THE BUTCHER OF BENARES Read online

  It had been a long time since he felt something in him that had lain dormant. He wanted to reach out to her, to hold on to something normal, real, maybe just a smile.

  He kept gazing at her. She had eyes much like Kavita’s and the same childlike zest for life, the same infectious smile and spring in her stride. He couldn’t resist a smile himself, that moment. He gently withdrew his hand from her tender grip, and walked out into the fog.

  Hawa Singh had to take care of a man whom he considered to be in a more precarious position than himself. Fauja Singh.

  The temperature had dropped by a few more degrees. The papers had said it could be the coldest winter in a hundred years.

  Inside Mukti Bhawan, Fauja Singh sat bare-bodied, with a thin towel wrapped around his waist. A pandit was performing puja, chanting mantras.

  ‘What the hell is all this?’ yelled Hawa Singh as he walked in on the scene. ‘You want to die now, champion, sitting as you are?’

  ‘What else have we come here for? Death. Moksha. Did you get my jalebis?’

  Hawa Singh picked up a blanket and threw it over his father. ‘I’m not going to get you anything till you start taking care of yourself. You are not a child.’

  Fauja laughed. ‘I like it when you behave this way. But I’m not this body. I’m a divine being. I’m a spirit. I’m God.’

  ‘Don’t start all over again. I have enough on my mind.’

  ‘If Kavita had been here, she would have solved your case in minutes. She was a star reporter,’ cried Fauja.

  They regarded each other. Both their eyes were moist. Then Fauja broke down altogether. ‘It is I, who should have died,’ he mourned. ‘She had so much life in her, so much to live for, for you, to make you live.’

  Hawa Singh wrapped his arms around his father and let the tears flow.

  ‘Let’s forget the jalebis,’ said Fauja Singh through his own tears. ‘I want to have idli-sambar. You remember how often Kavita would get dosas, idlis and sambar for me? She filled my life with love and care. Maybe I’ll meet her up there.’

  That morning father and son had a hot, scrumptious south Indian breakfast. They talked about Kavita. On her first visit to their village in Haryana, she had sat with the village elders and smoked a hookah. It had scandalized the entire village. She had driven a tractor through the fields. She had gone around taking pictures of village women, the buffaloes, the camels. Everything was an awesome sight to her.

  All the time Fauja stood beside her proudly. ‘My daughter-in-law comes on TV,’ he had boasted.

  Now, she was gone, creating a vacuum in their lives. Suddenly, they had been left with little to talk about, nothing to laugh about. A fog had engulfed them. Fauja finally decided to break through it and free himself. Death is equal to freedom.

  It was already 11 am. Hawa Singh had to go and pick up Ruby Malik.

  ‘This CID girl is not bad,’ said Fauja smilingly.

  ‘She is from the FBI,’ corrected Hawa Singh.

  ‘It’s all the same. I like her. I’m telling you, God has sent her to you. Take your chance, boy, before she flies away.’

  Hawa Singh shook his head and walked out.

  Ruby and he were going to meet Kashi Naresh, the king of Benares.

  *

  They took a rowboat to cross the Ganges, as Ramnagar Fort was situated on the opposite bank. As they drifted away from the ghats, Ruby gazed with delight on the many sights of Benares. ‘I have never seen so many colours in a city. This is beautiful!’ she said.

  Hawa Singh was lost in his own thoughts, but nodded in acknowledgement.

  Why, he asked himself, had he chosen to be a policeman?

  There was no answer. It had not been, then, about right and wrong. Maybe it was because, when he was a kid, he had been bullied in school. Maybe it was then he’d resolved to become the tough guy.

  Now, he knew right from wrong, but not everyone else appeared to. Today every kid on the street believed in the adage: ‘Behind every great fortune there is a crime.’

  The world was filled with attractions that distracted minds. Everyone was greedy, wanting to possess and hoard. Everyone wanted it all, fast and easy. But there was only one way to get there: the criminal way.

  His thoughts were broken by Ruby. ‘Is it possible,’ she asked, ‘that the killer of Aghori Baba crossed the river like this on a boat? It could be any of the hundreds of boatmen.’

  ‘The possibilities are numerous,’ Hawa Singh responded. ‘But yes, he could have crossed the river and disappeared. There would be no trace of blood. They say the river Ganges purifies everything.’

  They looked ahead to see Ramnagar Fort situated majestically on a hill. There were hardly any houses or temples on this side of the river.

  It had taken them twenty minutes to cross the river and another fifteen minutes on a tonga to reach Ramnagar Fort. It was like being transported to an altogether new world.

  The fort was built in a typical Mughal style of architecture with carved balconies, open courtyards, and picturesque pavilions. It was built by Kashi Naresh Raja Balwant Singh in the eighteenth century. Today, one part of the fort was used as a residence for the royal family while another was converted into a museum.

  Hawa Singh strode resolutely to the residence. There were armed guards all around, who escorted Ruby and Hawa Singh to the private quarters of the king.

  Inside, the walls on either side of the long corridor were covered with oil portraits of the many kings of Benares, from the very first maharaja, Balwant Singh, who presided over Kashi in 1740, to the last, Maharaja Vibhuti Narayan Singh.

  Hawa Singh and Ruby were left in a room stacked with books and artefacts. They sat there on large ornate chairs waiting for Maharaj Abhay Narayan Singh to show up.

  They sat in silence for almost half an hour, and finally, Kashi Naresh walked in. They stood up like automatons in the presence of royalty, shook hands and introduced themselves.

  Hawa Singh noticed that Abhay Narayan Singh wore gloves that covered his hands. He also wore a high-collared sweater that covered his entire neck. It was only his face that was visible. He was a well-groomed man, with carefully plucked eyebrows, hair dyed black and a clipped, thin moustache. He looked close to fifty-five years in age.

  Ruby could see the guards with guns poised at all doors and windows.

  Hawa Singh softly cleared his throat and spoke, ‘You know that a foreigner, Eva Marie Cassidy, was murdered in Benares under mysterious circumstances.’

  ‘I heard that Tailanga Swami was also killed mercilessly. Why does a murder of a foreigner become so important?’ asked Kashi Naresh.

  ‘It’s like this: in Eva’s hotel room I found a slip of paper with three telephone numbers on it. I have checked that they were written by her. One of them was your personal telephone number.’

  ‘Are you treating me as a suspect?’ Abhay Narayan asked curtly.

  ‘We don’t want to leave any question unanswered,’ chipped in Ruby.

  Abhay Narayan looked at her and smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll clear everything for you. She wanted to meet me, to discuss the Bhrigu-Samhita, and to go through the manuscripts in our small museum, Saraswati Bhawan.’

  Ruby and Hawa Singh exchanged a look.

  ‘I have been told that you don’t meet anyone just like that. How come you agreed to meet with her at such short notice?’ asked Hawa Singh.

  ‘Just the way I agreed to meet you,’ laughed Abhay.

  Hawa Singh was quiet. Ruby checked out the guards and saw that their guns were cocked and ready.

  Abhay regained his composure and said, ‘Let me tell you, very few get to meet Kashi Naresh. According to orthodox Brahmin traditions, no one has seen Kashi Naresh eat, and none of the kings has travelled abroad and thereby defiled himself. During the religious occasion of Shivratri, Kashi Naresh is the chief officiating priest and no other person or priest is allowed to enter the sanctum sanctorum. It is only after he performs his religious functions that others are all
owed to partake of the ceremony. And I think you should know, there is much mystery surrounding this fort.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Hawa Singh.

  Abhay Narayan looked stern. ‘Well, I got to know that Eva worked with the Vatican, which is the centre of Catholicism, just like Benares is nodal to Hindus. I have to respect that.’

  ‘So did you take her around your museum?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Yes, I did and I’m sure that you both would also like to retrace her footsteps. Maybe the same track will lead you somewhere.’

  Before they could say anything, Abhay was up and out of the room. The guard at the door signalled them to follow.

  They moved through many corridors and narrow stairways that led them to a secret passage used by the kings and the royal families to enter Saraswati Bhawan.

  It was a large room with an interesting collection of royal carriages, weapons, coins and exquisite artefacts.

  Abhay Narayan explained, ‘Here we have a rare collection of manuscripts, especially religious writings. There is a handwritten manuscript of the Ramayana by Goswami Tulsidas, and books illustrated in the Mughal miniature style, such as the Balwant Naama, Vansa Vivaran, and many others.’

  Ruby looked at a collection of coins with holes in them and asked, ‘What are these?’

  Abhay guffawed out aloud and said, ‘Maharaja Prabhu Narayan Singh had a penchant for target practice. He used to have coins tossed high in the air, and shot at them with a rifle. The holes in the damaged coins show his perfect aim.’

  Hawa Singh looked around and saw pistols, unique swords and the legendary Ramnagar Clock.

  Abhay pointed to the clock saying, ‘Eva was particularly interested in that. It was made in 1872 by the state’s official clockmaker, B. Mulchand. It still gives accurate chronological and astrological readings.’

  ‘Astro readings!’ exclaimed Ruby.

  ‘It shows the placement of the sun, moon and stars at any particular time. Astronomy and astrology go hand-in-hand.’

  Hawa Singh looked puzzled. ‘What else was she interested in?’

  ‘She wanted to check the original manuscript of the Bhrigu-Samhita. Sadly, we don’t have that. It could be 5,000 years old, or even 10,000. The original manuscript got lost in time as Brahmins took it to various parts of the country. It doesn’t exist.’

  Hawa Singh was quiet as he tried to fit the new revelations with the motive for Eva’s murder.

  He looked at Kashi Naresh and asked, ‘One more thing. What does “sparrow” mean to you?’

  Abhay looked shaken, but for only a moment. He regained his composure and laughed, ‘You must be joking.’

  Ruby and Hawa Singh looked at each other, puzzled by his reaction.

  ‘The guards will escort you out,’ said Abhay, signalling an end to their interview. ‘I hope your visit was fruitful. By the way, Suryadev Singh is throwing a lavish party at his guesthouse. You should talk to him. Eva told me all about her meeting with him.’

  Hawa Singh and Ruby looked stunned.

  Maharaj Abhay Narayan Singh walked out.

  *

  They stood on the bank of the river, with Ramnagar Fort in the background, staring down at them. A vast stretch of sand separated them.

  ‘Astrology and astronomy are the keys to all this. The planetary positions of the sun, moon and stars are used in Hindu astrology. There was something that Eva knew, and something else that she was looking for,’ observed Ruby Malik in a thoughtful voice.

  ‘It could be that we are reading too much into it,’ interjected Hawa Singh. ‘It’s complex. The killer seems to have tried to build a mystery where, perhaps, there is none. It could be a simple case of jealousy, revenge, lust, a simple crime of passion. This entire circle of astrology and astronomy has been created to keep the focus away from the main motive.’

  ‘You mean she could be like any other foreign tourist with an interest in astrology?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Yes, it could be as simple as that.’

  Ruby looked around at the rippling waters and asked, ‘Do you think she may have had a boyfriend here?’

  ‘I have checked with the hotel and they said she didn’t have any visitors there. Outside, in the city, too, she was mostly engaged in the mysteries of astrology and the colours of Hinduism. However, the local police have yet to get back to us about all the people she met with in Benares.’

  Ruby looked puzzled, ‘So what are we looking for?’

  ‘We have to hit the nerve centre. The killing machine. The mafia boss. Suryadev Singh.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Despite the increase in vigilance, and the enforcement of stricter laws and punishment, the crime rate is ever on the rise. The number of murders, robberies, kidnappings for ransom, rapes, trafficking of girls, illegal drug and liquor sales, and lynchings just keep going up, year after year.

  There have been cases of eve-teasing in which people who took exception were stabbed to death. And with the Net broadening its bandwidth, the rate of cyber crimes, too, has increased. The moment the regulatory authorities ban a noxious product, an entire army of black marketeers rises.

  It is as if society as a whole has no fear of the law. The rich know the ways to get around restriction, while for the downtrodden; crime is the only sure way to success.

  Even the judiciary seems to have collapsed, with judges reduced to court clerks, with cases piling up and hearings adjourned day after day. The police look helpless. And the politicians don’t seem to care. It seems as if even godliness has disappeared from what was once the land of gods and goddesses.

  Hawa Singh reflected on the miasma surrounding most people today. India was not shining, it was rotting. Frustration, rage, anxiety and depression were its hallmarks.

  But he was a lone soldier. What could he do?

  Standing with Ruby Malik outside the palatial bungalow of Suryadev Singh, he thought bitterly that crime really did pay. It was built of white marble, a high structure to rival even the fort of Kashi Naresh.

  It was unusual for politicians to make Benares their base, but Suryadev had opted to, turning the holiest of holy Hindu sites into a centre for arms-dealing. Suryadev Singh controlled the vast trade in illegal arms, supplying guns and explosives to underground rebels in Bihar, Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, Orissa and Andhra Pradesh. And when the Indian government began selling out coal blocks to private companies, it looked like his every dream was coming true. The wealthy corporates couldn’t take a step without his blessings in the dense forests and mines of these states.

  Soon Suryadev Singh would hold sway over hundreds of crores worth of coal. None of the big mafia guys, not even those in Mumbai, Hong Kong or Dubai, would have thought one could earn as much as ten crore rupees a day, from illegal mining and trade in coal. And none of them dared to step into Suryadev’s territory.

  Outside the massive marble edifice, Hawa Singh and Ruby saw imported cars—BMWs, Mercedes, Jaguars, Ferrari, Lamborghini, along with some vintage cars that commanded prices double that of the Jaguars—snaking down the drive.

  The driveway had turned into a ramp for the guests to show off their luxury cars. Hawa Singh and Ruby had arrived in a pedal-rickshaw. It’s good that they got down a little distance before the bungalow and preferred to walk in.

  Ruby was dressed in a short black dress, showing off her long legs. There was a deep vertical slit at the back, showing her beautiful skin right down to the waist. She wore high heels and deep red lipstick, and had her hair tied back. Hawa Singh was dressed in his usual leather jacket and jeans.

  He couldn’t help but let the forbidden thoughts cloud his mind. It’d been a long time since he had had a woman.

  He moved in hesitatingly, nervous about gatecrashing the party. He felt a bit nervous doing all this. He never felt comfortable with these sophisticated wine-drinkers and makers of polite conversation. He kept his head down—from no angle did he look a part of this crowd. Ruby flashed a smile at the guests as she walked pas
t them.

  Inside, they walked into the hall where a huge chandelier—probably Italian crystal—hung from the ceiling. Expensively attired guests crowded the place, as wine, cheese, scotch and a variety of exotic snacks floated past on salvers carried by liveried servants. On the walls were large black-and-white photographs, obviously taken by Suryadev, of poverty-stricken miners. It was said that Suryadev hated to touch coal himself, even though the precious black mineral had taken him to where he was.

  The guests in the party included top police brass, powerful politicians, industrialists, senior MNC executives and bureaucrats that included the SSP, Neeraj Thakur. It was for males only. Many looked glad to have left their wives and daughters behind. Different pleasures were awaiting them.

  There were many semi-nude white foreign girls dressed up in shiny costumes, who helped to serve the guests. The girls had been hired for the entire night, giving the men complete freedom to vent their lust in the private bedrooms upstairs. There were various guns and antique swords displayed along the stairway going up.

  After the last such party, some of the girls were found to be badly beaten, cut and abused. There were two who disappeared altogether, consigned to lime or the river. No reports were ever filed.

  Who said crime didn’t pay?

  Ruby felt lost in the crowd and grabbed Hawa Singh’s hand for a sense of some security. He himself found all the extravagance around him claustrophobic. He had no problems with people being wealthy, but despised ostentation. And hypocritical small talk infuriated him.

  His line of thought was broken by the sound of thunderous clapping. He looked up to see Suryadev Singh walking down the staircase into the hall. He was dressed in an immaculate white kurta-pyjama and had a glass of what looked like scotch in his hand. He had the look of a suave man—clean-shaven face, soft voice, an Oxbridge accent and always chivalrous to ladies. He also looked pretty young for his age.