`With pleasure…’
With my friend Arjun, it is usually more pleasing to place his answer before my question:
`If I were to perform hara-kiri, will you be my kaishaku?’
I really rely on him. A few weeks back, I asked him to read one of my blogs, a seriously funny one. He read it carefully, hugged me tightly, whispered softly `Lovely…it is sad!’
Recently, on the topic of blogs once again, he surprised me with a request:
`I want to feel a book…here, in blogosphere.’
`What?’
`I mean,
• go away from frenetic on-line activities;
• stay off-line with a collection of blogs;
• lazing over the cover, the preface, the table of contents;
• using old skills without tags, labels and search engines;
• having a bird’s eye view over a sea of gathered and discarded thoughts;
• swooping in on that blog which I feel like reading.’
How can I refuse him? Anyway, with regard to time and effort, I found the task to be only as daunting as the task of writing a single blog. This is the output:
COLLECTION OF MY BLOGS
(click here to download PDF file,
size ~ 2.75 MB)
Anyway, a year has gone by since I wrote my first blog. This proved to be ideal to view and arrange with a fresh perspective before moving on.
`Hope other friends try it out too…and, let us know when their collection is ready.’
`That would be nice.’ I really think so.
Arjun said, `Byeeee.’
`Take care.’
`By the way, what does this have to do with virtual hara-kiri?’
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Scream Within
Do you have a scream?
Caged within your mind?
Choking each breath?
Clogging life?
Don’t you have that scream?
Yesterday, when I walked past the graveyard, I heard her scream. Didn’t I tell you, few months back, that my house is on an island, half a kilometer in radius, in the middle of the city; and that, to the west, the graveyard is still there but the old mint is gone? The old mint was not there even when she screamed in the graveyard, twenty six years back.
That evening, I had gone for a party at a friend’s place. I had told my folks that I would be dropped safely at home around nine. For some reason, I felt out of place and making up some hasty excuse, escaped from that group at half past seven. With three kilometers to my house, and one steep hill to climb, I estimated that I could walk and reach home by eight. I walked quickly past the low-lying area near my friend’s place, with the strong stench of the drainage canal in the air. The air cleared when I climbed the hill. The streets were empty, as usual; barely lit by old low-wattage street lamps. I don’t think it was safer then but I was young. At the top of the hill, I followed the road climbing to the left, alongside the graveyard wall. Then, I heard her scream.
It was not a loud scream and if I had not been near that part, I would not have heard it. It bore pain, a brief tired protest too but then and now, it mostly said … nothing … neither a cry for help nor rage nor lost hope … nothing.
I felt scared and I wanted to run. I do not know why I looked over the wall. I could see the back of a man, brushing dust from his clothes, tucking in his shirt slowly and carefully into open pants, adjusting his underwear, zipping up, taking a small comb from the back pocket of his pants, combing his hair and mustache, spitting. I must have slipped or made some noise. The man turned and saw me. His expression did not change; in fact, he looked bored. I must have opened my mouth in fright. He raised his finger to his lips and then, walked away quite leisurely. I recognized him from photos in the paper and you might know him, too.
It was only after he left that I saw her lying still near an unmarked grave. I climbed over the wall and went to her. For years, I have wondered why I did that. To be honest, it must have been just curiosity. Her eyes were open, filled with tears, unblinking. Recently, I saw a face like hers – that eighteen year old suicide bomber in Russia, the one with a baby face. At that time, she looked old to me – at least a dozen years older than me. I did not touch her or speak to her. After few minutes, she slowly sat up, her young body shivering. Using a part of her sari, she wiped her body, harshly wiping her thighs, her legs, her upper body, her face. She tore that part of the sari and threw away the rag. She straightened her clothes, trying in vain to fix her torn blouse. I took out the plastic raincoat from my backpack and held it out to her. She took it without a word and covered herself.
“Shall we go to a hospital?” I asked.
She shook her head, not even looking at me.
“Shall I come with you to the police station?”
This time, she looked at me. Again, she shook her head, smiling sadly, “O child …”
I must have stood there not knowing what to do, watching her shivering, tears rolling down her cheeks, brushing the gravestone. I looked around and recognized the area. This was that part of the graveyard – the place for the unmarked, the excommunicated, the ostracized, the criminals, the immoral lot and all the other bad ghosts discarded by my society.
“Why did you come here?” I asked hoping that it did not sound like an accusation.
I thought that she would not reply or that she might tell me to get lost. But, she asked me,
“Will you sit next to me … just for a moment?” She must have seen me move back involuntarily and she added bitterly “This is not contagious …”
I sat on the ground next to her. We sat quietly for a while but I sensed that she wished to speak – being non-threatening, I must have fitted the role like how we confide to strangers on a train, just someone together for a while.
She pointed at the grave,
“Today is his death anniversary.”
Then she paused, breathing deeply,
“The man you saw knew I would come here. For him and his cronies, it was patriotic revenge. He didn’t even want to be the first … just watched, and waited till the others were done and gone … they said that they felt justified doing this to me, like they were lynching him once again, they said …” she broke down, leaning against me lightly.
I sat there stiffly, hardly thinking about her … what if I had been the victim? For years, I have tried to figure out the answer to that. I knew that she was terribly miserable but to tell you the truth, I have no idea about the extent of her pain.
“Who is he?” I asked, tilting my head towards the grave.
“Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?”
I tried to recollect the day’s headlines. I vaguely remembered a small article about today being a black day. On this date three years back, a terrorist was nabbed – after the terrorist entered a school and killed twenty three people at a primary school, three teachers and twenty kids. One of those teachers was a distant aunt and two of those kids lived in my neighbourhood.
I think I stood up and moved away from her.
“I deserve what I got, right?” she laughed and to me, it seemed like she was mocking herself.
I went back, knelt in front of her, “Sorry.” She must have realized that I was not a child or an adult, and that I meant it. “Was he your husband?”
“No … we knew each other … met when we could …”
I kept quiet.
“I should have known that he was a time-bomb waiting to explode … we never talked about ourselves … why waste time, we thought … I could rest my head against his chest and sleep so well. That’s all that I wanted. I used to wake up knowing that he would be there … looking at me, tenderly, lovingly … that’s all we wanted.”
“I try to forget all that he told me … but, I didn’t listen well I suppose, even when he foretold doom:
In the dark days to come –
With you,
Your words, your kiss, your touch,
To know peace,
To forget rage,
In this world –
In this damned world,
With you,
I might survive.
When I heard about what he did, I hated myself more than I had to hate him. I knew that I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember.”“For three years, I stayed away from this city … unknown. I tried hard not to think of him. But today … I knew that he was buried here … I thought I would ask him … why.”
Her words and her life did not mean much to me then. We parted that night knowing that we will never see each other. I did not know that her scream would stay with me forever.
In the years that followed, I kept hearing that scream. I heard it when I was betrayed, when I felt lost, when I felt defeated – by the system, by my society, by kith and kin, when even the judicial system destroyed my life …
When I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember …
With pain, a brief tired protest, saying … nothing …
I hear that scream … is it my scream now?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Blogalgia : 3 Examples Of A Growing Problem
Blogalgia is a type of pygalgia. While pygalgia (pyg=rump, algia=pain) definitely means “pain in the butt”, there is considerable debate about whether blogalgia should be taken to be any combination of “pain” and “blog”. For the sake of generality, “blog” here includes any channel of chatter and social networking using information and communication technology (ICT). It should be emphasized here that the “pain” relates to that experienced at a personal and psychological level and does not include the distress caused by virulent attacks involving identity theft, virtual bullying and hate-mongering.
In the last decade, the rapid growth of various channels of chatter via ICT has been mostly viewed through rosy, though myopic, lenses. Business and charity organizations, and even governments, have realized its immense scope. What began as a means for virtual bonhomie has evolved into the proverbial Trojan horse – even ardent fans raise the question “It feels good but what lies within?”
It is widely believed that the immense growth is a result of the desire for social equality. The hoi polloi is able to “follow” and communicate with the high and mighty or, at least, the hoity-toity. For the first time in the history of mankind: anyone can voice an opinion which, in principle, everyone anywhere could hear immediately.
Unfortunately, this seemingly benign desire for social equality is the root cause for blogalgia. In this note, three examples or symptoms are briefly described and readers are advised to contemplate on the same and take necessary remedial actions, if necessary.
(1) There are numerous articles with the to-do list on how to get “visits” that spans a network. Some of the basic steps are:
• have an adequate number of friends (a theory even says that there is a unique critical number);
• comment frequently on friends’ posts;
• post at an optimal time.
When one still faces nearly-zero viewers despite all such attempts, one rapidly decline into a severe depression and decides to obliterate oneself from the virtual world unable to bear the pain due to the lack of success. It is even worse for that individual who realizes that his friends or “followers” are there not based on conviction, philosophy or any meaningful attachment. Most are there for the same reason as serial “comment”ers, as described below.
(2) Serial “comment”ers are those who comment on everything and refuse to stop even when their comment is not acknowledged. They attempt to ride along and the prize that they seek is a visit to their own site (in the virtual world, Andy Warhol’s expression should be “everyone will be famous for three seconds”). Strangely, they are immune to any rebuke and it is those who receive their comments who suffer from migraine, disillusionment and a total loss of words.
(3) When successful traits in these networks are carried over to other spheres, there is usually painful chaos and havoc in the non-virtual reality of personal and professional relationships. One of the root causes is the inability to write, speak or think a well thought out grammatically correct sentence without emoticons whose substance requires an attention span of more than three seconds. A colleague or a spouse is usually not satisfied with byte-sized efforts or a comment but usually requires an attempt to converse, preferably face-to-face. Even the judicial system is beginning to wonder if the rising number of divorce cases can be attributed to such virtual causes.
The three examples respectively show that blogalgia could be pain suffered by an individual, a network and even an external non-virtual network. A healthy discussion of such and similar symptoms is highly recommended.
In the last decade, the rapid growth of various channels of chatter via ICT has been mostly viewed through rosy, though myopic, lenses. Business and charity organizations, and even governments, have realized its immense scope. What began as a means for virtual bonhomie has evolved into the proverbial Trojan horse – even ardent fans raise the question “It feels good but what lies within?”
It is widely believed that the immense growth is a result of the desire for social equality. The hoi polloi is able to “follow” and communicate with the high and mighty or, at least, the hoity-toity. For the first time in the history of mankind: anyone can voice an opinion which, in principle, everyone anywhere could hear immediately.
Unfortunately, this seemingly benign desire for social equality is the root cause for blogalgia. In this note, three examples or symptoms are briefly described and readers are advised to contemplate on the same and take necessary remedial actions, if necessary.
(1) There are numerous articles with the to-do list on how to get “visits” that spans a network. Some of the basic steps are:
• have an adequate number of friends (a theory even says that there is a unique critical number);
• comment frequently on friends’ posts;
• post at an optimal time.
When one still faces nearly-zero viewers despite all such attempts, one rapidly decline into a severe depression and decides to obliterate oneself from the virtual world unable to bear the pain due to the lack of success. It is even worse for that individual who realizes that his friends or “followers” are there not based on conviction, philosophy or any meaningful attachment. Most are there for the same reason as serial “comment”ers, as described below.
(2) Serial “comment”ers are those who comment on everything and refuse to stop even when their comment is not acknowledged. They attempt to ride along and the prize that they seek is a visit to their own site (in the virtual world, Andy Warhol’s expression should be “everyone will be famous for three seconds”). Strangely, they are immune to any rebuke and it is those who receive their comments who suffer from migraine, disillusionment and a total loss of words.
(3) When successful traits in these networks are carried over to other spheres, there is usually painful chaos and havoc in the non-virtual reality of personal and professional relationships. One of the root causes is the inability to write, speak or think a well thought out grammatically correct sentence without emoticons whose substance requires an attention span of more than three seconds. A colleague or a spouse is usually not satisfied with byte-sized efforts or a comment but usually requires an attempt to converse, preferably face-to-face. Even the judicial system is beginning to wonder if the rising number of divorce cases can be attributed to such virtual causes.
The three examples respectively show that blogalgia could be pain suffered by an individual, a network and even an external non-virtual network. A healthy discussion of such and similar symptoms is highly recommended.
Few Movies, a Book, a deleted Blog & Blogalgia
Alexander the Great is a landmark cosmopolitan Malayalam movie without any reference to Kerala. The story is a shoddy mixture of Rain Man and something very forgettable. If you would like to see glimpses of Dubai and Mumbai (Powai, Marine Drive, etc.), please see this movie. At the end, one asks: in how many days was this movie completed?
This is not a review of the movie. The comments made above should be read like a play within a play or the frustration should be viewed in the context of what happened before.
Like most typical Kerala families, mine is divided into the Mohanlal and the Mammootty camps. Last night, at eight, the first camp won the battle and the whole family went for the second show at half past nine (the presence of actor-politician Ganesh and family in a row ahead soothed some frayed nerves). The second camp lost because Mammootty’s Pokkiri Raja “definitely looks non-Mallu”. No one wanted to be a traitor and suggest Jayaram’s Katha Thudarunnu. For the last decade, we have come to expect very little from Malayalam movies but yesterday, the bars were raised because we saw Yavanika (with the Bharat Gopi) on TV yesterday morning.
Rewinding further, there is disappointment of being let down by a crime novel, Fever of the Bone by Val McDermid. This book might be the last in the Tony Hill-Carol Jordan series (also made famous by the TV series Wire in the Blood). The book started off well (the danger of virtual social networking used as the crime plot along with McDermid’s humour and the reader is goaded to accept “non-mainstream” relationships). Why was I disappointed? My rule for crime fiction is: if you want to end the series, kill the hero but please do not domesticate. They should remain weird, or better, get weirder. Can you imagine Holmes married and with a child or two on his knees?
Then, there was the blog that I had to delete. In that blog, I made a school-boy-or-girl-ish attempt to write crime fiction. I dreamt of reviews like “spine-chilling”, “page-turner”, “creepy”, “u r a monster”. My polite and stoic friends endured bits and pieces and tried to encourage me with “luv ur umor”.
Sometime around then, I visited my psychologist. He hum-haw-ed, said that I am doing well with NaSTy (Narcissistic Self-Destruction Tendency). He also added that I should stay away from blogs to avoid blogalgia (for details, please click here).
This is not a review of the movie. The comments made above should be read like a play within a play or the frustration should be viewed in the context of what happened before.
Like most typical Kerala families, mine is divided into the Mohanlal and the Mammootty camps. Last night, at eight, the first camp won the battle and the whole family went for the second show at half past nine (the presence of actor-politician Ganesh and family in a row ahead soothed some frayed nerves). The second camp lost because Mammootty’s Pokkiri Raja “definitely looks non-Mallu”. No one wanted to be a traitor and suggest Jayaram’s Katha Thudarunnu. For the last decade, we have come to expect very little from Malayalam movies but yesterday, the bars were raised because we saw Yavanika (with the Bharat Gopi) on TV yesterday morning.
Rewinding further, there is disappointment of being let down by a crime novel, Fever of the Bone by Val McDermid. This book might be the last in the Tony Hill-Carol Jordan series (also made famous by the TV series Wire in the Blood). The book started off well (the danger of virtual social networking used as the crime plot along with McDermid’s humour and the reader is goaded to accept “non-mainstream” relationships). Why was I disappointed? My rule for crime fiction is: if you want to end the series, kill the hero but please do not domesticate. They should remain weird, or better, get weirder. Can you imagine Holmes married and with a child or two on his knees?
Then, there was the blog that I had to delete. In that blog, I made a school-boy-or-girl-ish attempt to write crime fiction. I dreamt of reviews like “spine-chilling”, “page-turner”, “creepy”, “u r a monster”. My polite and stoic friends endured bits and pieces and tried to encourage me with “luv ur umor”.
Sometime around then, I visited my psychologist. He hum-haw-ed, said that I am doing well with NaSTy (Narcissistic Self-Destruction Tendency). He also added that I should stay away from blogs to avoid blogalgia (for details, please click here).
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Simply Murder
Acknowledgement: based on the outline given in Bina Gupta's Sulekha blog, for link please click here ... since the outline is not mine, I deleted the blog but just for the sake of completeness of my records, I am including this here ... shrouded in obscurity and relative anonymity. :-)
Simply Murder
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. It felt more like a sledgehammer at work within my head. Groggy and snarling, I quickly wrapped the housecoat over my nightclothes, tied a tight careless knot and went down the stairs to the front door. A moment’s sanity made me do the habitual check through the eyehole. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, squinting at the near midday light and croaked, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward, apologized for waking me up and proceeded to ask the customary to confirm my identity. Then, he introduced himself
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station.”
Sid – Siddharth, Siddique, Sidney? I have always hated this anglicized attempt of whitening a brown man’s name. Who but an idiot would make Padmanabhan Paddy or Krishnamurthy Kris? For me, Subrahmaniam is not Sub; maybe, Chuppramani. Why would a red-blooded male want to present a castrated self? As usual, I could not control my thoughts; but fortunately, it does not show on the outside. I smiled sweetly at the tall clean-shaven handsome young man with no wedding ring and he seems to be charmed. He continued,
“This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes.”
The person in all black – jeans, corduroy top and boots – turned out to be an attractive woman leaning against the wall, rolling a cigarette expertly and lighting it with a match. She must be around forty, about five eight, with an athletic and tough frame, dark unruly hair generously peppered with gray and the darkest eyes I have seen staring intently at me. But for her eyes, I would have fallen in love with her, desperately, passionately. I asked her,
“Shoky?”
“Not Shoky, Shokie – “ie”, not “y”. Everyone calls her that.” the young man gushed with great admiration.
“I have heard about you two. Shokie the Sherlock and Sid the Watson in that famous case…the case of Minister Twitter, right?” The young man was blushing and the lady kept staring. I remembered more details and I could not resist myself,
“Shokie? Your name is supposed to be Sherlie Kockier, right?”
“None of your business,” the curt reply. The young man intervened,
“We are here because of a crime.”
“Here?”
“Next door…”
“Rosie’s place? What happened?” Taking in their joint presence, I assumed that it must be something nasty.
“Rosie was found dead.”
“Ohmigod! When?”
“Last night…around eleven.”
“Last night? You were here? And…I slept through all of it!” I leaned against the door, looking shocked and terribly disturbed, even feeling guilty for sleeping too well.
“We would like to ask a few questions. Can we come inside?”
“Please…of course…please come in.” I replied and took them to the drawing room. “Can I get you coffee? Please join me…I need a strong brew…” They nodded and asked for black with no sugar, just like me. I went to the kitchen, ground coffee-beans, placed filter paper in the coffee-machine, added water and heaps of the fresh powder. Standing at the doorway, taking in the aroma, I tried to listen to the whispering in the drawing room,
“Feed nearly all the details…let’s get the story right…slip up…”
I went back to the drawing room with three mugs of coffee.
“Sid” started with the preliminary questions, confirming that I have lived in this exclusive locality for the last three years; and, been the only neighbour of Rosie, the movie icon, who shifted here two years back. Our two houses feel even more exclusive in this large estate because it is in a well-shielded cul-de-sac, with hers against the steep cliff and mine situated at the entrance, nearly shielding Rosie’s house.
Then, I felt as if I needed to know,
“How did she die?”
“Apparently suicide,” Shokie muttered and continued, “Where were you last night?”
“Here.”
“Anyone to confirm that?”
“No.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Come on, Rosie is an icon…I mean, was. Ohmigod! I still feel shocked.”
“Did you know her personally?”
“Me? Of course not. How will I know her?”
“Well, you live here.”
“Courtesy of a rich impotent uncle.”
“I know.” Shokie, still staring, was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. “He died suddenly, didn’t he?”
“It’s usually so, isn’t it?”
“Maybe…” Shokie shrugged.
The young man must have noticed that I was beginning to feel terribly insulted and he tried to divert the flow,
“I am actually quite perplexed. She was found hanging in a locked empty room…”
I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, “Was there a suicide note?”
“Some crap suicide note from the internet…worse, rubbish poetry at that.” Sid said.
“Can I see it?” I asked.
Sid handed me a printout in a plastic cover. I read the first two lines, “When Sylvia wrote, I-have-done-it-again…”
“It’s from a blog…it won’t be difficult for us to find the author’s identity. Maybe, a little bit of hacking.” Sid informed me.
“There’s an easier way,” I tried to suggest.
“What?” asked Sid.
“You could just ask.” I felt quite naïve.
“Are you familiar with that note?” Shokie asked.
“Yes…I wrote that blog.” I replied feeling rather guilty.
“Why didn’t you say so?” asked an exasperated Sid. “Who the hell is Sylvia?”
“Sylvia Plath.”
“Let’s leave that,” Shokie suggested. “Sid, why don’t you continue with the murder scene?”
“Ok…Rosie was found hanging in a locked empty room, locked and bolted from the inside and without even a stool for her to stand on. Shokie checked if there was water on the floor – just in case Rosie had used an ice block for some funny reason and which melted before we got there. Supposedly, it’s an old idea in some pulp fiction. Anyway…even the key’s inside and the windows were locked from inside. It must be murder but how did the murderer get out?”
I blurted, “Must be through the window.”
“Simple, isn’t it?” Shokie added. Was she trying to goad or praise?
I tried to explain, “I assumed that Rosie has the same type of window lock like here.”
“You reported a burglary a year back, didn’t you?” Shokie asked.
“Yes, when I came back after a trip, there were some valuables missing.”
“Insured valuables, right?” Shokie persisted.
“Yes, of course! Are you trying to suggest something?” I nearly shouted. Were they trying to frame me?
Shokie ignored my outburst. I decided to continue from where I had left off.
“All the locks were undisturbed. Someone helped the police at that time and said that it’s easy with this type of window lock – an old type which can be nudged open from the outside with a small blade and closed in a similar fashion. Was it you who helped the police?” I asked but Shokie merely shrugged. I turned to the young man,
“When did she die – you mentioned that you found her at eleven. I am sure I saw her outside around half past nine.”
“Did you? Was she with someone?”
“Yes.” I hesitated and then added, “With that son of the Industries Minister.”
“She was supposed to be his…you know, mistress, keep, right?” Sid asked.
“From what I saw, he looked like the toy boy.” I replied with distaste for sullied reputation. “But…how was she found…could you tell me?”
“We got a call…around ten fifty. When we managed to open the door, she was in the throes of the last struggle and then died. The hangman’s knot was cruel – it was a slow strangulating death. We think that the killer must have set it up for us and then, called us.”
“But why…that sick bastard!” I looked horrified. “Did the killer call from her place?”
“That would be too easy, right? No, it was from a mobile.”
“Have you traced it?” I asked.
“Yes, to a shop outside this enclave. Do you know the blind paanwallah?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“You were there last night, weren’t you?” Shokie’s accusations irritated once again.
“Yes. Last night and nearly every day, I have gone for my half-pack for the night.”
“True, people there said so. It also seems quite a few people make use of the paanwallah’s mobile without his knowledge.”
“Did the people there also say that they saw me using the mobile?”
“No. They wouldn’t, would they?” Shokie taunted. I clenched the cushions and held back my desire to hurt, by word or action. I turned to Sid, “Do you know if there were other visitors?”
“Yes, it was enough to check with the security person at the gate. From eight to eight forty, her fiancé; from nine to ten, the minister’s son; at ten past ten, a taxi came with two men and they left at ten twenty. So, we have a very narrow window of opportunity…about thirty minutes…for the crime.”
“Who were the two men?” I asked.
“We managed to find the men. Do you know Rosie’s history?”
“No.”
“Luckily, she kept a diary. Reshma till ten, pills and steroids for development of the child artiste, from then on the era of Rosie, stage-managed by her wily mother. No father to talk about…Well, that man was her long lost father…now, on scene for her riches…maybe, she told him to get lost.” Sid informed.
“Jagratha!” I exclaimed.
“What?” both of them queried together.
“Jagratha – an old Malayalam detective film…it’s nearly the same plot.”
“Who was the killer?” the young man asked.
Before I could speak, Shokie said “The father. He was the father of the fiancé, too.”
Sid replied “Bull-crap!” and added, “Well, novels and movies are usually based on real crime.”
“Here, it seems to be topsy-turvy, right? Was that the intention?” Shokie asked me.
“How would I know?”
“Don’t you?”
I could not hold back my anger any longer. “Have you been told to frame an innocent to save some bastard – like one of those V.I.P. visitors?”
I asked to be excused for a moment. I gathered the mugs and went to the kitchen. From there, I tried to eavesdrop and only caught the following,
“I am sure that’s the murderer…but…what’s the motive?”
I returned to the drawing room. They were standing. Sid asked me,
“Do you mind if we search?”
“Do you have a warrant? Just to be correct, you know. Anyway, what do you expect to find?” I asked.
Shokie entered the fray, “Hopefully some drug or chloroform used to sedate while Rosie was being hanged? Maybe, the light-weight step-ladder, too? How about footprints, shoes, clothes? But, we won’t find any, will we?” I kept quiet.
At the door, Shokie turned to me and asked,
“Just for fun…if you were the one who committed this crime, what would be the motive?”
I stared back for a while as if I was thinking hard and then said,
“Simply…murder…without motive…just because I could.”
I stared at those dark eyes. Those dead eyes, dead after seeing too many dead murdered people. Dead like mine.
Those eyes will keep on staring, prying, violating privacy, till there’s some evidence…or, till I die…or maybe, I will be the Moriarty for this Sherlock.
I woke up, thrashing against those images of dark depths, my nightclothes drenched with sweat,
“What a nightmare!”
But, was it the dream that woke me up?
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward,
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station. This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes. We are here because of a crime. Rosie was found dead.”
Simply Murder
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. It felt more like a sledgehammer at work within my head. Groggy and snarling, I quickly wrapped the housecoat over my nightclothes, tied a tight careless knot and went down the stairs to the front door. A moment’s sanity made me do the habitual check through the eyehole. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, squinting at the near midday light and croaked, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward, apologized for waking me up and proceeded to ask the customary to confirm my identity. Then, he introduced himself
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station.”
Sid – Siddharth, Siddique, Sidney? I have always hated this anglicized attempt of whitening a brown man’s name. Who but an idiot would make Padmanabhan Paddy or Krishnamurthy Kris? For me, Subrahmaniam is not Sub; maybe, Chuppramani. Why would a red-blooded male want to present a castrated self? As usual, I could not control my thoughts; but fortunately, it does not show on the outside. I smiled sweetly at the tall clean-shaven handsome young man with no wedding ring and he seems to be charmed. He continued,
“This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes.”
The person in all black – jeans, corduroy top and boots – turned out to be an attractive woman leaning against the wall, rolling a cigarette expertly and lighting it with a match. She must be around forty, about five eight, with an athletic and tough frame, dark unruly hair generously peppered with gray and the darkest eyes I have seen staring intently at me. But for her eyes, I would have fallen in love with her, desperately, passionately. I asked her,
“Shoky?”
“Not Shoky, Shokie – “ie”, not “y”. Everyone calls her that.” the young man gushed with great admiration.
“I have heard about you two. Shokie the Sherlock and Sid the Watson in that famous case…the case of Minister Twitter, right?” The young man was blushing and the lady kept staring. I remembered more details and I could not resist myself,
“Shokie? Your name is supposed to be Sherlie Kockier, right?”
“None of your business,” the curt reply. The young man intervened,
“We are here because of a crime.”
“Here?”
“Next door…”
“Rosie’s place? What happened?” Taking in their joint presence, I assumed that it must be something nasty.
“Rosie was found dead.”
“Ohmigod! When?”
“Last night…around eleven.”
“Last night? You were here? And…I slept through all of it!” I leaned against the door, looking shocked and terribly disturbed, even feeling guilty for sleeping too well.
“We would like to ask a few questions. Can we come inside?”
“Please…of course…please come in.” I replied and took them to the drawing room. “Can I get you coffee? Please join me…I need a strong brew…” They nodded and asked for black with no sugar, just like me. I went to the kitchen, ground coffee-beans, placed filter paper in the coffee-machine, added water and heaps of the fresh powder. Standing at the doorway, taking in the aroma, I tried to listen to the whispering in the drawing room,
“Feed nearly all the details…let’s get the story right…slip up…”
I went back to the drawing room with three mugs of coffee.
“Sid” started with the preliminary questions, confirming that I have lived in this exclusive locality for the last three years; and, been the only neighbour of Rosie, the movie icon, who shifted here two years back. Our two houses feel even more exclusive in this large estate because it is in a well-shielded cul-de-sac, with hers against the steep cliff and mine situated at the entrance, nearly shielding Rosie’s house.
Then, I felt as if I needed to know,
“How did she die?”
“Apparently suicide,” Shokie muttered and continued, “Where were you last night?”
“Here.”
“Anyone to confirm that?”
“No.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Come on, Rosie is an icon…I mean, was. Ohmigod! I still feel shocked.”
“Did you know her personally?”
“Me? Of course not. How will I know her?”
“Well, you live here.”
“Courtesy of a rich impotent uncle.”
“I know.” Shokie, still staring, was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. “He died suddenly, didn’t he?”
“It’s usually so, isn’t it?”
“Maybe…” Shokie shrugged.
The young man must have noticed that I was beginning to feel terribly insulted and he tried to divert the flow,
“I am actually quite perplexed. She was found hanging in a locked empty room…”
I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, “Was there a suicide note?”
“Some crap suicide note from the internet…worse, rubbish poetry at that.” Sid said.
“Can I see it?” I asked.
Sid handed me a printout in a plastic cover. I read the first two lines, “When Sylvia wrote, I-have-done-it-again…”
“It’s from a blog…it won’t be difficult for us to find the author’s identity. Maybe, a little bit of hacking.” Sid informed me.
“There’s an easier way,” I tried to suggest.
“What?” asked Sid.
“You could just ask.” I felt quite naïve.
“Are you familiar with that note?” Shokie asked.
“Yes…I wrote that blog.” I replied feeling rather guilty.
“Why didn’t you say so?” asked an exasperated Sid. “Who the hell is Sylvia?”
“Sylvia Plath.”
“Let’s leave that,” Shokie suggested. “Sid, why don’t you continue with the murder scene?”
“Ok…Rosie was found hanging in a locked empty room, locked and bolted from the inside and without even a stool for her to stand on. Shokie checked if there was water on the floor – just in case Rosie had used an ice block for some funny reason and which melted before we got there. Supposedly, it’s an old idea in some pulp fiction. Anyway…even the key’s inside and the windows were locked from inside. It must be murder but how did the murderer get out?”
I blurted, “Must be through the window.”
“Simple, isn’t it?” Shokie added. Was she trying to goad or praise?
I tried to explain, “I assumed that Rosie has the same type of window lock like here.”
“You reported a burglary a year back, didn’t you?” Shokie asked.
“Yes, when I came back after a trip, there were some valuables missing.”
“Insured valuables, right?” Shokie persisted.
“Yes, of course! Are you trying to suggest something?” I nearly shouted. Were they trying to frame me?
Shokie ignored my outburst. I decided to continue from where I had left off.
“All the locks were undisturbed. Someone helped the police at that time and said that it’s easy with this type of window lock – an old type which can be nudged open from the outside with a small blade and closed in a similar fashion. Was it you who helped the police?” I asked but Shokie merely shrugged. I turned to the young man,
“When did she die – you mentioned that you found her at eleven. I am sure I saw her outside around half past nine.”
“Did you? Was she with someone?”
“Yes.” I hesitated and then added, “With that son of the Industries Minister.”
“She was supposed to be his…you know, mistress, keep, right?” Sid asked.
“From what I saw, he looked like the toy boy.” I replied with distaste for sullied reputation. “But…how was she found…could you tell me?”
“We got a call…around ten fifty. When we managed to open the door, she was in the throes of the last struggle and then died. The hangman’s knot was cruel – it was a slow strangulating death. We think that the killer must have set it up for us and then, called us.”
“But why…that sick bastard!” I looked horrified. “Did the killer call from her place?”
“That would be too easy, right? No, it was from a mobile.”
“Have you traced it?” I asked.
“Yes, to a shop outside this enclave. Do you know the blind paanwallah?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“You were there last night, weren’t you?” Shokie’s accusations irritated once again.
“Yes. Last night and nearly every day, I have gone for my half-pack for the night.”
“True, people there said so. It also seems quite a few people make use of the paanwallah’s mobile without his knowledge.”
“Did the people there also say that they saw me using the mobile?”
“No. They wouldn’t, would they?” Shokie taunted. I clenched the cushions and held back my desire to hurt, by word or action. I turned to Sid, “Do you know if there were other visitors?”
“Yes, it was enough to check with the security person at the gate. From eight to eight forty, her fiancé; from nine to ten, the minister’s son; at ten past ten, a taxi came with two men and they left at ten twenty. So, we have a very narrow window of opportunity…about thirty minutes…for the crime.”
“Who were the two men?” I asked.
“We managed to find the men. Do you know Rosie’s history?”
“No.”
“Luckily, she kept a diary. Reshma till ten, pills and steroids for development of the child artiste, from then on the era of Rosie, stage-managed by her wily mother. No father to talk about…Well, that man was her long lost father…now, on scene for her riches…maybe, she told him to get lost.” Sid informed.
“Jagratha!” I exclaimed.
“What?” both of them queried together.
“Jagratha – an old Malayalam detective film…it’s nearly the same plot.”
“Who was the killer?” the young man asked.
Before I could speak, Shokie said “The father. He was the father of the fiancé, too.”
Sid replied “Bull-crap!” and added, “Well, novels and movies are usually based on real crime.”
“Here, it seems to be topsy-turvy, right? Was that the intention?” Shokie asked me.
“How would I know?”
“Don’t you?”
I could not hold back my anger any longer. “Have you been told to frame an innocent to save some bastard – like one of those V.I.P. visitors?”
I asked to be excused for a moment. I gathered the mugs and went to the kitchen. From there, I tried to eavesdrop and only caught the following,
“I am sure that’s the murderer…but…what’s the motive?”
I returned to the drawing room. They were standing. Sid asked me,
“Do you mind if we search?”
“Do you have a warrant? Just to be correct, you know. Anyway, what do you expect to find?” I asked.
Shokie entered the fray, “Hopefully some drug or chloroform used to sedate while Rosie was being hanged? Maybe, the light-weight step-ladder, too? How about footprints, shoes, clothes? But, we won’t find any, will we?” I kept quiet.
At the door, Shokie turned to me and asked,
“Just for fun…if you were the one who committed this crime, what would be the motive?”
I stared back for a while as if I was thinking hard and then said,
“Simply…murder…without motive…just because I could.”
I stared at those dark eyes. Those dead eyes, dead after seeing too many dead murdered people. Dead like mine.
Those eyes will keep on staring, prying, violating privacy, till there’s some evidence…or, till I die…or maybe, I will be the Moriarty for this Sherlock.
I woke up, thrashing against those images of dark depths, my nightclothes drenched with sweat,
“What a nightmare!”
But, was it the dream that woke me up?
It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, “Yes?”
The man in uniform stepped forward,
“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station. This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes. We are here because of a crime. Rosie was found dead.”
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