries it to the temple pool. The water stops flowing once the water level falls below the embankment.”
Ranade chuckled, “so there’s a miracle involved after all.”
“Yes, a miracle of nature.” “Alas, it’s not the kind of miracle people will pay for. So we added religion to it.” “The secret entrance to the tunnel from the temple was discovered by Sadanand’s grandfather. He told my grandfather as the Patil family practically owned Shirpur…we still do. The tunnel had to be repaired to make way for the water. It was done and a miracle was born. Sadanand’s grandfather, father…it was their responsibility to put the copper pot in the proper place at the proper time. They were handsomely compensated for it. Sadanand was set to inherit it. It was an immensely profitable secret arrangement between the two families.” Said Shankarrao taking in a large mouthful of whiskey. He noted with some concern that Ranade and Satam had still not touched their glasses.
“Until Sadanand threatened to blow the lid off this cozy operation with the help of his anti-superstition activists.”
Shankarrao laughed derisively, “He blackmailed me all right. Not for any social cause but to extract more and more money.”
“And so you had him bumped off.” Said Ranade softly.
Shankarrao leaned back in his chair, picked out a cigarette and pushed the packet towards Ranade.
“Filthy habit this.” said Ranade resting his elbows on the table.
Shankarrao paused for a fleeting instant, shrugged, lit the cigarette, tossed the lighter on the table and leaned back in his chair.
“Shirpur was a barren wasteland.” He said blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. “A miserable collection of some hundred hovels made of mud and cow dung and an equal number of starving, skeletal cows. The miracle changed everything. It brought money…prosperity…changed a wretched village into a thriving town. The stakes are very high for the townspeople Inspector Ranade. If the miracle dies, if its mystique dies, so does Shirpur.”
“As does your political ambition!” said Ranade dryly.
“And so for the greater good, Sadanand had to die.” Concluded Satam.
“There’s a saying in Marathi…,” said Sankarrao crushing his cigarette, “that the cough was cured without the medicine! The fact of the matter is that Bhima killed Sadanand because Sadanand was having an affair with his wife. And that’s the truth. That’s how it will stay.” “As you so aptly put it Mr. Satam-for the greater good.”
He gulped down the remaining whiskey, put down the glass firmly on the table and got up, signifying that the meeting was at its end.
“They are not empty.” Said Shankarrao, pointing to the three small ash coloured suitcases lined up against the wall. “Forget about Sadanand, keep what you know about the miracle to yourself and bags like these will keep reaching you every year. Consider them the devi’s Prasad, her blessings.”
“And if we refuse, you will kill us, for Shirpur of course. Right?” Said Satam softly.
“No.” Said Shankarrao with chilling simplicity. “The people will.”
Inspector Ranade reached inside his shirt, pulled out a thin, white envelope and tossed it onto the table.
“They are photographs, Shankarrao, photographs manipulated and morphed to serve as an instrument to incite murder.” “You will also find in there, the compact disc with the before and after photographs.” “It’s just a copy the original is safe at the HQ in Mumbai.”
Shankarrao stared at the envelope transfixed, his eyes open wide. His hands trembled and the color had drained from his face.
“You…you will not get away with this Ranade!” Hissed Shankarrao through clenched teeth.
“Calm down Shankarrao.” “Nothing personal. We are just doing our duty.” Said Inspector Ranade coldly.
Satam chuckled “For the greater good of course!”
10
It was well past midnight when Sadanand and Bhima stumbled out of the bar, blinking at the darkness outside.
Sadanand heard his mate mumbling something about gold as they made their unsteady way to the narrow opening near the temple wall. He took out his brand new phone from his trouser pocket for no apparent reason and thrust it back again. Bhima still had the now severely dented, flat white box containing the saree, tucked securely under his arm.
Sadanand thanked Bhima loudly for paying for the whiskey.
Something gnawed at the back of his mind. Through the mist, the thought kept prodding at his mind. It appeared to be something important, but for the love of God, he just could not remember what it was. He shook his head violently, brutally pushing aside the needling thought.
Whatever it was, it did not matter. He felt on the top of the world. Then he remembered. He burped loudly, “bike…we have to pick up my bike” he mumbled as he sank to the ground in a saccharine sweet haze.
Bhima stood swaying slightly over his friend, splayed untidily on the road.
“You won’t need it any more you bastard!” He hissed through clenched teeth. He spat at the body lying on the ground, with all the force his venomous hatred for the man could muster.
From his trouser pocket, he extricated a crumpled photograph, one of the six that Shripati, Sadanand’s father had given him in a white unmarked envelope a week earlier. He squinted at it. The half naked figures of Sadanand and Shanta, Bhima’s wife, entwined in a passionate embrace were clearly recognizable even in the dim ambient light.
Bhima kicked Sadanand in the ribs, breathing obscenities through his clenched teeth. Sadanand winced without opening his eyes and turned onto his side, away from Bhima.
Fists clenched, rocking on his heels, breathing in short sharp gasps, Bhima felt the insane, red hot anger rise again inside him. This time he did not attempt to stop it. He let it consume him; explode in a haze of red in his head.
The large, jagged rock a foot away from Sadanand’s head was temptingly reachable.
A full minute elapsed before Bhima brought out a flat bottle of whiskey, took a deep swig, screwed the lid back on and tucked the bottle into his pocket. His foot kicked against the now torn flat white box. He picked up the saree and buried his face in its crisp, intricately embroidered folds.
Bhima made his unsteady way towards the highway, stopping occasionally to rub his chappal vigorously into the dirt to get the blood off its toe.
He tapped his back pocket to check if the knife was still there. It was. He wondered how he should kill her. Slit her throat or drive the knife in her again and again and again…let the blood that spurted with each thrust wash his anger away. No he thought, he would make her wear the saree, kiss her one last time and then plunge the knife into her such that she bleeds to death slowly. He wanted her to die in his arms and the photographs to be the last thing she would see as the light went out from her eyes.
11
“So the file wasn’t flagged by the computer after all.” Said Satam as they turned onto the highway after successfully surviving the open landfill.
Ranade’s face glowed with the calm happiness which comes with the satisfaction of a job well done.
“No, I pulled it out after I received the photographs and CD along with a paper with the details of the case through speed post. It took you a long time to catch on Satam.”
“Do you know who sent the photographs?”
“Come on PSI Satam, I thought you would have figured that out by now!”
Satam was suddenly very serious, “Inspector Khonde. Looks like he was playing both sides. What on earth would have possessed him to do such a thing?”
“Conscience, like love, makes you do silly things.” Sighed Ranade, suddenly feeling very tired.
“Poor bastard! Good we did what we did” sighed Satam as he closed his eyes and started to snore almost instantly.
“Anything for the greater good Satam, anything for the greater good” mumbled Ranade as he too, overcome by tiredness, slowly succumbed to the rhythm of the open road and the steady purr of the car engine.
Back in the boot of the car, three olive green suitcases, significantly larger than the ash-colored ones initially offered by Shankarrao, bounced to the same rhythm.
And like their ash-colored brethren, they too were not empty.
The sun was homeward bound, when Sadanand, thin, prematurely balding, pursed lips, a perennially sinned against expression pasted to his face, emerged from the crematorium. He carefully placed a baseball cap on his head, hiding his sparse, prematurely thinning hair and revved up his motorbike, turning in a wide circle precariously close to a stray, rousing it from its slumber, scarcely noticing though, its startled yelp and mildly reproachful bark as it circled itself and settled down for another snooze.
Five minutes of purposeful biking brought him to the outskirts of the town of Shirpur.
Shirpur sprouted in the middle of nowhere, surprising many a traveler by appearing to unexpectedly spring out of the flat, featureless stretches, without the telltale signs of approaching habitation. Ugly and shabby, devoid of any aesthetic, industrial or commercial significance, Shirpur would have existed, unnoticed, ignored, irrelevant, had it not been for the Shirpuri devi yatra, a festival in honor of the town’s presiding deity held in the month of May every year.
Sadanand turned off the Highway, spitting out a mouthful of soot, courtesy a state-owned passenger bus, a red-yellow tin-can on wheels and was promptly assaulted by the sour stench of rotting garbage from the open landfill mere yards away, drilled into his nostrils by wafts stirred up by the startled flapping of wings of a dozen crows disturbed in their feeding frenzy by his approach.
The narrow potholed lane lined with small low shanties layered with dried cow dung, abruptly giving way to cemented houses and shops, was the beginning of a winding route to the market area in the middle of the town.
Sadanand braked, twisted and turned to avoid bumping into pedestrians and other vehicles as he weaved past the small railway station and the bus terminus now drowned in a sea of people and a steady hubbub of noise. A clutch of beggars sat at the mouth of a public toilet, oblivious of the oozing goo and the sharp pungent stink; two stared blankly, at some indeterminate point in the distance, one ate a vada-pav slowly, yet another fed tid-bits, now and then, to a dog as soiled and scraggly as himself. A trio of raucous boys, barely in their teens spat tobacco-laced red spittle one after the other as if in concert and badgered the panwala for a cigarette on credit.
The brightly lit sweetmeat shops, lodges and hotels were doing brisk business courtesy the thousands of devotees pouring in for the yatra, now only a week away. A blood splattered Shah Rukh Khan glared down fixedly from the two-storied building of the Andaz Theater at a sprinkling of dejected stragglers and bright-eyed touts squaring off cash an hour into the six o’ clock show. A sourly group of rikshawalas sat in the two rickshaws at the head of a long queue, idly chewing tobacco and sifting through the crowd, their eyes latching on, lecherously, to an even vaguely curvaceous figure. The roads were abuzz with people. And vehicles jostled each other like giant ants, rubbing shoulders (sometimes literally) with each other or with an occasional bullock-cart or two. The glitzy beer bars were now slowly beginning to come to life, as were the dance bars, their glitzier cousins.
The long-suffering statue of the Mahatma, frozen in time and stride, white with bird droppings stood mute, watching; a melancholy look in its eye.
The central market-into which Sadanand fearlessly threw his wheels at appreciable speed, avoiding deftly a handcart but almost colliding with a bicycle which had to veer off at the last possible moment eliciting from its rider a fusillade of robust curses-was a long, narrow serpentine lane swarming with people and lined with shops big and small, stretching into infinity.
He parked untidily in front of one.
“Ram Ram Sadabhau, welcome, welcome.’ The short, blue-shirted beer-belly behind the counter chirped.
‘Ram Ram Rajuseth!’ answered Sadanand loudly, “Let’s see what you have got for me.”
The beer-belly grinned, showing a row of dirty teeth and gently tossed a box on the glass-topped counter.
Sadanand opened the box with his knobby fingers and carefully pulled out the contents.
“iphone 3g.” beamed Rajuseth. “You are one of the first 100 owners in the country Sadabhau!”
Sadanand smirked and deftly dislodged the phone to reveal the hidden compartment at the bottom of the box. It was only when he gently licked his powder-smeared index finger that his eternally pursed lips broke into a wide smile.
2
It was nearing midnight when Police Sub-Inspector Sunil Satam closed the file and placed it gently on the glass-topped table.
“You are right sir.” He said to Inspector Abhay Ranade slumped untidily in his chair across the table. “The murder weapon has been found. The motive has been clearly established. The murderer has been arrested. Moreover, he has confessed to the crime. It’s an open and shut case. I really fail to understand why this case has ended up with this unit!”
Inspector Ranade sighed tiredly, “Strange are the ways of those upstairs…” he said pointing to the ceiling.
PSI Satam smiled. He liked working with Ranade, his senior by more than a decade. Although pushing fifty, the full head of (mostly) black hair, the athletic frame and a deceptively boyish face combined to take a decade off his age.
Satam had been Inspector Ranade’s deputy for close to three years now as part of a rather obscure unit of the Maharashtra Police to which only unsolved or out of the ordinary cases were referred. This unit was known throughout the Department as the drought zone. Half of the twelve people that the unit consisted of were on perpetual leave and most of the other half spent their time tapping their contacts to get transferred out.
Inspector Ranade and PSI Satam were exceptions. Their dedication to the unit baffled their colleagues no end.
“Love the intellectual challenge.” Ranade would say smiling mischievously at his incredulous audience, when queried about their unseemly devotion.
Inspector Ranade waited for the ancient clock on the wall behind him to finish tolling; rubbed his sleep weary eyes and pulled himself into a more presentable posture. “Go over the case once again Satam. Then we will call it a day.’
Satam nodded. “The victim’s name is Sadanand. Murdered on 10th May last year in Shirpur.” “That’s exactly a year ago!” He added as an aside and continued, “Head smashed by a heavy stone. Age about 26 years. Married, two children. Was a BSc (Geology) from Pune University. Schedule caste. Lived with his parents, Shripati and Mangalabai, at the Shirpur crematorium. They make their living by supplying firewood for funeral pyres.”
“The accused, Bhima. Same age and caste as victim. Dropped out of school. Married, no children. No fixed job. His family has traditionally scavenged from funeral pyres. Was into drugs, gambling, bootlegging. Once arrested for pimping.
Surrendered and confessed to the double murder of his wife Shantabai and Sadanand. Wife it seems was screwing around with this Sadanand.”
“Same old story.” Satam smirked and Ranade waved a dismissive hand.
“Then there’s this forensic report. Murder weapons found on the respective crime scenes-a ten kg rock and knife. Both with Bhima’s fingerprints.
Then there’s Bhima’s confession in front of the magistrate.” Finished PSI Satam.
“Hmmm… one more thing, the file notes that the victim worked for an NGO-India Against Superstition.” Yawned Ranade
“The one founded by the famous Dr. Dapolikar.” Added Satam.
“Yes. And Dapolikar, if you recall” said Inspector Ranade, rubbing his neck gently, “was himself shot in Pune a couple of years ago.”
“Ah yes! The case we expected would come to us, but didn’t.” said Satam dryly.
“And the computer probably flagged that reference and some bright soul higher up sent the file to us without reading it.” Inspector Ranade smiled standing up to signal the end of the conversation and the day. “We will pay a visit to Shirpur in a couple of days and file a report.”
“Actually,” said Satam enthusiastically, “let’s go tomorrow sir, so that we can catch the annual jatra and also witness the miracle.’
Inspector Ranade gathering some loose papers strewn across the table stopped and looked at Satam curiously.
“Miracle? What miracle.”
“You don’t know sir?” said Satam excitedly, “Every year at the Shirpuri devi temple, at the peak of summer, when even drinking water is scarce, the kund, the pool, in the temple courtyard fills up with water and a copper pot materializes out of nowhere. This has been happening for centuries, at the stroke midnight, on new moon night in the month of Vaishakh…which is tomorrow.”
Inspector Ranade’s first instinct was to dismiss the story with an expletive.
“Seriously, Satam, you don’t believe in that sort of stuff do you.” He said looking at Satam quizzically.
Satam smiled sheepishly.
Ranade carefully extricated a crumpled cigarette packet from his trousers, lit an equally crumpled cigarette and let the smoke curl towards the ‘No Smoking’ sign.
“Come to think of it Satam, a miracle, garnished with the murder of a member of an anti-superstition group! This could turn out to be a very interesting recipe indeed!”
Satam nodded wearily.
“Satam, suddenly, I want to see this miracle too.” said Inspector Ranade, absently, lost in thought, sinking back deep into his chair again. “Ask Constable Jadhav to get the car ready. We leave for Shirpur at five.”
3
Sadanand almost missed the lilting whistle, absorbed as he was negotiating the myriad features, functions and applications of his new acquisition. He heard it again and turned to see the thin, heavily mustached, dark-skinned, unwashed figure of Bhima-his friend since childhood- as it advanced towards him from across the road, a flat white box under its arm, tossing away, with a careless flick, the butt of a half smoked beedi.
Bhima was the same caste as Sadanand- his friend, yet never his equal. While Sadanand lived in a two storey pukka house abutting the Mahadeva temple in the crematorium, Bhima lived in a rickety shed made of rotting tin sheets, dried mud and discarded tires, one amongst a clutch of hovels just outside the north wall of the crematorium. For generations, Sadanand’s family had been in the business of arranging funeral pyres. Bhima’s ancestors scavenged the ashes of the same pyres for gold jewelry and other trinkets in the night, before the relatives came to collect the remains the next morning. Half the pickings went to Sadanand’s family.
Bhima had had to drop out of school after seventh grade. There was just no money and the family could not keep an able hand idle at school. He grew up doing menial jobs during the day and scavenging funeral pyres in the night. Sadanand on the other hand was dispatched to Mumbai for further studies and allowed to return to Shirpur only after his graduation.
‘It’s a game of money bhidu.’ Bhima had remarked to Sadanand over a bottle of cheap rum and a plateful of steamed peanuts when they had met in Mumbai. Sadanand was in the second year of his Bachelor of Science course. ‘Your father has some number two business bhidu. He always seems to have money while we don’t. How come?’ “Magic!” He had added hiccupping a little.
“He is a Trustee on the Shirpuri Devi Temple Trust. That’s why.” Sadanand had retorted testily.
Bhima had laughed contemptuously, “Go tell that to an outsider bhidu…not me…”
Sadanand knew Bhima was right. They were the lowest of the low caste. Unemployable in Shirpur. Arranging funeral pyres was not the kind of activity that could have paid for his education or the dowry given away with his sister. The position on the Trust was nothing more than ornamental. A mere requirement under law. There was something different about his family. He had confronted his father about this when he had returned to Shirpur after completing his studies. His father had told him. Sadanand was stunned and overjoyed at the same time.
He had junked his plans for further studies, given up his dream of migrating to the city, married the girl his family had chosen for him and joined his father in their traditional business.
Five years had passed since then and their prosperity had only grown.
“Wah Sadabhau! What a phone! Must be expensive no?” exclaimed Bhima bringing Sadanand back into the present.
“Heard that you had made a packet today bhidu!’ He continued in a cheerful voice, winking, slapping Sadanand on the shoulder.
Sadanand gave a tight-lipped smile, shifting uncomfortably, now on one foot, now on the other. He shrugged carelessly, “It was OK business today, especially with Manekshet’s mistress dropping off. Took a lot of wood to burn. Sandalwood. I was arranging the pyre for a full hour.”
“Lucky You. How much?” asked Bhima rubbing his thumb and index finger together.
Sadanand merely smiled in response.
Bhima felt an insane anger welling up inside. He stopped it before it could pour out of his eyes.
He laughed loudly.
“Come on now, I have bought something too!” He said opening the flat white box to reveal a delicate pink saree with heavy gold embroidery along its border.
“For the wife.” “She will look beautiful wearing it won’t she.” Said Bhima softly holding Sadanand’s gaze a fleeting second longer than necessary.
Sadanand lowered his eyes quickly and chuckled nervously. Bhima pretended not to notice. He fished out a folded bundle of five hundred rupee bills and fanned himself with it. ‘Twenty Thousand kadak! I am the king of matka.’ He said, eyes gleaming.
He caught Sadanand by his arm and almost dragged him from the shop, riding roughshod over his meek, half-hearted protests.
“Come’n bhidu, don’t do nakhras... not today,”
“Today we have to celebrate!!”
4
Inspector Madhukar Khonde, returning late from the extra bandobast duty because of the annual pilgrimage, had been asleep for less than an hour when he was roused from his rapidly deepening slumber, by the relentless ringing of the phone. It was three in the morning and the caller at the other end was a constable from the Special Branch HQ in Mumbai.
After three hours of tossing and turning and a severe bout of acidity, Inspector Khonde heaped some choice curses on Inspector Ranade, his ancestors and his descendents and reached for his phone. He knew it was very early to rouse such an important person from his sleep, yet he could wait no longer. This call, he had to make.
***
It was past eleven in the morning and by the time they were on the outskirts of Shirpur, Satam was in deep slumber and Inspector Ranade, an expert on the town, its residents and their shenanigans, all courtesy Constable Jadhav whose maternal uncle happened to be a resident of Shirpur. Jadhav, aghast at Inspector sahib’s lack of knowledge about the jatra and its host town had quickly embarked on remedial measures.
“Look to your right Sir.” Constable Jadhav gushed, “The Trust is constructing an engineering college. Adjacent to it is the proposed medical college.”
Ranade wondered what use a medical and an engineering college was to residents of a town which did not even have a proper secondary school. He kept his thoughts to himself. It was none of his business.
“Everything has changed since Shankarrao became chairman of the Trust last year Sir. The Trust has taken over the administration of the entire town. Shankarrao has done a lot for the town Sir. Changed the face of Shirpur in one year.” Finished Constable Jadhav reverentially.
“Shankarrao….hmmm…that’s Appasaheb Patil’s son right? They say he is sure to be elected to the state assembly in this election” said Satam, suddenly waking up from his slumber.
Jadhav nodded and turned off the highway into a narrow lane.
An indescribable stench assaulted the car’s air-conditioning and overwhelmed it. They pitched and rolled past a gang of strays standing guard around a landfill that reminded Ranade of a half healed scab. Reduced to a crawl, time and distance were now merely a measure of relative respite between two potholes. Many such respites later, they lurched to a halt in front of a freshly whitewashed one storey building. The mega-sized board courtesy the Shirpuri Devi Temple Trust left none in doubt that they were standing in front of the Shirpur Police Station.
Inspector Madhukar Khonde short, balding and brimming with acid and gas burped out to greet the visitors, his enormous behind jiggling with the effort.
Inspector Ranade spent the better part of the next hour wolfing down a plateful of the famous Shirpuri missal, two vadapavs and a large cup of very sweet tea. Satam gorged on two samosas in addition to the above mentioned fare. It was only then that they turned their attention to the increasingly fidgety Khonde.
Inspector Khonde shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Yes, I was the investigating officer in this case.” He said knotting his leathery brown forehead into a frown. “The case was fully investigated. The paperwork is complete and through. What’s the need to reopen the case?”
“Yes, Yes, I understand…I understand.” Said Ranade smiling, almost apologetic.
“Orders from above. What to do.” Shrugged Satam.
“I haven’t slept for days. There’s the bandobast for the festival and now this.” Grumbled Khonde.
“Bitch of a job. They don’t understand at the HQ. Look at us we have been travelling since five.” Said Inspector Ranade soothingly. “Just one or two questions so that we can make out a report and wrap up quickly. We also want to attend the ceremony at midnight. You will make arrangements for us wont you Khonde sahib.”
Inspector Khonde stopped frowning and relaxed visibly. “Sure…sure…I will ensure VIP treatment for you Sir. Don’t worry.”
“Did Sadanand have any enemies?” asked Satam abruptly, scribbling away on his notepad.
Khonde shook his head slowly, “No. I don’t think he had any enemies as such. Jealousy maybe. Enmity no.”
“Jealousy because he was quite well off as compared to other people from his caste?” observed Ranade helpfully.
“Yes and some upper caste people too. Nothing illegal there though. Just that his grandfather was at the right place at the right time. Used to work for the Patils…they made him a trustee…a person from the backward caste has to be on the board of a Trust. Legal requirement.” Shrugged Khonde. “We had interrogated a number of people mostly from his caste…they all said they had heard rumors about the affair…”
“Hmmm…I see.” Said Ranade gravely.
“Ranade Sahib, we have the murderer, we have his lawful confession, we have a motive, we have the murder weapons and the fingerprints of the murderer on the weapons and the crime scene. Case solved. What else do you want? It is a straight forward crime of passion.”
“Right…Right…absolutely. Its air tight” Said Ranade quickly, “This is just a formality.”
Inspector Khonde nodded and looked at his watch wearily. “Look, can we finish this quickly. You can access any file you want. Just ask Constable Kamble here. I have to report for bandobast immediately.”
“Yes, yes…of course I understand.” Said Ranade nodding vigorously even as he scribbled furiously on a paper. “There’s not much that we hope to add to the case here. You have done a good job. Just formality though. Those interrogations have to be conducted.”
“Procedure.” Sighed Satam shrugging his shoulders resignedly.
Inspector Khonde glanced at the paper and quickly made out the order granting them access to Bhima. “The case has not been brought to trial yet. So he is lodged at the town jail in our custody.’ He explained. “About Sadanand’s father, I will ask Kamble to send a constable to bring him to the police station ASAP. Okay?”
Inspector Ranade smiled broadly, “Thanks. You have been a great help. See you tonight at the temple.”
“One last question Sir.” Said Satam. “The file says that there was considerable cash found on Bhima when he surrendered. Bhima says in his statement that he won twenty thousand at the matka that day. Did you check out if he was telling the truth?”
Khonde smirked, “You think someone put out a supari don’t you?”
Satam shrugged.
Khonde laughed curtly. “This is not Mumbai Satamji and Sadanand was not a filmwalah or builder. Of course we checked out with some of Bhima’s friends who were regulars at the matka. We also crosschecked with our informers. He was telling the truth. Anything else?”
“No.” said Satam pushing back his chair and striding toward the door.
Inspector Ranade was already at the car. Satam could not resist one last poke at Khonde. “By the way Sir,” he said standing at the door of the police station, “just curious. Do you know who controls the matka operations in Shirpur?”
Khonde cracked his knuckles nervously as Satam looked on with amusement.
“Well, you know how it is…” he mumbled.
Satam smiled broadly.
“Relax Khonde sahib. You don’t have to say it. We know its Shankarrao Patil.” He said dryly, putting on his shades and stepping out into the bright, hot May sun.
Satam noticed Ranade smiling at him impishly.
“He is on the take.” Smirked Satam.
“Who isn’t?” said Ranade calmly getting into the car.
Jadhav winced as Satam slammed the car door
Ranade closed his eyes thoughtfully. “Come on now, don’t act like a juvenile and stop wasting your energies on things that you can’t change. We have work to do”
“You know sir...you know what I would really like at this moment.”
Ranade opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“A hot cup of cappuccino.” Sighed Satam.
Ranade chuckled.
5
Bhima put a hand over Sadanand’s shoulders as they turned into the temple lane, so called because it led to the Shirpuri devi temple. Bhima touched his fingers first to his chest, then to his forehead and then finally to his lips as they passed the temple. He repeated it several times in quick succession.
Sadanand disentangled himself from Bhima’s bear hug as they turned into the small space between the temple wall and an adjacent house and emerged abruptly, into a lane flush behind the temple. It was one of those lanes which every town has, damp, dinky, inexplicably empty and eerily quiet; a world removed from the noisy people filled streets. The letters ‘Permit Room’ in bright red neon at the bottom of the lane beckoned.
“Let’s have English today! Whiskey, what say?”
“Only one Quarter between us.” Said Sadanand, already feeling the whiskey on his tongue.
Bhima nodded gravely.
“Tell me,” said Bhima, pouring a generous amount of the amber liquid into Sadanand’s glass as they settled down in the dimly lit, smoke filled room at a table covered with a smelly table cloth of unfathomable color, “Where did they burn her. Tell me the exact spot. I want to be home well before dawn.”
Sadanand chuckled as he drank deep from his glass, “So, you are making the walk tonight, eh? I am surprised. I thought you would give up stealing from the dead, now that you are the king of matka.”
Bhima ignored the barb. “Was she wearing gold? She must have been.”
“The pyre is near the smaller Pipal, not the one near the shed, but the one near the river.”
“Is she wearing gold?” enquired Bhima once again, popping a peanut in his mouth.
“I don’t know about that, I didn’t see the body actually... wasn’t allowed inside after the priest Raghuram sprinkled holy water on the pyre. Purified it and what not...you know how it is. But she must have been wearing gold. I am sure of it.”
Bhima spat out a sour nut, nodding in agreement.
The dim red light in the room cast dark, grim shadows on the walls.
Bhima and Sadanand drank deep into the night.
6
They had finished interrogating Bhima within an hour and as expected had learnt nothing new from him. It was late afternoon by then and with nothing more to do than wait for Inspector Khonde to get hold of Shripati, they had checked into a hotel.
Since then they had twiddled their thumbs and then twiddled them some more. It was nearing nine in the evening and now Inspector Ranade was losing both his patience and temper.
“I don’t believe this nincompoop cannot get hold of an old man in this pipsqueak of a town!” fumed Ranade.
Satam wished that he would stop pacing around the small room. It made him dizzy.
“To be fair to him Sir, Khonde called a couple of times. They are trying Shripati’s phone continuously. I have tried it myself too. He is not reachable on phone. His wife thinks he has gone to the jatra and will return after the midnight ceremony. Khonde’s posted a constable at Shripati’s house. Nothing more he can do.”
“Yes I know,” Said Ranade sitting down heavily on one of the beds, much to Satam’s relief.
Satam nodded. “Sir, you still think there’s something more to this case than a mere crime of passion angle?”
“Straws in the wind Satam.” Said Ranade starting to pace about the room again much to Satam’s chargin. “Straws in the wind. It’s just a hunch Satam. Just a wild hunch.”
“Your hunches are known to come true quite often Sir.”
“It would require a miracle for this one to come true.”
“There’s one happening less than three hours from now.”
Ranade chuckled.
“It’s almost nine thirty. Order some food for the three of us. And have Jadhav bring some bottles of chilled water immediately. It’s bloody hot!”
Satam had just finished talking to Jadhav and was in the midst of unraveling the rather confused operator who had tied himself in knots while taking down their order, when his cell rang. It was Inspector Khonde.
There was a soft knock on the door. Ranade opened it to let in Constable Jadhav hugging an armful of bottles filled with water to his chest.
Satam tossed his phone onto the bed. “No joy with Shripati Sir. Khonde says he has definitely gone to the temple for the midnight ceremony like everyone in town.”
“Dammed” said Ranade.
“Sorry to interrupt Sir.” Said Jadhav suddenly, “Khonde is lying!” “Shripati won’t go to the temple. The townspeople will kill him if he even steps into the temple premises.”
“Why?” asked Satam. But he already knew the answer.
There was only one crumpled cigarette left in the crumpled cigarette packet. Ranade lit it.
“Well Satam,” he said watching the smoke curl towards the ceiling, “Looks like we may get our miracle after all!”
7
Inspector Ranade left Constable Jadhav with the car about half a mile from the crematorium.
“You have twenty minutes.” He said. Jadhav nodded as he drove off.
Exactly twenty-five minutes later Ranade stole into the crematorium through a break in the wall, carefully avoiding the northern wall and the clutch of hovels where Bhima had lived. A charred hand, still retaining its shape showed from under the embers of a rapidly cooling pyre on the cement platform. Ranade gave other such cement platforms a considerably wide berth and hid behind a tree from where he could see Shripati’s house clearly.
He put his cell on ‘silent’ noting the time before the screen blinked off. It was ten-thirty.
At precisely eleven, Shripati, short and painfully thin, emerged from the house wearing a dirty brown kurta and dhoti. He walked briskly to the small mahadeva temple next to his house. Ranade counted the minutes. After an agonizing wait for about thirty, he tiptoed into the temple.
The temple consisted of one large room for the devotees to sit and the much smaller sanctum sanctorum. There were no windows and only one door, the one through which he had entered. The dim pale yellow light from the tiny incandescent bulb revealed that the temple was empty except for the jet-black shivlinga in the center of the sanctum sanctorum.
Shripati had disappeared without a trace.
Ranade spent several minutes examining each square inch of the wall and the floor minutely. Each minute he spent confirmed what he already knew. He heard the faint roar of the crowd in the distance. It was midnight.
“Thirty minutes, forty on the outside…” thought Ranade as he sat himself down cross-legged in front of the shivlinga.
He did not have to wait too long. Some thirty minutes later the shivlinga slid aside with a grating sound. Shripati climbed out of the gaping hole and found himself staring into the muzzle of Ranade’s service revolver.
“Hello there!” said Inspector Ranade conversationally, “I think Shripatiji, it’s time we had a small chat.”
8
It was midnight and the copper pot magically surfaced out of the churning water. Satam watched the head priest carefully climb down the now submerged steps leading into the kund, lift the copper pot, touch it to his forehead and hold it up for the crowd to see. The crowd roared in appreciation. The head priest then handed the copper pot to Shankarrao Patil, who carried it slowly and ceremoniously inside the temple.
Satam felt a strong arm grip his shoulder. It was a policeman. He grimly signaled to Satam to follow him.
The room, empty except for a table and three chairs was part of the temporary control center set up in one of the buildings located inside the temple perimeter. A furious Khonde paced the length of the small room, kicking aside chairs that invariably kept getting in his way.
“Where’s Ranade?” he yelled as soon as he saw Satam.
Satam ignored the question and hoisted himself smoothly onto edge of the table. “The chapie following us is sleeping peacefully in our room at the hotel.” He said calmly, “the one at the crematorium is sleeping in the backseat of the car.”
“Ranade is at the crematorium?” It was more a statement than a question.
Satam shrugged.
Khonde summoned the two constables standing outside the room. “Satam sahib will not leave the room until I give you the order in person.”
“It’s no use, we know everything now.”
“No you don’t. You have no idea what you have got yourselves into.” said Khonde fiercely; the blazing anger in his eyes, a thin veneer, barely hiding the fear underneath.
“It’s all my fault…You should have ignored it.” He said suddenly leaning against the door as if all his strength had drained away.
“What have I done…Bloody f**k…What have I done.” He kept repeating.
“Are you alright Khonde? Said Satam, a little alarmed at seeing the man disintegrating before him. “What have you done?”
Inspector Khonde looked at Satam for a long moment. Then he whirled around and dashed out of the room at considerable speed.
***
Ranade’s proposed tete-a-tete with Shripati never materialized. They stood silently, unmoving, fifty zombies waiting for orders from their master. The flickering flames from their torches danced in the warm night air and the naked swords in their hands glinted dully.
A sleek black BMW made its way slowly through the mob. A man with a short clipped mustache and badly dyed hair climbed out of its passenger seat.
“Sir, I am Balasaheb Borude, Mr. Shankarrao Patil’s personal assistant.” He said with an exaggerated bow, “Sahib has requested the pleasure of your company.”
Ranade gazed at Borude coldly, making him squirm.
“And about time too.” He said softly.
9
Shankarrao Patil, chairman of the Shirpuri Devi Trust, met Ranade in his study. Surrounded by thick tomes of law, politics and autobiographies and dressed in a silk kurta and chudidar, he was courteous to a fault. He pushed the delicate rimless glasses further up the bridge of his beaklike nose as he poured expensive whiskey into three short, stubby glasses from the bottle taken from the small bar artfully hidden behind the six volumes of Winston Churchill’s “The Second World War.”
In one glass, which he placed in front of Ranade, he added four cubes of ice, one he topped up with soda. Satam seated next to Ranade eyed the glass greedily, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“A little bit of chilled water for me and we are set.” muttered Shankarrao to himself as he sat down in the large chair behind the tastelessly ornate desk.
“Cheers.” He said raising his glass. Ranade and Satam made no move toward their drinks. Shankarrao sighed and took a long sip from his glass.
“There’s an underground lake some two kilometers from the temple.” He said without preamble. “It is fed by hundreds of tiny underground rivulets throughout the year. Drop by drop the water accumulates and by some quirk of nature, it breaches the banks of the lake on a particular day and a particular time. Precisely, unfailingly, year after year. Then it flows through an underground tunnel to the temple kund. This tunnel is manmade. No one knows who built it. The copper pot is kept at a precisely calculated location in this tunnel such that the force of the flowing water carries it to the temple pool. The water stops flowing once the water level falls below the embankment.”
Ranade chuckled, “so there’s a miracle involved after all.”
“Yes, a miracle of nature.” “Alas, it’s not the kind of miracle people will pay for. So we added religion to it.” “The secret entrance to the tunnel from the temple was discovered by Sadanand’s grandfather. He told my grandfather as the Patil family practically owned Shirpur…we still do. The tunnel had to be repaired to make way for the water. It was done and a miracle was born. Sadanand’s grandfather, father…it was their responsibility to put the copper pot in the proper place at the proper time. They were handsomely compensated for it. Sadanand was set to inherit it. It was an immensely profitable secret arrangement between the two families.” Said Shankarrao taking in a large mouthful of whiskey. He noted with some concern that Ranade and Satam had still not touched their glasses.
“Until Sadanand threatened to blow the lid off this cozy operation with the help of his anti-superstition activists.”
Shankarrao laughed derisively, “He blackmailed me all right. Not for any social cause but to extract more and more money.”
“And so you had him bumped off.” Said Ranade softly.
Shankarrao leaned back in his chair, picked out a cigarette and pushed the packet towards Ranade.
“Filthy habit this.” said Ranade resting his elbows on the table.
Shankarrao paused for a fleeting instant, shrugged, lit the cigarette, tossed the lighter on the table and leaned back in his chair.
“Shirpur was a barren wasteland.” He said blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. “A miserable collection of some hundred hovels made of mud and cow dung and an equal number of starving, skeletal cows. The miracle changed everything. It brought money…prosperity…changed a wretched village into a thriving town. The stakes are very high for the townspeople Inspector Ranade. If the miracle dies, if its mystique dies, so does Shirpur.”
“As does your political ambition!” said Ranade dryly.
“And so for the greater good, Sadanand had to die.” Concluded Satam.
“There’s a saying in Marathi…,” said Sankarrao crushing his cigarette, “that the cough was cured without the medicine! The fact of the matter is that Bhima killed Sadanand because Sadanand was having an affair with his wife. And that’s the truth. That’s how it will stay.” “As you so aptly put it Mr. Satam-for the greater good.”
He gulped down the remaining whiskey, put down the glass firmly on the table and got up, signifying that the meeting was at its end.
“They are not empty.” Said Shankarrao, pointing to the three small ash coloured suitcases lined up against the wall. “Forget about Sadanand, keep what you know about the miracle to yourself and bags like these will keep reaching you every year. Consider them the devi’s Prasad, her blessings.”
“And if we refuse, you will kill us, for Shirpur of course. Right?” Said Satam softly.
“No.” Said Shankarrao with chilling simplicity. “The people will.”
Inspector Ranade reached inside his shirt, pulled out a thin, white envelope and tossed it onto the table.
“They are photographs, Shankarrao, photographs manipulated and morphed to serve as an instrument to incite murder.” “You will also find in there, the compact disc with the before and after photographs.” “It’s just a copy the original is safe at the HQ in Mumbai.”
Shankarrao stared at the envelope transfixed, his eyes open wide. His hands trembled and the color had drained from his face.
“You…you will not get away with this Ranade!” Hissed Shankarrao through clenched teeth.
“Calm down Shankarrao.” “Nothing personal. We are just doing our duty.” Said Inspector Ranade coldly.
Satam chuckled “For the greater good of course!”
10
It was well past midnight when Sadanand and Bhima stumbled out of the bar, blinking at the darkness outside.
Sadanand heard his mate mumbling something about gold as they made their unsteady way to the narrow opening near the temple wall. He took out his brand new phone from his trouser pocket for no apparent reason and thrust it back again. Bhima still had the now severely dented, flat white box containing the saree, tucked securely under his arm.
Sadanand thanked Bhima loudly for paying for the whiskey.
Something gnawed at the back of his mind. Through the mist, the thought kept prodding at his mind. It appeared to be something important, but for the love of God, he just could not remember what it was. He shook his head violently, brutally pushing aside the needling thought.
Whatever it was, it did not matter. He felt on the top of the world. Then he remembered. He burped loudly, “bike…we have to pick up my bike” he mumbled as he sank to the ground in a saccharine sweet haze.
Bhima stood swaying slightly over his friend, splayed untidily on the road.
“You won’t need it any more you bastard!” He hissed through clenched teeth. He spat at the body lying on the ground, with all the force his venomous hatred for the man could muster.
From his trouser pocket, he extricated a crumpled photograph, one of the six that Shripati, Sadanand’s father had given him in a white unmarked envelope a week earlier. He squinted at it. The half naked figures of Sadanand and Shanta, Bhima’s wife, entwined in a passionate embrace were clearly recognizable even in the dim ambient light.
Bhima kicked Sadanand in the ribs, breathing obscenities through his clenched teeth. Sadanand winced without opening his eyes and turned onto his side, away from Bhima.
Fists clenched, rocking on his heels, breathing in short sharp gasps, Bhima felt the insane, red hot anger rise again inside him. This time he did not attempt to stop it. He let it consume him; explode in a haze of red in his head.
The large, jagged rock a foot away from Sadanand’s head was temptingly reachable.
A full minute elapsed before Bhima brought out a flat bottle of whiskey, took a deep swig, screwed the lid back on and tucked the bottle into his pocket. His foot kicked against the now torn flat white box. He picked up the saree and buried his face in its crisp, intricately embroidered folds.
Bhima made his unsteady way towards the highway, stopping occasionally to rub his chappal vigorously into the dirt to get the blood off its toe.
He tapped his back pocket to check if the knife was still there. It was. He wondered how he should kill her. Slit her throat or drive the knife in her again and again and again…let the blood that spurted with each thrust wash his anger away. No he thought, he would make her wear the saree, kiss her one last time and then plunge the knife into her such that she bleeds to death slowly. He wanted her to die in his arms and the photographs to be the last thing she would see as the light went out from her eyes.
11
“So the file wasn’t flagged by the computer after all.” Said Satam as they turned onto the highway after successfully surviving the open landfill.
Ranade’s face glowed with the calm happiness which comes with the satisfaction of a job well done.
“No, I pulled it out after I received the photographs and CD along with a paper with the details of the case through speed post. It took you a long time to catch on Satam.”
“Do you know who sent the photographs?”
“Come on PSI Satam, I thought you would have figured that out by now!”
Satam was suddenly very serious, “Inspector Khonde. Looks like he was playing both sides. What on earth would have possessed him to do such a thing?”
“Conscience, like love, makes you do silly things.” Sighed Ranade, suddenly feeling very tired.
“Poor bastard! Good we did what we did” sighed Satam as he closed his eyes and started to snore almost instantly.
“Anything for the greater good Satam, anything for the greater good” mumbled Ranade as he too, overcome by tiredness, slowly succumbed to the rhythm of the open road and the steady purr of the car engine.
Back in the boot of the car, three olive green suitcases, significantly larger than the ash-colored ones initially offered by Shankarrao, bounced to the same rhythm.
And like their ash-colored brethren, they too were not empty.
Support Rahul Damle
