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MONSOON
When the third man was murdered, the rains had just arrived. Like an ill-tempered guest that refuses to leave, the monsoon howled and lashed at the city, every raindrop a tiny dagger aimed for the gut.Pranaya SJB Rana
When the third man was murdered, the rains had just arrived. Like an ill-tempered guest that refuses to leave, the monsoon howled and lashed at the city, every raindrop a tiny dagger aimed for the gut. The wind shrieked like a boksi as we huddled underneath our quilts, arms reaching out for pulsating bodies warm with heat.
In the morning, the tabloids went mad. Headlines all in bold, all in black, screamed out from beneath the still-dripping eaves of every newspaper vendor. Details, details, photograph here and photograph there. In stunning clarity, no grainy 16mm film reel, all digital, crisp as a morning fresh after rain.
It was all anyone could talk about. Nothing obsesses the people like death. Entire religions have sprung up just to deal with death. In our part of the world, we’ve always been taught that death is no real end. And yet. Yet, we treat death with such finality.
He was dead. Done and done. Life ended, story finished. Only that’s never how it works. He was dead but he lived on in every housewife’s subdued snickering detailing of the incident and in the boisterous drunken guffaw of every lout in the bhatti. And so the dead man became infamous, ignominious in death.
But he was the third. The first had happened a week earlier. That day too, I remember, a freak monsoon had burst over the city, drenching it like a snivelling dog caught outside. It rained all day and night, the sky overcast and inky black. In the morning, an eerie calm. The clouds were all gone and the air smelled of leavened earth. The newspaper, wet from the downpour, reported murder. In small print, not someone too important. But a murder nonetheless.
B. C., known as ‘Ghaitey’, of Sindhupalchok-3, found dead in a motel room, naked as a newborn. The cleaning lady, poor woman, had walked into the room, no-nonsense and a broom in her hand. Lucky she didn’t die of fright at seeing a dead man or shame at seeing his form. There was no blood, just a blood-red handkerchief, stuffed into the mouth. And a face turned as blue as the neelkanth. Death by suffocation.
Victim’s profile was nothing exemplary. Foot-soldier in the youth wing of a major political party, a hired goon who busted heads for cash, but mostly for sport. He was pushing 40 but was said to still knock back pegs of Royal Stag like a medical student on break. No wife, no child. Lived by himself in a rented flat in the bleeding heart of the city.
At thirty past noon that day, young boy behind the counter, barely 20, had checked in Ghaitey, along with the long-legged woman in a red kurta on his arm. Hadn’t heard from them since. No screams, no struggles. Hadn’t even seen the woman leave.
No one cared much for Ghaitey. He was a fool, a tiny cog in a vast uncaring machine. Not even his parents showed up to collect the body. He was burned anyway.
But there was something there, a blemish that refused to be washed out. It seems only I took note.
Four days later, another. M. B., alias ‘Baam’, a part-time hood with a penchant for transgender tramps. Ran the neighbourhood prostitution racket, specialising in transgenders and cross-dressers. Was also known to bust heads on hire. Heard that he’d once cut a girl open because she’d forgotten to call him dai. Had been inside twice. The boys at the station knew him well. The yearly bonus he provided kept them warm in the winter, whiskey or a woman. Baam was gay so no wife or kids there. No known family except for the hookers and none of them seemed to give a hoot. The pimp was known to take what he wanted.
The notorious gangster, breaker of bottles and stabber of knives, found dead in a bloody puddle. Face down in the rain. Old man out on morning walk at 4am had poked him with a stick before calling the cops. Had to also call an ambulance when the arthritic started to shake like a leaf in the wind. Was afraid he might drop dead from excitement.
The body, five feet five inches, strangled to death, long finger bruises around the neck, hard enough to bruise the oesophagus. In his pockets, two bottles of lube, two 12-packs of condoms, a switchblade and twenty four thousand rupees. And a handkerchief, red, like the burst capillaries in his eyes.
And so the third one burst with the monsoon. High-profile, state minister for water resources, S. Y., affectionately called Baba by his acolytes. Found dead in an apartment made for a rich man’s mistress. Mistress was reported to be one long-legged woman with a fondness for brightly coloured kurtas. She was nowhere to be found. Baba’s PA knew her only as Kusum, no address or phone.
Outside, rain as black as night. Inside, all white linen and dark sheets. On the eggshell duvet, a blood flower bloomed. Underneath, Baba, gagged, blinded and castrated. The offending organ lying neatly next to the body, on a red handkerchief, patterned with a hibiscus.
The beauty of the pattern is in the repetition, the design right where you expect it to be. Two is a coincidence but three is deliberate. Three implies someone behind the scenes. A Wizard of Oz.
Once one person knows something, everyone else will eventually know it. That’s humans in a walnut shell. Gossiping, listening. We love the private. But we also love to tell, make the private public. I want you to know that I know.
Someone leaked it. The press went mad. I was just surprised that no one had picked up on it. Reporters trained to chase press releases had no time to think. Churning out the next day edition like workers in a factory. The cognitariat. If only the term wasn’t so hopelessly ironic. But someone told them, maybe a drunken ramble over a few pegs at a discreet Chinese restaurant, maybe a casual post-coital divulgence over a cigarette. Maybe.
And suddenly it was everywhere. Red handkerchief. Red towel. Red scarf. Rato rumaal.
There was a red sky that night, black clouds moving in fast despite earthy wisdom against a stormy morning, when there was a phone call, ringing insistently in a darkened room. Waited a full minute before answering. The voice on the other end was raspy and low, a smoker, a drinker, a cougher, a puker. Gave me a time and place. News, he said.
Arrived early but he was already there. Waved me over like a waiter, as if to say garcon. The manner of a boor, someone used to having his way. A politician. Didn’t quite place the face, dark, thick living eyebrows like caterpillars, a gut like a football. We ordered tea, milky and syrupy sweet. I hated it. But he had started talking. Someone wanted to meet me but needed my word to come alone and simply to talk. Agreed easily. Nothing to lose here. He spoke on the phone and came back with another time and another place.
The next day, took the bus thirty minutes outside of the city to a gaudy hotel, no-name landscapes in the lobby screaming lack of taste. She sat in a chair, all legs and arms, smoking a cigarette. All white kurta, dupatta around her neck. Shook hands like a man, strong grip, didn’t linger on the palm or the release. Walked away and expected me to follow. Still smoking.
In her room, the ceiling fan twirled lazily, stirring nothing. She motioned to the bed where she sat. I stood. She talked with an accent, a high falsetto, as if permanently surprised. She was Baba’s mistress, she admitted, but she hadn’t been with him that day. They didn’t have plans to meet. She didn’t do it, she couldn’t do it. Even the suspicion would do her in. She’d heard about the blood. And the organ. She shuddered. Maybe she was just a good actress.
She needed help, she pleaded. Everyone was looking for her. Why me? Because she’d heard I was someone to be trusted. She looked into my eyes as if I were the last man on earth, saviour of the human race, and she were the only other woman. I owed nothing to no one, there was nothing I could promise her. But for a damsel in distress? I agreed but I didn’t lie. No lies. Not ever. That’s the one thing I don’t do.
So what about Ghaitey? The motel and the long legs? She didn’t know him, had never met him. She turned her nose up at the mention of the motel, at the mention of Ghaitey, as if she would ever.
Women are fascinating liars. They will do it without a thought and with the greatest of ease. Men are clumsy liars, fools at deception. Women know how to conceal. She was lying.
On the ride back to the city, it started to rain. A steady downpour, not too hard and not too light. Just enough to get you wet. Stopped the cab near where the transgender prostitutes stand. Was lighting up a cigarette under an awning when the first one approached. She gave me an once-over, gauging no doubt the rate to quote me. Prostitutes think they have what everyone wants. They’re not wrong. Well, most of the time.
All man, very little woman. The wig as fake as straw on a donkey, the adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each swallow like a buoy in the water. Wet and stinking of perfume that was more vomit than rosewater. I passed. Might as well find someone more womanly to speak to. Walked a mile with the jacket collar up, cigarette cupped in the palm. Too many crossdressers. Finally found one with a slight flare to the hips. Hormone replacement had started. Lips fuller, no moustache shadow, no hint of an adam’s apple. But did she know Baam?
It will cost, she said. Of course it would. Hadn’t expected any less. There are no businesspeople like prostitutes. Followed her through a dense network of alleyways, feeling like a rat in a maze. Tried to keep count of the rights and lefts. Failed. She stopped outside a nondescript building and walked up to the third floor. A darkened single room with a double bed. I paid. She folded the money, tucking it neatly in between her nonexistent breasts.
She had heard about Baam, wanted to know if I was a cop or a friend. Said I was just interested. She had worked for him but had quit after he hit her hard enough to knock out a tooth. After four months sulking in her room and trying to quit, she’d decided to go solo. No protection from the cops anymore but that was nothing she couldn’t fix on her knees. Who needed a pimp anyway?
What was her name? Monica, she said, putting a hand on her crotch. Knew it was time to leave. Hadn’t gotten much out of her but asked one more question about Baam. Did he have a lover? Monica snickered, upper lip curling like a cow chewing cud. Said he was gay but fell in love with a meti. Who was she? Monica didn’t know. Went by different names. Was actually passable. Wouldn’t ever know by looking at her.
Left before things got weird. Tried to kiss me as I left. I don’t kiss tramps. Wanted to give me my money’s worth but I had already gotten what I paid for. Seemed broken when I said I wasn’t interested.
Walked home in the monsoon. Night was dark. Black rain enveloped the city in its inky embrace. Tried to do some thinking but all that came to mind was Kusum and her doe-eyes as she’d looked at me for help. She’d turned the way women do when they know you’re looking. All hip and chest. Arms to the side, shoulders back. Like it’s biologically ingrained. A mating dance. Women are predictable. You expect them to lie, you expect them to cheat, you expect them to put out when you don’t want it and rebuff you when you do want it. They’re not complicated. They’re just so darn predictable it’s not even fun.
Women. Wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Take the rain over a woman any day. At least the monsoon washes you clean. Women just leave you dirty.
Woke up to the phone buzzing into my ear like a humongous fly, the green-blue kind. The kind that you can feel under you thick and round when you squash. Inspector on the phone. Owed me a favour. Had helped his kid get out a jam once. Teenager, trashed a bar with some friends while drunk, tried to punch a Thulo Manchhe in the face when caught. Didn’t go well for him. Would’ve gone worse. Inspector didn’t know where he was, turned to me. Cashed in another favour. Had the boy back in three hours, minus a few teeth. It was a price he was willing to pay.
Thamel. Cold and rainy. A sleazy motel, the kind that teenagers use. Inspector at the door gave quick salute. Hadn’t forgotten me. Ushered up a flight of stairs past worried young boy behind counter. Door was ajar. Inside, two beds and a camcorder on a tripod. On the left bed, man, white, in his 40s, balding, paunchy, spotted like a leopard all over disgusting naked body. Long jagged wounds on wrist, like empty rivers, blood pooled and congealed into the carpet. No getting that out now. But motel like this, who cared. All that mattered was a surface to lay on.
Inspector motioned to camera. Pressed rewind and play. On display, dead man sitting on bed, speaking to camera. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, crying pathetically. He wasn’t sorry. Just scared. Someone behind camera. Razor blade in man’s hand. I did it, I confess, through tears and a frothing nose. Razor went down, hesitated on skin. Man looked up, pleading. Razor slid smoothly across left arm skin from palm to crook of elbow. No blood for a millisecond then bright and oxygenated, flooding its banks. Repeat for left arm. Lie on bed. End video.
Inspector motioned again, to suitcase in corner of room. Filled with manila envelopes. Inside, CDs and sheaf of photographs. Each worse than the last. Little boys. Little girls. Oldest maybe not more than ten. Smile on faces, sick in the eyes. Nearly threw up, had to swallow bile. Inside the topmost envelope, handkerchief. Red as a rooster’s comb. Outside, rain as black as the dead man’s heart.