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Tara had been up since dawn, revising her case notes. She had an important hearing in court, and she had the optimistic feeling that her client might actually be granted his freedom today.
He had been arrested some months ago for becoming radicalised and for probably indulging in anti-national conspiracies. There was no proof yet of the existence of any actual plot, much less of what the plot entailed, but police believed that conspiracies were afoot and proliferating, and merited prolonged investigations. Investigators had found evidence in the form of unsavoury literature stored on her client’s laptop. Tara felt that this was rather insufficient to detain a person under terrorism charges. She had spoken to the client’s wife on the phone that morning, and quite unprofessionally expressed solidarity and a hope that the matter would be resolved today.
Tara arrived very early to court in order to find parking. To kill time, she drank over-sweetened, lukewarm coffee in the lawyers’ canteen, and rehearsed each point of her argument in her head.
In the event, the matter did not go on for long at all. The State’s counsel got up and addressed the bench, “My Lords, the matter involves a very serious conspiracy. We would like some more time to file additional documents to show his direct complicity.”
“My Lords they had six weeks to do that! It has been six weeks since the last date of hearing.” Her colleagues used to say to Tara that she was always frowning in court, so she had learnt to carefully arrange her features in a half-smile. It barely worked, and in this moment her face was disintegrating into an expression of panic.
“It is an ongoing investigation. New facts keep coming to light,” the State counsel shrugged.
The presiding judge smiled kindly at her, “Counsel, we can’t decide without hearing the prosecution. We will give them a short concession this time. Two weeks!” said he, and tossed the file away.
Tara bowed, turned around and walked out of the courtroom. “It’s exhausting! Nothing ever gets done,” she muttered, as she thrust her own brief into a junior colleague’s hands.
“Ma’am, write another essay about systemic delays. These days both senior judges and defence lawyers seem to be able to put their points across only in public speeches, or in articles,” said her junior as he adjusted the bulky brief in his hands.
Tara smiled and looked for her phone. There were several missed calls. “Jamal?” she closed one eye and puckered her lips in concentration, trying to remember who that was. “Oh! Gaza protest!” She dialled his number.
“Ma’am, police are raiding the local madarsa, Ma’am. They have rounded up some minor boys also. Can you please help?”
§
The night before
ASI Achche Lal’s mobile phone rang. He spoke briefly into it and then looked at Asghar triumphantly: “The police have found the stolen pateela!”
He quietly pondered what he had been told. It was Abrar who had first informed Constable Rana. “Today was Rahman miyan’s qul, sir – third day ceremony? The madarsa children had come to read the Quran; so later in the evening Rahman miyan’s madam told me to take them some food from the ceremony. I went with roti-aloo-gosht to the madarsa, and what do I find in their kitchen? My own empty pateela!
“I asked them what they had done with the qorma, and shamelessly they admitted that they had eaten it. Imagine! After all that Rahman Miyan had done for them! I immediately brought back the food I’d taken.”
Achche Lal considered all the possibilities, then walked out onto the road outside Jamal’s house, stood by an electricity pole and called ACP saheb. “Sir, Rana has given me a full report, sir. Raid may not be advisable at this time, given the sensitivity in the area. Then we will need reinforcements, sir. I am actually in the area: if you allow me, I can go and make discreet enquiries and post someone there for the night. Then we can come, formally, in the morning hours.” The ACP who was still nursing his headache agreed readily. “Just handle it well, Achche. I am trusting you.”
Next, Achche took a leap of faith. “Asghar bhai, I am taking Jamal with me. I might be late, Pushpa. Stay over, or go home on your own, as you like.”
“Arre, but why are you taking Jamal? He has already been dragged into the investigation. He might get into more trouble,” called out Jamal’s mother in concern, but Jamal had already scampered out of the door in excitement.
“Call Detective Habibi also! Let me tell both of you what has happened,” said Achche Lal to Jamal affectionately as they hurried down the road.
§
“Jamal bhai, you were right! It is the madarsa boys,” exclaimed Habibi.
“We don’t know yet,” said Achche Lal firmly. “First, proper tafteesh has to be done.” He tapped on the wooden door and smiled at the adolescent boy who opened it. “Is Maulvi saheb there?”
The Maulvi was barely out of his teens himself. He started crying at the sight of a uniformed policeman. “Sir, has Abrar bhai gone and complained about us?”
“Abrar bhai has only said that he discovered the stolen pateela in your kitchen. Is that true?” Jamal laid a hand on Maulvi saheb’s shoulder.
“Salman bhai brought the pateela to feed us!”
“I was right too!” Habib clapped his thighs excitedly, and only then remembered that he was getting ahead of himself again. He looked away.
“Why did Salman bhai bring the pateela to feed you?” Jamal persisted.
“Just like that. He likes getting good food for us. Sometimes he brings biryani, or chocolates. That day he brought qorma.”
“You didn’t ask where it had come from? Then secondly you didn’t think to report about it after you heard of Rahman miyan’s death?” said ASI Achche Lal sternly.
The young Maulvi looked stricken. “We didn’t know it was from Rahman miyan’s hotel. Khuda ki qasam, we didn’t know there was any connection.”
ASI Achche Lal made a disbelieving face. “Show us the pateela!” The men crowded around the empty pateela in the kitchen. “Hmm,” Achche Lal regarded it. “Who scrubbed it clean?”
“The boys clean after every meal. We cleaned it and kept it ready thinking Salman bhai will take it back. He often brings food in hotel containers, then returns it after a few days.”
Achche Lal ushered everyone out and locked the kitchen door. “Nobody will go inside, understood?”
“Achche uncle, shall we also speak to one or two senior boys?” asked Habibi unobtrusively. Achche Lal tactfully left them alone and engaged the young Maulvi instead.
Habib found a group of senior boys standing together, quietly observing the interruption. “Yaar, a stolen pateela has been lying here for three days, a murder enquiry is going on, and you never informed anyone? Do you not see how it makes you look suspect?”
The boys were similarly dressed in long kurtas, reaching down to their calves, and in short ankle-length pyjamas. The oldest looking boy shrugged diffidently.
Jamal leaned forward towards the group and said in a low whisper, “All of you will get into trouble. Why don’t you tell us what happened that night? Did some of the boys go to the restaurant? Who brought the pateela here?”
The boy remained defiantly silent, but someone else in the group offered: “When Salman bhai lived here he always complained that he was hungry. Rahman miyan said he was ungrateful. Sometimes he would bring something from the bazaar for all of us. Rahman miyan said he was spoiling everyone’s discipline and told him to leave. But he still brought food once in a while. That day he came very late at night with qorma. He said Laadley bhai’s shop is closed otherwise he would have brought roti also.”
“You didn’t ask him where it was from?”
“He said it was from a friend’s wedding. He packed a small portion and took it back with him also.”
A small boy had joined the group. “The qorma was very nice. It was khatta-meetha.” One of the older boys picked him up in his arms.
“And next day when news of Rahman miyan’s death came out, you didn’t suspect anything?”
“We didn’t know it was from his kitchen,” said one of the boys.
“The whole world was talking about pateela being stolen, and you didn’t hear?” The boys shook their head.
As Jamal and Habib moved away the eldest boy said harshly to the group, “Salman bhai is always kind to us, and you informed on him. He will get arrested because of you.”
Achche Lal raised his eyebrows as he met Jamal and Habib again outside the madarsa. “What do the boys say?”
“I believe the story that Salman had brought them the qorma that night. But whether they knew it was from Rahman miyan and were trying to save Salman by not informing anyone, or whether they actually did not know, we would never be able to tell,” said Jamal.
“They didn’t try to hide the pateela, if even to save Salman. So they may actually not have known,” Habibi said.
“It’s not that important. It is only a side question to our main investigation,” shrugged Achche Lal. “Unless we make it our mission to send everyone even remotely connected to jail. But that is not our mission. Our mission is merely to find out who was responsible for Rahman miyan’s murder – if at all there was murder.”
ASI Achche Lal rubbed his hands against the cold and pulled his woollen cap down. “You should call that lawyer, the one who helped you in the Press Club also. Let her be present here tomorrow morning.” He then took out his phone, smiled at the boys and dialled Constable Rana: “Haan Rana, I have sealed the place, but ACP sir will only come in the morning with a formal police party. He has directed that you be on duty tonight. Stand guard outside the madarsa to make sure no one enters or leaves. Yes, it is freezing, but duty is duty.”
§
Early next morning
Kanwal and Nirmal sat on the bench outside Shambhu’s shop looking at some YouTube video. “Very true,” said Kanwal nodding along.
“Boss, I have been thinking,” said Nirmal, “I will drop the competitive exams this year. I’ll prepare fully next year. What is the point in giving an exam half-heartedly and then losing one chance also? We only have limited number of attempts.”
“Why have you not prepared fully?” enquired Balabhadra babu solicitously.
“There is so much youth group work to do, Bulbhaddar chacha,” said Kanwal on Nirmal’s behalf. “I have been holding meetings, distributing pamphlets, trying to involve the youth in our programmes. My didi will get very upset; otherwise even I would have dropped it this year.”
“One must not run away from exams,” said Bulbhaddar chacha in his affable way.
“We were thinking of attending the ceremony in Ayodhya,” said Nirmal, now that he had absolved himself of exams.
“Absolutely not! There is no need to crowd the holy place at this time. Think global, act local! We will hold the ceremony that is happening in Ayodhya in our hearts, but commemorate the occasion locally. We will do something in our homes! Why create unnecessary inconvenience for the dignitaries now?”
A disheveled and sour Constable Rana arrived at the shop and demanded tea. “Give me something to eat, quickly. I have to go back.” Shambhu’s clientele regarded Constable Rana with surprise. “Arre, Awdhesh bhai? Where are you coming from early in the morning?”
“I have been up all night watching that blasted madarsa. Seeing his mood, Shambhu hurriedly brought him sweetened, hot tea in a small glass. Constable Rana took a sip: “The stolen goods from Rahman ji’s hotel have all been recovered at the madarsa, as expected. We should just shut them down. I was stationed there all night making sure they don’t remove the stolen goods.” He chewed moodily on a kachauri and drank his tea.
“Then? Did anything happen during the night?” asked Balabhadra babu.
Constable Rana shook his head. “Nothing. At one time I felt it was just a punishment posting.”
“Arre, why didn’t you call us, Awdhesh bhai? We would have given you company through the night.”
Constable Rana got up and stretched. “Come now.”
§
“Bulbhaddar chacha, I have to tell you something,” said Shambhu after everyone had left. “That night Jamal ji was at the restaurant and he wanted gulab jamun. So Rahman miyan sent Arshad here to bring it. First, Arshad took two plates – one each for Jamal ji and Habib ji. Then they wanted more.”
“Why was Jamal eating so much gulab jamun!” mumbled Balabhadra babu.
“Then second time Arshad said they are asking for chashni also. He said, ‘You give the whole pateela. I’ll bring it back later.’ Next morning all this happened. I had gone there to see in the morning, and I saw my pateela lying inside a packet. It was empty, so I picked it up and brought it back. By mistake, I also brought back one aluminium tiffin carrier.”
“Rahman miyan’s tiffin carrier? You brought it by mistake?” Balabhadra babu looked unconvinced.
“It was lying next to my pateela. I was in such a shock, I picked it up and put it in the same packet with my pateela.”
“Nobody saw you in that crowd of people?”
“Everyone was looking at poor Rahman ji,” Shambhu shrugged. “I really didn’t realise what I was doing. I remembered just now when Rana sir was talking about the pateela in the madarsa. Bulbhaddar chacha, you please explain to the police?”
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. 🤞🏻
