Namard
She took the knife in her hand and thought about how fucked up her life is. How she is nothing but a mere sex provider for her husband, a dishwasher for her mother in law and a cook for her kids.
She thought of other girls of her age. She was just twenty seven. While her best friends were busy in getting drunk in nightouts, later vomiting their internal organs in the flush and sleeping with the rich who buy those fancy bags to put on Instagram posts; she was put inside a cage. A cage burdened with expectations, hardly leaving any space for her to breath.
Sometimes she thought of murdering her in laws. Well, they had forced her parents to sell their car for dowry. Her worst enemies, they didn’t deserve to live, at least for her.
She pulled the strand of hair on her face and tucked it behind her ear. Sweat beads appeared on her forehead.
Without giving a second thought, she raised the knife and cut through.
One, two, three, cuts kept coming as she held it with her other hand. As the knife pierced through, the red color of the tomato juice spilled on the chopping board. It was now completely cut into sharp pieces now ready to be served with the salad.
The air had a very pungent smell. Onions, gas leaks, rotten eggs from yesterday and the unwashed dishes in the sink. Her kitchen was nothing different from the others.
‘Bas kaam karwao, saali zindagi hi nahi hai meri toh’ she muttered to herself. The pressure cooker started whistling. She cursed her life once more and turned the stove off.
Mitanjali always regretted marrying a police officer. Leave police officer, she regretted marrying. She regretted having kids.
She wanted to be successful.
She was the star of the town when in early twenties, her voice was alluring and from kids to oldies, those who had one feet in grave and the other on a banana peel, used to come to listen to her until her parents found out that her music teacher, the old guy with hanging pieces of flesh on his chest didn’t only give her music lessons alone and out of anger married her at the age of twenty one to Mr Kashyap.
Digvijay Kashyap was a police officer, a sub inspector. If we could personify the word ‘disgrace’, we’ll might end up with him as the result.
He was good for nothing. In his service life of six years till now, all he did was solve small cases of theft and those of murders never really needed an investigation.
He hated his job more than Mrs Kashyap. All he did was watch porn on his service computer, pick his nose, occasionally solve the small cases that were given to him (he hardly got any case though) and ate the food Mitanjali made out of frustration, making his stomach look like that of a seven month pregnant.
Her phone rang.
‘Whose call is that? Raj!’ she called her son from the kitchen. Her son was busy in the washroom, doing what his father was doing from the last six years on his office computer.
He wanted to be a writer but the falling marriage of his parents and the situation of his home, never really let him write as a profession.
‘Raj!’ she shouted and threw a glass, shattering it into pieces.
Her son cursed her from inside.
‘Mar gaya kya?’ she shouted again and then walked to her phone in the next room, which now wasn’t ringing anymore.
It was a missed call from Digvijay. She knew what he was about to say.
‘Hello? Mitanjali?’ he said.
‘Why the hell do I even make food then?’ she shouted.
‘I wanted to say that we can go for a movie tonight’ he said and paused. She felt embarrassed, as if a tight slap had landed on her face, ‘I don’t have much work’
Digvijay tried to compensate his failures with money and love for his family. His family however, never really understood him.
‘I..I’ she stuttered.
‘Get ready by six’ he said, ‘make sure the Raj is also ready. And I don’t feel like having food today’ he said and immediately cut the call.
She still remembered how her first night in this home was. How he told her that he never wanted to join the services, read out shayaries for her and how it was the best of what she ever did with the grey hair music teacher.
Raj, in the meantime came out of the washroom, feeling relaxed than ever.
‘We are going to the theater in the evening. You took shower?’
He shook his head. Hygiene was a concept he didn’t believe in.
‘Your dad says he’ll get free from work early’
‘Work? Does he really work?’ he said and fake laughed, ‘I know how much hard he works. Don’t make me open my mouth’
‘Shut up’ she shouted.
‘Harsh was telling me that your dad’s a sub inspector, must be earning well. Fuck did he knew what’s the truth’ he said, ‘cant even afford a fucking smart TV’
This was for everyday. His son cursed him, blamed his failures for the conditions he was living and loved his dad as much as the Rohingyas loved pigs.
Maybe he wasn’t that bad. Just useless.
‘Kya hua sahib’ asked Vikrant, the constable. He shook his head.
Vikrant was the man Friday of Digvijay. From what he ate to what he shat, he kept information about everything
‘Wahi puraani bakwaas’ he said, ‘socha tha aaj picture dikha ke laau par usko toh lagta hai ki uska pati bas ghar khana khaane aur haggne aata hai’
Vikrant laughed. He joined the laughter.
‘Kya behenchod kismet pai hai. Kahan Shakespeare banna chahta tha aur ab bas pura din shake karne main hi nikal jaata hai’ he said, banging his fist on the table. The humor was cheap but these were the kind of words that echoed in the air of Gandhi Nagar police station, everyday.
‘Sir that Rama case’ he said, ‘what about that?’
‘Which Rama?’ he asked.
‘Arrey, that murder’ he said, ‘Trikuta nagar’
From the past four years, Vikrant was like the personal diary of Digvijay. He remembered cases, dates, birthdays; anniversaries and what not just to save him from public embarrassment.
But as they say, there are always two sides of the coin. Vikrant had no balls, only brain but Digvijay had balls of steel. He feared none, while Vikrant peed in his pants on one shout of his seniors,
Vikrant always wanted an elder brother and as the time passed, he started seeing his elder brother in the living failure, Digvijay.
‘Haan haan, uska kya?’
‘Kuch nahi sir, bas woh uski maa aai thi aaj’ said Vikrant, ‘Bada ro dho ke gayi hai. Kuch karte hain na sir uske liye’
‘Kya karte hain? Saala beta nashedi aur baap juaari, yeh toh hona hi tha na. Sab murder yehi log karte hain, aur tu keh raha hai help karu?’
Rama was a drug addict, a seventeen year old who killed a woman in his society in an attempt to rob money for drugs. No wonder the world is fucked up.
Imagine going on a walk early morning and a seventeen year old, with black patches below eyes smelling like shit comes to you and stabs you with a knife, looting the only five hundred rupee note you had in your pocket at that time. Five hundred rupees, the cost of life nowadays.
‘Sir we should at least let her meet him’ he said, ‘chaar din se roz aati hai woh’
‘Okay’ said Digvijay, ‘let her in’
As soon as the office clock hit the 5 PM mark, Digvijay stood up.
‘Jaa rahe ho sahib?’ said Vikrant.
‘Haan, aaj thoda jaldi jaana padega. Theek hai fir’
Like every usual evening, he sat in his car and went home.
Palm Island, a mall built in one of the busiest area of the city was the latest attraction in town. With so much false ceiling that just touched the head of an average heightened person, it proved the level of quality architects this country had.
He took his family to the same mall for watching the movie.
In the theater, he occasionally slid his hand between her wife’s legs every time his son looked away. Just like an ideal Indian husband.
Just as the movie was going to end, he received a call. It was from Vikrant.
‘Hello sahib, busy ho kya?’
‘Nahi, bol’ he said. Vikrant’s breath was now hitched and Digviay had sensed that there was something wrong with him.
‘Sir abhi ke abhi Trikuta Nagar aa jao’ he said, ‘we have found a dead body here’
Without even seeing the ending of the movie and thinking twice, he left the theater and his family.
In his car, he sped through the tight lanes cursing everyone that came in his way. In ten minutes, he was at the location provided by Vikrant.
As he slowed the car down, he saw a fleet of cars with their sirens on, blocking the entrance to the location.
‘Fuck’ he muttered to himself.
He parked the car just behind the fleet and ran, with the walkie in his hand.
‘Vikrant’ he said, ‘where to from the park?’
‘North sir’ he replied. He started walking towards north.
There was a crowd of people standing in a circle, besides the area that had been seized.
He pushed few people aside. As he reached near the spot, his constables joined him.
‘Sir the whole body has been stuffed into a bag’ said one.
‘You sure it is a body? And if it is, whose body is it?’
‘Nahi sir, abhi toh bag khola bhi nahi hai’ the constable said, ‘the hands are coming out of the bag’
They walked swiftly and reached the exact spot where the bag was lying. Vikrant appeared to be shocked. His face was pale. A dead body wasn’t a normal sight for him and the ball less guy he was, he was about to throw up soon.
‘Why didn’t you open the bag till now?’
‘Sir, we were waiting for you’ said Vikrant
‘Seedha bol na phattu hai tu laudey’ Digvijay said and laughed.
He covered his face as the smell was now getting unbearable. The rotten smell made him realize that the dead body was now degrading which meant the person was killed hours or even days ago.
‘Gloves’ he asked to Vikrant. Vikrant, in a split second took gloves out of his pocket and handed to him.
He put on the gloves and kneeled down, with a hand still on his face.
‘Bomb bhi ho sakta hai’ he said looking at the terrified Vikrant and laughed again.
With a hand still on his face, he carefully unzipped the bag and opened it.
What he found inside made him shiver
‘Motherfucker’ he said to himself.
The street light was flickering and what he saw in the light, made each and every muscle of his body twitch and his gut wretch.
A young boy’s body was stuffed into the bag. Perfectly cut in pieces, his tongue was out of his mouth and the eye sockets were empty.
He was fair, his hairs were long and there were ants all over his carcass.
‘What the fuck?’ he said. He gestured Vikrant to come near. Vikrant almost threw up as he saw the body from up close.
The pieces of his body were randomly stuffed inside.
‘Light maarna zara’ DIgvijay said as Vikrant took out the flashlight and flashed it towards the body.
‘Behenchod’ Digvijay said and spat. He carefully observed the cuts; they were performed neatly as if with a surgical blade. Blood wasn’t rushing out of them anymore.
‘Put him in the car’ he said and stood back on his feet, ‘Gupta’ he called one of the constables out. The constable nodded.
‘Madame aur bacchon ko ghar chod dena’ he said and gave his car keys to him, ‘palm island main hai’
The constable took the keys and left. Vikrant carefully picked up the briefcase with another constable and loaded it in the gypsy.
‘Mitanjali, I won’t be able to come home tonight’ he called her and said, ‘emergency hai. Gupta gaadi lekar aa raha hai, tumko ghar chodh dega’
The body was shifted as soon as possible to the nearest hospital where the post mortem took place. It took two hours for the team of doctors to come up with a result and forensic teams were deployed at the place where the bag was found.
Surprisingly enough, the post mortem report left all in shock and shook the earth under Digvijay’s feet.
Not only the eyes, both, the kidneys and the testicles were missing too. The report stated that surgical stitches were applied on the abdomen and the scrotal pouch as from where the organs were recovered.
It was estimated that the death had occurred a day before and the victim was poisoned as traces of cyanide were recovered from his stomach lining. It was a well planned murder.
The case was getting worse for Vikrant and Digvijay with every passing hour.
Rubbing his teary eyes as he stayed up all night, Digvijay stared at the post mortem report. Vikrant sat beside him on the hospital bench.
‘Report dekh’ he said to Vikrant and passed it to him. His jaw dropped as he read about the missing internal organs and other gory details.
‘They took everything of use from him’ Vikrant said ‘smuggling ka case lagta hai’
‘Hmm’ said Digvijay, whose brain though almost sleepy now ran as fast as it could. For the first time in these six years, this wasn’t a case of small thefts or a murder whose accused already surrendered. It was something he needed to work on. Something, he always thought he was capable of.
‘Par sir, jo bhi kaho, saale ko namard bana dia’ Vikrant said and laughed again. Unlike always, Digvijay didn’t join in this time.
This was it. This was the moment he always waited for, a murder that needed to be investigated.
Something he always dreamt of, a chance to prove to his family his worth and the world that no matter how much of a failure he was, he deserved respect.