THE BUTCHER OF BENARES Read online

  The SSP was the first one to go and greet him. Suryadev put his hand on his shoulder, a sort of blessing to the police chief. Soon, the others clustered around to shake hands with the coal king.

  Suryadev loved to be treated like royalty. It boosted his already inflated ego. From the top politicians to the seniormost cops, no one dared to oppose him.

  Neeraj Thakur, the SSP, turned around and seeing him, Hawa Singh pulled Ruby away from his line of vision. They stood with their backs to the SSP, pretending to gaze intently at a black-and-white photograph of coal-mine-workers stuck inside a flooded mine. The weeping helpless workers were a ghastly sight as they appeared to plead for help. It was said that Suryadev Singh dumped a truck full of coal inside that mine. The workers were never found. The mine was illegal and so were the workers, paperless refugees from Bangladesh.

  Suddenly, the lights went off. The guests cried and hooted with fear and excitement. One didn’t know what Suryadev might have in mind for them. For the first few seconds the guests felt anxious, but as music filled the air, they realized this was just another of Suryadev’s party games.

  Hawa Singh saw a few well-respected politicians and bureaucrats grabbing at the breasts and buttocks of the young girls serving them. In the darkness they all turned into animals. Hawa Singh held Ruby close to him, her head resting on his broad chest. Frightened as she was, she felt strangely secure in his arms.

  The entire hall was suddenly illuminated by colourful lights and the music grew even louder. Then, smoke started filling the hall. Was Suryadev planning to gas them?

  Slowly, out from the dense fog, a group of girls came out dancing, dressed only in g-strings. The guests went crazy. Then, like a Bollywood hero who appears from nowhere, Prashant Singh swaggered out of the smoke. He was dressed in a designer suit and expensive handmade shoes. Hawa Singh would have never known those labels. They had never mattered to him.

  Prashant, the only son of Suryadev Singh, and the more vicious of the two, had turned thirty and this was his birthday party. He had been involved in the abduction of girls, violent fights and was known to kill people with the knife that he carried with him.

  Some said that he loved to cut open the stomachs of his victims and then closely inspect their guts. With him, too, no cases were ever filed. No witnesses. They called him the ‘Madman’.

  He should have tried his tricks on Hawa Singh’s turf.

  Prashant went up to his father and touched his feet. Suryadev blessed him. The guests cheered loudly, ‘Happy birthday!’ Most of them were already drunk, and ogling the semi-nude dancers.

  A large cake in the shape of a cricket stadium was brought in. The boundary was marked with mounds of cream in the shape of tits, and red cherries served as nipples. The guests went ecstatic. Prashant cut the cake and licked one of the red cherries with his tongue. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he called the guests.

  The men rushed to the cake to have their share of the red cherries. The cream filled their mouths and like kindergarten kids they smeared it on each other’s faces.

  Suryadev Singh smiled, looking at these so-called arms and legs of the government machinery. He was the power source and could switch off the supply any time he wanted.

  Prashant opened a champagne bottle and poured it over the girls. They were Russian and East European girls. Hawa Singh could never understand the fascination of Indian men for white girls. They just couldn’t handle their testosterone levels seeing one of them. To him it was the slave mentality persisting in a country once dominated by a white race. Witness the demand in the market for cosmetics that promised to turn skin fair!

  There lay the sickness. Everyone wanted to be white—in their lifestyle, in their looks, in their eating habits, almost everything.

  With music and drinks flowing, the men started to dance with the girls, fondling them all the while. They were waiting eagerly for the lights to be switched off.

  This was an opportune moment for Hawa Singh and Ruby. They could slip inside to look for signs or clues in the inner rooms. They went into what looked like a study. The walls were stacked with book shelves; only God knew who studied those books. Once, Suryadev had been a voracious reader. Now, things were different.

  There was a large mahogany desk faced by a revolving chair. They tried the drawers of the desk, but they appeared to be locked. Hawa Singh took a hairpin from Ruby and picked them open one by one. Inside the drawers were various knives and daggers—it was likely to be Prashant’s private collection, because he was known to love knives. There were some antique knives from China and Korea, an African blade, one that seemed to date back to the Mughal era, and another of the US Army issue during the Vietnam War.

  The knives were of stunning beauty, but Hawa Singh didn’t want to touch them. They closed the drawers and looked around the room. There were a few large portraits on the wall, more of Suryadev’s black-and-white photographs and a silver cross. The Holy Cross.

  ‘What is this doing here? They are not Christians. Suryadev is, if anything, a practising Hindu who funds many fanatic Hindu organizations,’ whispered Hawa Singh.

  Ruby hurriedly clicked a picture of the Cross on her mobile phone. There was nothing else that caught their attention, so they slipped out of the room.

  They moved through a narrow corridor that led towards a wider passage with rooms on both sides. They checked to see if there was anyone around—there wasn’t—so they pushed open a heavy wooden door and entered one of the rooms.

  The door was padded thickly on the inside, like those in recording studios. The walls, too, were padded; the room seemed to be completely soundproof.

  Ruby pressed a switch and a pale blue light filled the room. There was one large bed in the centre, and a tall glass-fronted cupboard containing some transparent jars.

  The very sight of the stuff that floated in those jars made Ruby gasp in horror. Hawa Singh, too, for all the terrible scenes he had witnessed as a policeman, had not seen anything like it. Inside the glass jars were heads and other human body parts floating in liquid. Numbed, Hawa Singh and Ruby took a while to recover from the dreadful spectacle.

  When they did, Ruby began to take photographs on her cell phone. Hawa Singh busied himself searching the room for more clues. Ruby stopped near one of the jars and pointed. It held a human heart.

  ‘So we have gate-crashers in my house,’ said Suryadev Singh, from behind them in his customary silken voice. They hadn’t heard the door opening or his padding right up to them. Hawa Singh’s hand directly went to his Colt in reflex.

  ‘You won’t need that Hawa Singh saab,’ purred Suryadev. So he knew who they were.

  Suryadev came close to Ruby and said, ‘I know all about Hawa Singh. He has been after me for the last many years. Well, so many of them have been… you must be Ruby Malik, the FBI girl.

  ‘Let me introduce you to these pieces of art,’ he continued, pointing to the body parts in the jars. ‘These are pieces of the men who were killed by my father, Baldev Pratap Singh. The only way to kill the competition was to kill the competitors. So he did so—and left these preserved souvenirs to me.’

  Hawa Singh went straight to the matter. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Eva, the girl who was found murdered,’ he said to Suryadev.

  ‘So you came here to talk, but then you took a detour,’ smiled Suryadev.

  ‘Did she meet you or not?’

  Suryadev took a sip from the glass of scotch he held in his hand. ‘Yes, she did come. She was a beautiful girl. I showed her my art collection.’

  ‘Why did she come to you?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Ah, the FBI interrogation. All right, I’ll try to be of help—although I’m not accustomed to being questioned, ever. She came here to party. She was fun. She smoked weed, drank and was pretty high. This is why foreigners come to Benares, to smoke weed.’

  ‘What does the word “Sparrow” mean to you?’ asked Hawa Singh abruptly.

  ‘Those are beautiful birds. I love their chirp
ing. Now, it seems, their music has faded. I don’t see them any longer. Many of them have died—but who cares? And the few that are left have forgotten how to sing; the noise of traffic confuses them. And then, the cities are spanned right across by high-tension wires. One touch can burn a sparrow to ashes.’

  Now, Prashant barged into the room. ‘What happened?’ he demanded to know, and directed his glance to Ruby, looking her long legs up and down.

  Suryadev spoke, again softly. ‘These are the ones who crashed our party. I caught them checking out our art collection.’

  Prashant’s maniacal smile turned to a quiet laugh. ‘Sounds like fun. Let’s go down and celebrate. It’s my birthday, after all.’

  Hawa Singh and Ruby hesitantly walked out of the room, Prashant following right behind, escorting them down the staircase and into the hall.

  The orgy in the hall was still on. The guests, totally drunk, were mauling the girls. ‘This shouldn’t happen in Kashi,’ thought Hawa Singh.

  A little alcohol, a little licence, brought out the worst in everyone. Maybe people seized such opportunities to exorcize their demons. It was in such circumstances that crimes spiralled out of control.

  Prashant pulled Ruby to the centre of the hall and called to everyone, ‘Look, we have a special guest here.’

  Hawa Singh stood quietly close by. The first among the guests to recognize the two was the SSP, Neeraj Thakur. Mercifully, he was too drunk to do much about the situation except shout to Hawa Singh, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Hawa Singh didn’t answer.

  ‘Please, they are our guests,’ said Prashant. Then, with a swift stroke, he took out a sleek gold dagger and sliced Ruby’s dress from the neck to the bottom. The dress parted like two lengths of curtain. Fortunately, she was wearing a bra and panties. The drunken men stared and cheered and whistled.

  ‘Now who wants to ride her?’ said Prashant loudly.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch her,’ shouted Hawa Singh.

  ‘Oh, so you are going to stop me? Let me see,’ said Prashant, calling out to his guards, ‘Throw him out.’

  About a dozen heavily armed men surrounded Hawa Singh. He had to act now. His head was buzzing. The bullet was like a needle in his head.

  He pounced on Prashant and grabbed him by the neck, holding the Colt to his temple. ‘You filthy bastard, you touched her. You dared to put your hands on her. I can put this bullet right through your head, and spray all in the room with the rest.’

  ‘Hawa Singh, put it down,’ said the SSP.

  Hawa Singh ignored him and looked in Suryadev Singh’s direction. ‘This is your son,’ he said. ‘You better teach him some manners.’ He then kicked Prashant, who fell to the floor, his face hitting the marble hard. Nevertheless, even as he lay prone, his maniacal laugh continued.

  Hawa Singh took off his jacket and put it around Ruby, saying, ‘Come, Kavita, we need to get out of here.’

  Ruby was looking at him, shell-shocked. She was not Kavita. And no one had ever stood up for her like this before.

  CHAPTER 10

  Hawa Singh walked out with Ruby, boiling with rage. Outside the bungalow, there was a police jeep, and inside it, Sub-Inspector Gaya Prasad Sharma and a team of four constables on duty.

  The SI leaped out of the jeep on seeing Hawa Singh and saluted, ‘Sir, I didn’t know you had also come to the party.’

  The condensed breath coming out of Hawa Singh’s mouth looked like smoke from a fire. ‘We need to drop Ruby madam at her hotel,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Please, sir, I’ll drive myself. We had a heater fixed in our jeep last year. Now, we can all stay warm in here.’

  Gaya Prasad hurriedly opened the door of the jeep and asked the constables to step out. The sleepy policemen grumbled and reluctantly did so.

  Hawa Singh didn’t realize that he was still holding Ruby’s hand as they climbed into the jeep.

  Gaya Prasad told his men, ‘Listen, I don’t want any of chaps going to sleep in some corner. Be alert, I’ll be back soon.’

  He started the jeep, smiling at Hawa Singh conspiratorially, ‘You know everything about Suryadev Singh, but we are totally clueless. All we know is that he is a powerful politician and we have to guard him, salute him. We have to keep our jobs.’

  Hawa Singh strongly believed that police should never feel helpless—or what use was there for a police force? Political arrogance was what had decreased their morale, used as they were as personal guards and servants by more powerful people.

  The jeep moved slowly, the yellow fog lights attempting to pierce the mist. As they sat together on the backseat, Hawa Singh and Ruby were still holding hands.

  Gaya Prasad looked back and said, ‘Sir, I checked out on all the people at the ghats, like you told me to. I questioned every single boatman, pandit, beggar, leper, vendor and flower-seller, but none of had seen a man carrying an axe.’

  Hawa Singh didn’t seem to hear anything. He was quiet. Ruby looked at him and pressed his hand. There was no reaction.

  ‘There is one possibility, sir. There are these doms who conduct cremations on the ghats. They use axes to cut the wood for pyres.’

  Hawa Singh didn’t respond.

  The jeep crept through the winding road. The fog was so dense, making Ruby feel that they were sailing over clouds. Gaya Prasad continued with his conjectures. ‘Did you know, sir, that Neelambar Nath has become the leader of the Aghoris? I’m telling you, he is the one who killed Tailanga Swami, to take his position. He has been given the title of Swami Neelambar Nath.’

  Ruby looked enquiringly at Hawa Singh. ‘What do you think?’

  Hawa Singh was still staring wordlessly into the fog.

  They were quiet till they reached Nadesar Palace. Gaya Prasad got out and opened the door for them. Hawa Singh stepped out, holding Ruby’s hand.

  Gaya saluted. ‘It’ll be an honour working with you, sir.’

  ‘Kill them before they kill you,’ mumbled Hawa Singh.

  Gaya Prasad was stunned, looking to Ruby for explanation. She gestured for him to leave.

  Hawa Singh was wearing a thin cotton t-shirt. The freezing cold didn’t seem to bother him. They walked into Ruby’s warm room.

  She led him to a chair and made him sit. ‘Let me get you a drink. You need one.’

  ‘No, I’d better leave,’ said Hawa Singh, getting up.

  Ruby, still wearing the bulky leather jacket, stepped up close to him and examined his face. ‘Back there you called me “Kavita”. Who is she? You seem to be carrying a lot in your head.’

  She made him sit on the bed. She removed the jacket and her torn dress revealed much of her body. Hawa Singh seemed to be staring right past it, a splitting pain in his head taking over. The bullet was nudging at his brain.

  ‘There seems to be lot of rage hidden inside you, you need to spill it out or it will kill you.’ She knelt on the bed, held his hand again and said gently, understandingly, ‘You loved her a lot.’

  This brought tears to his eyes. He fought hard to hold them in, but they spilled over quietly.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about her?’ persisted Ruby, softly.

  Hawa Singh finally looked directly at her. ‘I lived for her and now I’m just this body. I failed to save her and my team. I killed her.’

  Ruby drew closer to him. ‘She still lives in your heart.’

  Hawa Singh shook his head, struggling to escape from the fragmented images and voices that crowded it. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, she will always live inside me.’

  Then Hawa Singh poured his heart out to Ruby, telling her everything about Kavita, about their love and planned life together, her abduction, the encounter and her killing.

  Ruby couldn’t speak for a long time, leaning her head against his shoulder. ‘I wish someone loved me as much,’ she finally whispered.

  Then, briskly telling him ‘You need some sleep’, she helped him remove his boots and urged him down on the bed. They lay there, wrapped in each oth
er’s arms. Hawa Singh held her tightly, seeming to want to dissolve into her.

  ‘I don’t know why, but I have this strange feeling. It’s like an unknown fear that is creeping towards me. Something bad is about to happen,’ he told Ruby.

  ‘Forget everything,’ said Ruby comfortingly. Hawa Singh managed to close his eyes. And they slept like babies.

  It was just after 2 am that he woke up with a start. Was it fear, anxiety, stress, or something he didn’t know? There was only one thing he knew—he had to act.

  He dressed, left the room and walked out into the fog.

  The killing fields were calling him.

  CHAPTER 11

  SSP Neeraj Thakur was facing his own nightmare. Thousands had crowded around the Kashi Vishwanath temple, one of the most famous dedicated to Lord Shiva in Benares. The doors to the main shrine, where the Shiv-linga is located, had not yet opened.

  It is believed that a simple glimpse of the linga inside the temple cleanses the soul completely, leading the believer to the path of knowledge and bhakti. It was Monday, the day of Lord Shiva. Devotees had come from nearby cities and from as far away as Kolkata, Delhi, towns in Punjab and Maharashtra, and abroad.

  The temple opens daily at 2.30 am for mangala aarti, and by 3 am, devotees are allowed to join in the prayers. From 4 to 11 am darshan is allowed to all visitors. It was already 6 am. Why were the doors to the main shrine not yet open? They seemed to have been locked from the inside. The crowd was getting more and more restless. This had never happened in the history of Benares.

  Baba Ramtirath, along with hundreds of Naga sadhus, was at the front of the crowd, as the Nagas were given the first preference for darshan. The SSP, along with a large contingent of the police force, was trying to calm down the crowd.

  ‘This seems to be the work of those Aghoris. They have done some tantra-mantra and closed the doors,’ Baba Ramtirath told the SSP.

  The police they didn’t want to force open the sacred gates—it would have triggered a major riot.

  The SSP called the Ghost.

  ***