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The sun hadn’t come out in several days. It was grey and foggy, and very cold. Jamal and Habib both shivered slightly as they sat on the freezing steps outside Laadley’s shop. The clay ovens had not been lit that morning; the shop was shut.
“Bechara…” tut-tutted Jamal. “Now he will have to spend a few days just trying to get his meat back.”
“Jamal bhai, shouldn’t he just let that meat go, and buy himself a fresh supply? Would it be safe to bring it back and serve it to his customers? Although, knowing Laadley, he will do exactly that.”
Jamal wrapped his chadar more tightly around himself. “They have just closed down all the places where we would sit and talk. That is their great investigation.”
“Jamal bhai, I wanted to speak to you about that only,” said Habib excitedly. “They aren’t investigating the incident properly. I have been thinking a lot about this – can we ask Achche uncle how the death occurred?”
“I have two theories, Jamal bhai.” Habib stood up enthusiastically, apparently in order to present his theories to Jamal. “All we know for certain is that the pateela of gosht has disappeared. Now who would steal the pateela? Somebody who is hungry and who likes gosht,” Habib paused expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“Kanwal! Who loves gosht, I am sure, but who dare not eat it in public after having set up his little vigilante outfit.”
Habib seemed confused, for a moment. “Kanwal did come to the restaurant that evening, and he did eat his mutton, so he probably didn’t kill for the pateela. This has to be someone who couldn’t afford it, was hungry and just wanted to eat.”
“Habibi, that is more than half the people in the gali.”
“But also someone who knew the restaurant enough to know that there would be such a pateela in the kitchen; and more important, somebody who knew Rahman miyan personally and who disliked him.”
“That could be any of the older boys in the madarsa, Habibi. They are always hungry and in need of nourishment, and Rahman miyan was harsh to them.”
“I was thinking of Salman, who had been angry with Rahman miyan for taking away his room at the madarsa,” Habib said.
“Salman doesn’t want for food. His mother would feed him. Not mutton, perhaps, but something. Also his ladylove would feed him! He was just being dramatic about being ‘thrown out’– he dropped out from studying years ago, but Rahman miyan was continuing to lodge him at the madarsa. Then our hero would break all the rules, come in at all hours – anybody would have told him to vacate the room. And it’s not as if he doesn’t have a place to stay. He has always had a home with his mother.”
“So you think one of the madarsa boys is more likely to have been involved than Salman? But, Jamal bhai, they are so timid, I don’t see them picking up a steam iron and assaulting Rahman miyan. If the cause of death were more passive – Rahman miyan had a bad case of wheezing and somebody hid his inhaler, or rather dragged their feet when sent to bring it from his home – then I’d think the boys might have done it,” Habib said.
“Habibi, if only the sun came out and we had more light and less smog, and if our minds unfroze a bit, we would solve the mystery,” Jamal lit his first cigarette of the day, took a drag and coughed the customary cough. “So you have a motive – hunger – but no method. Then, second theory?”
“If he was assaulted with his own steam iron, then that suggests a fight, or an argument that suddenly escalated. It has to be someone who would be arguing with him in the first place, not the timid madarsa boys, who scurried at the sight of him.”
“What could the argument be?”
“Laadley is too laid back to argue, though he is strong enough to pick up an object and hit. But Rana and Kanwal were both there: they’d have teased and bullied, and started an argument.”
“But, Habibi, that is very unlikely. A policeman won’t pick up a steam iron and murder someone in the heat of the moment, yaar. He has a thousand other ways to harass, as we can see.”
“Perhaps Rana’s past behaviour is colouring my judgment,” said Habib philosophically. “Anyway, I think that this case will be solved only when we know what caused Rahman miyan’s death. Ask Achche uncle, Jamal bhai?”
Quite unexpectedly, it was Achche uncle himself who walked up to them in that very moment. He had none of his usual cheer, and he avoided eye contact with the boys.
§
Aamna was trying her best to hold back tears. She sat alone in the cold draught in the veranda, refusing to look in the direction of Achche bhai, who stood by, apologetically. She saw her husband, Asghar, emerge in the fog and shuffle towards her, holding several polythene packets.
He reached the veranda, looked at her and at Achche Lal, and began to empty the polythene packets on a wooden chair. He took out a box that said ‘Mother Dairy Milk Cake’, and then several lassi tetra packs. He gestured at them and looked towards Achche Lal, “For the boys. They haven’t eaten anything since morning.”
Aamna jumped up, “Milk cake? Is this an occasion for milk cake? You couldn’t find anything else? Could have brought some fruits!” she said.
“Only the Mother Dairy booth is open bhai, and they only had milk cake and lassi,” he said helplessly. “Achche, take it inside.”
“Asghar bhai, milk cake in the middle of interrogation may not be proper. ACP saheb is there – he would have himself got them lassi.”
Aamna glared in the middle distance and shook her head.
§
ACP saheb bent down to adjust the heater, then sat up straight and smiled benignly at Jamal and Habib.
“This is an informal chit-chat. Don’t take it otherwise,” he said amicably. “I wanted to meet you because you are both active in a sensitive area. Lassi– tea – anything?
“Now, Jamal, we have learnt from sources that you were instigating Mr Habib to kill Rahman ji? In the hearing of one and all?”
Both Jamal and Habib looked astounded. “What, when? I never asked Habibi…oh, in his book?” Jamal instinctively slapped his forehead with his palm.
“All unruly ideas are first planted in books. What is this book that you are writing, sir?” asked the ACP with interest. “At your age, shouldn’t you first be reading the classics? These days everyone just writes their own book, ha! Why bother to read old masters?” he cackled.
“Murder mystery,” muttered Habib.
“Murder mystery,” repeated the ACP. “And Mr Jamal was instigating you to ‘kill’ Rahman ji.”
“In the novel! As a joke!” protested Jamal.
“Hmm. And Mr Habib is even better. He said ‘No, no why to kill Rahman? Let us kill a police officer!’ No doubt you will again jump up and say, ‘Yes, but in a book.’ This is pure intimidation of law enforcement authorities. Such acts – whether ‘in a book’ or otherwise – will now be deemed a terrorist offence, are you aware?”
Jamal and Habib looked suitably worried.
“Mr Habib, you want to become a detective?” said the ACP changing tack. “Private detective, or you want to join the police force?”
“I was planning to write the civil services exams next year,” said Habib softly.
“Very good! Then focus on exams, become a police officer. Then you’ll realise how unreasonable your demands are – protest here, protest there, all the time disrupting traffic, causing law and order issues. Mr Jamal, you are to be seen at every anti-India demonstration. There is nothing good you can see in our government? So much negativity, why?” the ACP asked in the tone of an elderly relative, but also added sharply, “Who sends you to these demonstrations? Who is the mastermind?”
Jamal cupped his face in his hands and sighed. “Sir, I need to eat something. I am not feeling well.” The ACP smiled but didn’t offer anything. “Answer the question and you are free to go.”
“Nobody sends me. I care about these issues and I feel it is my duty to speak out. Constable Rana and Kanwal were also seen bullying Rahman miyan that night. In the hearing of one and all! Why are you not asking them?”
The smile vanished. “First, please don’t tell me how to conduct an investigation. Second, Constable Rana was there on duty. He was surveilling Kanwal, and therefore we can rule that boy out. Last of all, I am surprised that your first needle of suspicion always falls on the police, who are there to protect you. You all never trust the government nor the police. You don’t trust the courts also. This kind of hatred makes it very easy for you to attack a policeman – we have been seeing that. Throw a stone at a policeman doing his duty, fire a katta, hmm?”
The ACP was interrupted by the sound of a woman shouting in anger.
§
Mrs Pushpa Kumari had arrived at the police station and was making her outrage known. “This is the limit, Achche.”
“Arre bhai, it is standard investigation procedure. We are only taking their statements. There is nothing to worry.”
“Why don’t you take statements from other people? Only Muslim boys will be called for investigation? And Jamal of all people? What face will I show to Aamna?” Aamna, for her part, appeared quite placated. She came over and made to drag Pushpa outside. “Come, let them do their duty.”
“Everyone will be asked for their statement. Why are you so suspicious?” Achche Lal called out to his wife.
Inside, the ACP had stopped his questioning. He was trying to listen to Pushpa, his head cocked to one side. “You become an officer, then you’ll know how difficult it is for us,” he said to Habib. “You are both free to go. There was no need to trouble your parents. I wasn’t going to arrest you.
“But listen, deposit your phones outside. We will have to further investigate your networks.”
The boys deposited their phones, collected their SIMs, signed in a register and then went out to be greeted with milk cakes and lassi. Even Jamal, who normally liked mithai, was surprised at the choice of offerings.
§
The ACP was slipping into an unpleasant mood. He did not approve of disorderly conduct in the station house premises, not from suspects and their families at any rate.
He was reflecting on this when there was another sound from outside.
Laadley had brought a fresh-faced lawyer to the police station who was demanding to know why his client’s property had been seized without warning.
“Do you know there has been a murder?” bellowed the ACP. “That is case material, relevant to an ongoing investigation. Are you here to obstruct my investigation? Get them out of here!” he motioned towards Constable Rana, who was more than happy to oblige. He shoved the young lawyer with one hand, and poked Laadley with his baton with the other.
§
As Salman’s luck would have it, everyone at the police station was tense and edgy by the time he arrived in response to the summons. Constable Rana made him sit down in a chair, grabbed the back of his neck pushing it down, and delivered three thumps on his back. Salman yelped in pain.
“Why did you kill Rahman ji?” Rana asked in a matter of fact way.
“I didn’t kill him, saheb. I left in front of you. You saw me leave.”
“So you’re saying I was last seen with Rahman, hain? You’re the one who has been blabbering about my presence there?” Rana push Salman’s neck further down, till he cried again. “Do you know what the punishment is for accusing police officers?”
ACP saheb had a mild headache by now. He had asked for coffee and two paracetamol tablets. He could hear Salman howling from one room, and in another part of the station, possibly outside his window even, some women wailing and shouting. He rubbed his eyes and got up to see, muttering to himself, “Really, sometimes I wish we were not some democracy.” A woman was beating her chest and claiming Salman was blameless; he had been with her all evening. Another older woman was gesticulating and cursing her for having ruined Salman’s life. A third person, a man, was pulling at the younger woman’s chadar, trying to drag her away. Two toddlers stood in the middle of this fight, bawling.
“Achche Lal!” shouted the ACP. ASI Achche Lal rushed in and stood to attention. “What is going on here? Is this a zoo?”
“Sir, that one is Naseeban. She is publicly stating that Salman was with her, so naturally her husband is upset. He is trying to take her home. That one is Salman’s mother – she thinks Naseeban has entrapped her golden boy.”
“Just get everyone out!”
§
Constable Rana had beaten Salman for a good 15 minutes. His hands were hurting slightly.
“ACP saheb is saying to let you go today, but remember that soon I will be able to arrest you and keep you here for three months. And you will get a treatment from me every night. I will shoot you in the knee and say he was trying to escape.”
Later in the evening, the ACP called Achche Lal into his cabin: “Achche, she is your Mrs and everything, but there have to be some boundaries. I could have suspended you then and there!” And to the others he said, “This is a police station, not a fish market. How do you allow people to create ruckus like this? From now onwards, I don’t want any relatives or anyone else on the premises. Let them wait on the road outside. Sanctity of investigation cannot be destroyed.”
The policeman shuffled out of their superior’s room. “Yaar, who will say these people are oppressed? They disrupted every single interrogation today. Soon it will be on social media also – police has detained Muslim youth; no matter that they are murder accused,” complained Constable Rana.
§
Aamna and Asghar felt hurt.
Pushpa had insisted that Achche Lal and she visit them at their house that evening. “What was the need for it, Achche bhai?” Aamna finally spoke to Achche as she poured him tea.
“You’re not understanding. He is not an accused. We just wanted a witness statement,” Achche pleaded.
“Achche, every time an incident happens, whatever it may be, why is it that only we experience the ripples? It seems to rupture our lives alone.
“Anyway, what kind of investigation is this? Are you any closer to discovering the truth?” Asghar interjected.
Suddenly, Achche Lal’s mobile phone rang. He spoke briefly into it and then looked at Asghar triumphantly: “The police have found the stolen pateela!”
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. 🤞🏻
