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Past midnight:
Rahman miyan was alone in his restaurant. He had put away the cash box, finished his namaz and was now wishing to eat. He had felt anxious and uneasy all evening, which was causing a slight wheeze. Or, perhaps it was the maddening cough. He looked towards the food that Arshad had carefully laid out for him – a bowl full of spicy mutton, some kind of dark thick shorba and rotis. Rahman miyan made a face. He much preferred his own home-food, but his wife was away at her brother’s house. At least the shorba was hot – maybe it would help his cough. He picked it up and drank the shorba and felt very sick. He put his head down on the table.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when he became conscious again and attempted to rise from his chair. He faltered and had the sensation of something cold and very hard hitting him on his forehead. Rahman miyan crashed to the ground.
Earlier in the evening:
Salman was never sweet to his mother. She had lived and worked all her life in the house of an old, illustrious family. Salman, who had never known his father, had grown up angry in the servants’ quarters behind the main kothi.
He found his mother in the kitchen courtyard supervising her new helper while he cleaned the mutton for the day’s dinner in the kothi. Zaitoon nani, the oldest member of the staff, was also there, resting on her small chowki.
“Amma! What’s for dinner?”
“It’s only six. You want dinner now! I have to first cook dinner for the table. Why do you want dinner now? You haven’t even been out on your evening jaunt yet.”
From the way he was dressed, in tight, tapered pants and an equally tight-fitting jacket, it was obvious that he was intending to go out and didn’t really want dinner. Salman scowled at her and turned to leave. “I’ll eat out then.”
“Then why were you asking me? Anyway you eat out – sometimes at Laadley’s, sometimes at that witch Naseeban’s house. How she has done black magic on you!”
Zaitoon nani clucked her tongue. “She is a very bad influence, Sallu. You are wasting your time instead of finding work.”
“Finding work?” Salman scoffed. “Nani, why don’t you ask Badey saheb to get me some decent work? I promise I’ll leave everything and focus.”
“How will he find you work?” said his mother.
“He is a big man. He knows everybody. I don’t know what it is: in our community, important people turn their faces away from people like me. They don’t meet our eyes.”
“It is embarrassment, They can’t help, so then what is the point of looking?” At times Zaitoon nani could be very perceptive about her world.
“Look at Bulbhaddar babu: he has helped Shambhu and those two thugs, Kanwal and Nirmal. There is nobody to help us. Amma, why didn’t you at least send me to a proper school? She sent me to a madarsa to save money. Now I am stuck. I don’t even have a 10th class certificate.”
“I work night and day to feed you. Where was the money to send you to an English school?” said his mother.
“Beta, even if you had gone to the most famous English school, you wouldn’t have had any papers to show. You get a degree if you properly pass your exams. When you keep running away from school, then it doesn’t matter whether it is an English school or an Arabi school,” said Zaitoon nani.
Salman shrugged, “I don’t even have a birth certificate, or any other certificate. When they come with the NRC register, what will I do? Fine! Let them put my name on the register and deport me. I don’t care. My Amma and my nani will have each other.” He banged the wooden courtyard door as he left.
“Why does he suddenly want papers?” his mother asked, looking towards Zaitoon nani.
§
“Arshad bhai, please take me in? Put me with Abrar bhai – I will peel onions; I will clean the gosht; I will do everything,” Salman begged.
It was late and most customers had left. Abrar, the cook, was sitting on his haunches and smoking a beedi. “Have you ever peeled onions in your life?” he snapped at Salman.
“Then let me train under you, Arshad bhai, please? You are overworked. You need a helper,” Salman pleaded with Arshad.
Arshad considered this line of argument and nodded to himself. “Salman, but you will have to listen and take orders from me. You don’t listen to anybody; that is your problem. Come let’s ask haji saheb if we can keep you.”
Rahman miyan was busy tallying accounts at the end of a busy day, and coughing alongside. He looked up as Salman hesitatingly followed Arshad inside the restaurant, and made a face of disgust and disapproval. “What is he doing here? Who allowed him in?”
“Haji saheb, he has reformed now. He wants a job, and I thought we might employ him as my helper.”
“Your helper? You are already my helper, and now you want you own helper?”
Arshad remained silent.
“You wait outside,” Rahman miyan said to Salman. He then turned to Arshad and said, “I am doing my accounts. The almirah is open; the cash box is in full view. You should know better than bringing him here. Anyway, I have decided to pass on the restaurant to my begum’s nephew. In fact, she has gone to her brother’s house to discuss the plan with them. Now let the boy first join the team. He might want to modernise everything, and bring English-speaking waiters.”
“To serve paaya?” Arshad asked incredulously.
Salman had been standing by the door, looking forlorn. Just then a motorcycle screeched to a halt. The pillion rider jumped off first and waited for the driver to alight and take his helmet off.
“Oho, world-famous loafer Salman ji himself at your doorstep to welcome customers, Rahman ji?” Constable Awdhesh Rana called out to Rahman miyan as he strode into the restaurant. Kanwal, the pillion rider, walked in behind him, smirking.
“I was saying to Kanwal ji that I will take you for some good quality meat-mutton tonight, but I don’t think I should even be seen at your restaurant anymore. Imagine a policeman and his guest eating at the same place as a local rowdy! Kyun bhai, Salman Romeo, you have also come to eat?” He turned to look at Salman who was still standing at the threshold.
Rahman miyan half rose in his chair in welcome and in panic, “I had myself thrown him out just as you arrived Inspector saheb. Get out!” he shouted in a rather undignified manner at Salman, and burst into another coughing fit. “Where’s Abrar? Tell him to light the ovens – make fresh rotis. Sit, sit Inspector saheb,” he gestured with both hands.
§
Constable Awdhesh Rana belched loudly. Rahman miyan, who was watching anxiously asked, “The food suits you, Inspector saheb?”
Constable Rana looked at his plate thoughtfully and said without malice, “The roti could have been a little more crisp…” Rahman miyan turned towards the kitchen and shouted in his deep voice, “Abrar! Did you hear that? You’re serving uncooked roti to Inspector sahib now?”
Then he looked towards Arshad and said gruffly, “Bring some fresh rotis. And make it crisp this time.” Arshad lunged forward with a freshly baked tandoori roti in his hand and put it on their table. “And get more gosht! What will sahib eat the roti with? Kanwal ji what will you take?”
Kanwal leaned back in his chair and said, “You don’t make dal? You should learn how to make good dal.” Rahman miyan nodded in agreement.
After some time, Constable Rana held up his palms to indicate that he had had enough. Then he patted the seat next to him and said softly, “Sit, Rahman ji, sit.”
Rahman miyan slipped onto the bench across the table and coughed again.
“You should have some kantheeka. It is very good for coughs,” said Kanwal. Rahman miyan had turned red and teary eyed from the coughing.
“Too much smoke from too much barbecue,” Constable Rana said almost to himself, and then added, “Kanwal ji here has started a youth group. He wants to inculcate dharma and good values in everyone. He has been telling me that there is a lot of illegal business going on in these galis. For instance I am getting constant complaints about Laadley’s meat business, haan? He is not caring about sentiments of people.’
“Saheb, what is wrong with serving nehari-kabab? His people have served it since ancient times.”
“Look, we know what meat he is serving and not serving!” Kanwal said tensely. “We are tolerant about mutton-meat. We are sitting here eating it ourselves, aren’t we? But some meats we will not tolerate,” he said forcefully.
“Your people, Rahman ji, your days of hurting majority sentiments are over.” Awdhesh Rana’s tone became very soft again.
Something akin to anger flashed across Rahman miyan’s face, but he contained himself, “So it would seem, huzoor.”
“See just because something was tolerated for the last 70 years, it doesn’t become right. Also you people are very irresponsible. First you spread problems: population, Covid, terrorism, rioting; then when the government tries to solve it, you scream ‘human rights violations’. If there were any one problem with your community, I would have tried to help you. But how much can one help someone who doesn’t want to reform?
“Anyway, what has been happening at your madarsa? I have been getting bad reports.”
“Arre, Inspector saheb you know every boy there. They are harmless.”
“See this is your problem. Always trying to protect your people. For you, your own people come before the nation. You don’t want to be part of the nation only. The nation will do one thing; you will do the exact opposite. You allow people with jihadi tendencies into your restaurant. Madarsa jihadis, love jihadis, then supplying biryani to protestors… It is becoming difficult for me to answer my superiors. They say, ‘You are trying to protect Rahman miyan.’ And really, the so-called information that you supply is useless. Some times I feel you get it from your colony WhatsApp group.”
Rahman miyan and Arshad both looked at their feet for a few seconds. Then the silence was broken when Rana made a show of taking out his purse, and Rahman miyan snapped back into the present and remembered his manners. “Saheb, what are you doing? You are our honourable guest. Eh, pack some kabab for saheb’s Mrs.”
“Arre, what are you saying! My wife is not communist like Achche bhai’s Mrs.,” the constable tittered. “She is sanatani. She doesn’t allow it in the house.”
§
The next morning:
Aamna barged into the room. “Jamal, wake up! Rahman miyan is dead.”
“What? I just saw him last evening.”
“Your Abba has left already. They’ve taken Rahman miyan’s body for post mortem and are not releasing it. Somebody had to go to see how soon they would return the body, so your Abba has gone.”
“Why is there a post mortem?” Jamal asked weakly.
“He was killed! With his own steam iron, head smashed. There was a robbery too – the whole place is in disarray. Arshad had come to call your Abba; he told us.”
Jamal walked with his mother to Rahman miyan’s house, only a few doors away from his restaurant, and further into the alley. They could hear begum saheba’s wailing even as they approached the house. An old durri had been spread in the gali outside but all the assembled men were standing, looking sombre and lost. Only the children from the madarsa were sitting on the durri, swinging back and forth, as they read the Quran in prayer for the departed.
Jamal first went into the house with his mother, and watched from a distance as she embraced Rahman miyan’s wife. “Three days I left him to go to my brother’s house, and this is what happens. I took care of everything – his food, his health. I went away for three days and they have killed him – I don’t know what they fed him. He had very bad asthma and now I find his inhaler is also lying at home. Nobody even took care to see his inhaler was with him,” she said accusingly and let out a moan.
Outside, in the gali, Arshad was sobbing. “I went to open the restaurant in the morning and found him lying on the floor, face down, his forehead had a deep gash and was pressed against the steam iron, which was also lying on the floor. Haji saheb had turned black. There was so much blood,” Arshad shivered.
“Somebody has stolen the gosht ka pateela from the kitchen, with all the paaya in it. Other pateelas are also missing. Haji saheb’s aluminium tiffin carrier is gone too,” said Abrar quietly.
“There was robbery inside also. His counter has been toppled over,” said Arshad.
Laadley put his hands on Arshad’s shoulders, ostensibly in order to comfort him, but it only made Arshad lose his balance and stumble slightly. “Arre, he will faint from the sadma,” shouted Salman.
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Abrar snapped back. At that moment, Arshad and Abrar were both summoned inside by begum saheba to receive instructions regarding the funeral.
“We were there last night,” said Jamal glancing towards Habib. “We had a long conversation with him, no?”
“But after everyone left, Awdhesh Rana and Kanwal came to the restaurant and even threatened haji saheb. I was there in the beginning, but they made me leave,” said Salman conspiratorially.
“Kanwal was there too? What was that scoundrel doing in our gali?” Laadley spat on the ground. “Now we know who is responsible for this.”
§
Jamal’s father, Asghar, returned with Balabhadra babu to Rahman miyan’s house, where the whole mohalla was gathered. Both declared that they had ‘spoken to people’ and that the body would be returned by Asr time for burial.
“I have spoken to people,” Balabhadra babu said confidently.
“I have requested Achche to intervene,” said Asghar supportively.
Both also tried helpfully to answer people’s questions:
“No, no Beta we don’t know if his head was smashed with the steam iron or whether he fell on top of it. Post mortem results are awaited,” said Balabhadra babu.
“The injury to the head could be ante-mortem. The concerned person said that the body was blue and it seemed he had choked on something – it could be an asthma attack even,” Asghar added.
“You mean it isn’t a murder? But there has been a robbery too. Abrar is saying that the gosht ka pateela is gone,” asked Habib.
“Then it has to be a Mohammadan who has done it! We won’t kill for gosht ka pateela,” blurted Shambhu.
Balabhadra babu gave him an annoyed look, and then changed the subject. “Arre Abrar, why don’t you serve some biscuits? Body will still take some hours.”
All afternoon, the men of the mohalla waited for the body to arrive, while Abrar went around serving Parle-G biscuits, arranged on a stainless steel tray. Rahman miyan’s nephews went to arrange a place at the local cemetery. Later, Laadley and Arshad were dispatched to oversee the digging of the grave; the children continued to read the Quran on empty stomachs; begum saheba continued to wail; the young moulvi from the madarsa made preparations to give a ritual ghusl to Rahman miyan’s body; and Asghar and Balabhadra babu went back to the hospital to receive the body. Of course Rahmania hotel remained closed.
When the men finally returned from the Qabristan, it was cold and dark. Laadley had had some lights and some plastic chairs put outside Rahman miyan’s house. The man in the sleeveless brown sweater and checked lungi served tea and more Parle-G biscuits. Jamal’s mother sent some cooked food for begum saheba and her immediate family.
As the day drew to a close, Constable Rana who had earlier come to seal the restaurant rode up to the house and and parked in a dark corner. He didn’t get off from his bike, but nodded at Arshad and signalled for him to come over. “Don’t mention to anybody that I was there last night. It was in connection with a confidential and sensitive investigation. If word leaks out, I’ll find you.”
To be continued…
Shahrukh Alam has been trying to write a murder mystery for a very long time. She has written versions of this story since 2013 and The Wire has published one such version earlier. She is hopeful that she’ll deliver a complete mystery this time. 🤞🏻
