4
Sometimes, I wondered whether he was not only a gifted sleuth but also, a sort of social worker who worked for the underprivileged in his own way. I have observed that, from the loads of emails and letters of requests pouring in, some from very wealthy and powerful people, he preferred to pick those who couldn’t afford the costs of a wealthy lawyers or the expense of a costly private investigator. Only once in a while, when his resources depleted, he took over a rich person, one who could adequately fill his coffers and enable him further to help those in need.
Having been born and brought up in a family of wealthy entrepreneurs who moved from city to city, promoting and adding to their ever-growing business of ‘Sutte Rubber Tires and Spare parts’, I could never get an opportunity to visit a town, let alone a village. For my parents, business was life and they seldom deviated from topics other than ‘Don’t you think this is the best time to buy such and such stock?’ or ‘Our profits will increase twofold if we amalgamate with the Bharat Automobile parts. There business is shooting high!’ My life’s goal had been decided even before I was born. I had to be another cog in the machinery that ran ‘Sutte Tires and Spare parts’. But to the chagrin of my parents, and to my immense relief, I wasn’t blessed with the loss-gain-oriented pragmatic mind that is imperative for a person who wants to make big in business. I never longed for either a high-end entrepreneurial line or the attractions of a tantalizing city life. Growing up, most of my time was spent either buried under books or lying on my roof, trying to make out the dim stars hidden under the thick blanket of smog. At school, I had only a couple of like-minded friends who shared my hobbies and as a protection from the bullies; we formed a tight group thinking it to act like an impregnable fortress against our enemies, faithfully relying on the adage that ‘there is strength in unity’ and realizing dismally that proverbs could sometimes be grossly misleading. I subsequently graduated from a prestigious university with honours in English literature and went on to get my PhD in the same subject. My astounding performance (and a little push from an influential friend of my father’s who was also one of the trustees of the said university, I should add) I got the position of a reader there. Soon though, I reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that what I had expected to be my dream job had insidiously turned into a nightmare as after teaching for a couple of years, the inexorable routine of my work that always followed a rigid line, threatened to destroy the unpredictability of my life and hence the excitement that comes with it. To cut a long story short, my work had stagnated and so had my life. As I heard myself lugubriously repeating the same lines from the same poet for a hundredth time, realization struck that I had reached the end of my tether. I resigned from the job (much to the chagrin of my father and his friend) and, after struggling for a year, landed the job of an assistant editor at a publishing house, working simultaneously with the local paper in the capacity of a satirist. Although I was still not fully satisfied with this job as well and secretly yearned for the ever eluding excitement for novelty, I chanced upon Bhrigu one fateful night and my world went upside down. Old passions resurfaced with a chance to satisfy them to the full. I had at last found the spicy ingredient, the missing element, in the broth of my life that would now give it the flavor it so sorely lacked.
I remember, when I was young, my father was always in the annoying habit of teasing me by saying that I was a long lost soul of some ancestor who must have been a poet. And true enough, I was rather drawn towards culture, ethnicity, festivals, and traditions that could never be found in the cosmopolitan climate of a great city. The roots almost invariably led us to the countryside. However, the villages may lack in the glamour and easy, comfort-ridden life that the cities take for granted, the cities could never provide an adequate compensation for the rich mores, painstakingly preserved by the indigenous. I longed to be on the other side of this cultural divide; free at last to explore my roots and to feel, for once, the pride and joy of being a true Indian. I longed to experience the joys of nature that inspired great poets like Keats to write such beautiful poetry. So, one could imagine my joy as I prepared myself for such a visit. This was the very first time, after our arrival at Senduwar that I was about to tour the village and to my good fortune, our sojourn was also going to herald the beginning of what could amount to a remarkable adventure.
The beautiful village of Senduwar is located in the south-central Bihar’s Rohtas district. It sits in the lap of Kaimur hills that encloses it like an impregnable fortress. Nature has tried its best to help the residents forget the lack of basic amenities by providing them with its gifts instead. It’s verdant as far as the eyes can see. The immensely fertile flood plains have given birth to foliage as abundant as it is diverse. The lush forests claiming the hills add to this beautiful landscape of green. It is akin to looking at this world through a green filter. The small but colourful houses that are nestled comfortably in these foothills along with the broken, meandering dirt roads provide an insignificant break to this overpowering, all encompassing hue.
The human race living here has succeeded in existing harmoniously with nature in its raw, rugged form. But there is an expanse of land just outside the fields and inside the boundary of the foot hills where this coexistence ends. It’s a desolate, abandoned stretch of land that borders the hills and as it is under the sole control of nature, the complete lack of human touch also becomes apparent. There is no civilization as far as the eyes can see but only a long stretch of gloomy flood plain of which the controversial area forms a part. As one moves a little inside this area, one will meet a dust laden board, with its stem thrust deep into the soft ground which says ‘Jiyashree’s Garden’. Once upon a time in history, roughly two hundred years ago, this region had prospered under Jiyashree as a natural botanical garden were she labored hard day and night busily collecting and classifying her alleged magical herbs. It was here that Bhrigu and I stopped at last, weighing our chances of stepping foot on the unholy ground that had somehow been the source of a woman’s tragedy. If the past had stayed past, the region would have remained the picture of reckless abandon that it was but when it started to threaten the present, it had to be disturbed from its long sleep.
‘It looks as if no one has come here in ages.’ I observed.
‘With good reason,’ he replied grimly.
Slowly and surreptitiously, we stepped foot on the no man’s land and cautiously moved forward. The alluvial soil felt damp and soft under my feet. It had rained heavily for the past week and hence the ground was still wet. The fresh, earthy smell that emanated from the damp top soil was intoxicating and overpowering. It was little after one in the afternoon, but the thick copse of trees towards the foothills totally obliterated the sun, leaving it dark and dismal. A solitary ray of sun would peek through the trees now and then to offer a weak respite from the dark, lighting the ground for a moment. We were moving about slowly, eyes trained on the ground.
‘We will have to scan the earth carefully,’ Bhrigu said. ‘I am not a big fan of sloppy work. So, I have a plan. We will break the ground in two halves. This half is yours and this, mine.’
I nodded to show my agreement. There was something heavy and depressing about the place that made speech of any kind almost impossible. My heart was heavy as if weighed down by a stone and my instincts were telling me to leave the place alone. Still, ignoring the unreasonable dread, I put myself to work.
Bhrigu, too, had relapsed into total silence. I could sense by his grim expression that he, too, shared my thoughts in silence. We hadn’t expected it to be this dark during the day and hence we were compelled to use the feeble light from our cell phones to look around. It was a mighty difficult task and my eyes, behind my spectacles, had started to water. Still, I was doing my best not to leave any square inch of the ground unexplored as I am a perfectionist (at least in the presence of Bhrigu) and there is nothing in the world that could impede me while I was at my job.
‘Did you find anything?’ Asked Bhrigu, his voice coming somewhere from the far side.
‘I am still searching,’ I replied. ‘But I think there’s not much to see. It’s just a desolate part of the flood plain and nothing else.’
‘I think you’re right,’ he said with a note of dismay. ‘There is seriously nothing here. No sound of man or beast. For the last half hour, all I could hear was the shuffling of two pairs of nervous feet.’
‘Well, yes. . . Wait! What was that?’ It so happened that a streak of sun light, finding a gap in a tree, had struck the land at the extreme left corner and instead of revealing a solid piece of earth, had kindled it with a dazzling fire.
‘The light hit something!’ Bhrigu shrieked. We ran towards the source of brilliance and eagerly frisked the surface with our hands. I got hold of an object that was half buried in the ground there and with some effort I successfully pulled it out from its shallow grave. We stared at it together.
‘Oh my god!’ My friend gasped.
I was the first to regain my voice from the shock. ‘Oh heavens! It’s a corner of a gorgeous ruby necklace!’
5
‘How did this necklace get here?’ I gasped ‘It makes no sense.’
‘Embedded in the soil just like the golden nuggets that Malthu found six years ago,’ Bhrigu said mechanically.
‘What’s happening? Who is the maniac who is going about burying priceless ornaments and jewels?’
I could see that the gears behind Bhrigu’s brain were churning. I too tried to make some sense of the matter but realised soon that it was a futile attempt that was sure to yield no result. How did this new discovery figure in the already complicated mystery? Was it in any way connected with the death of Malthu? Was this a sort of scrambled puzzle with many of its pieces still missing? First, the desolate and pathetic terrain with an old legend haunting it, then the discovery of the gold coins, probably very old; the subsequent gold rush, the mysterious death of Malthu, and now this buried corner of a necklace. Were these events isolated or connected in some sinister way? They built a legend and somehow laid the groundwork for a great tragedy. I had a foreboding that if this mystery wasn’t cleared up soon, the stage would churn up graver tragedies still.
‘I don’t think that this is the handiwork of any person,’ said Bhrigu. ‘The ornament doesn’t look planted at all. Had we not known better, we could have well mistaken it for waste, littered on the ground.’
‘So what should we do now? Search more thoroughly?’
‘And risk getting our fingerprints all over what could amount to potential evidence? No. We will get some concrete information firsthand then if it is required, we’ll come back wearing a good pair of gloves and get on with the soil frisking. Not until then.’
‘How will we get the required information then?’
Bhrigu thought for a space, staring blankly at the glittering piece if necklace in his hands. ‘I know the sarpanch of this village. He is the fourth-generation head of panchayat from his family. I am sure that he would know, if not all, at least something about the golden rush, and who knows, also the reason for littered treasure?’
I nodded in agreement. Bhrigu wrapped the necklace in a tissue paper (he had good foresight to bring it along) with as little contact of his fingertips as possible and pocketed it in his Kurta. We were now unofficially the custodians of the exquisite artefact.
It was a little before sundown that we arrived at Bhrigu’s house. Nirja Masi had gone to attend a Ramayana katha in the neighbourhood and was probably still there. The shrill chants from the holy scripture of Hindus, Ramayana, rented the air, making any kind of conversation impossible. The kirtan was an overnight affair and would end twenty-four hours from the moment it began.
‘You know,’ said Bhrigu as he unlocked the door and gained entry inside the house, ‘these kirtans bring back not so good memories.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. When I was a boy, Nirja Masi forced me to attend them. I would sit with her from morning till dusk; my hands clapped on my ears, waiting for the onslaught to get over. I could never understand how people could find peace in such a din.’
‘I think they try to tune the frequency of their inner clamour to that of the outside. That way they experience an illusion of peace,’ I reflected.
‘You think so? Well, that’s an interesting point of view,’ he said. ‘I never considered it that way before.’
‘It only just occurred to me. How else can we justify the pleasure that people take in such a noise?’
‘Because they have nothing better to do? Because there are very few sources of entertainment here? I recall that the people, Masi including, were driven to such functions more by the lure of exchanging local gossip than by any true religious zeal. Even the pundits shrieked mechanically, with their eyes greedily hovering over the gift and money they would receive at the end of the ceremony. It’s a cover-up, I think. Nothing more.’
‘Well, you sound bitter.’
‘Well, truth is bitter, don’t you know?’
I conceded. Obviously, the matter touched some very sensitive points in him that were better left untouched. We settled for a humble but healthy meal of rice, a bowl of lentils, and some bean curry. I had forgotten how hungry I was. We took our meals in absolute silence (minus the noise from the loudspeakers without) and called it a night. Nirja Masi had a separate room at the back of the house which she had locked before going out. It was all for the best as we wouldn’t have to worry about letting her in.
The next morning, after having a simple breakfast of some mango chutney, rotis, and curd, we left to see the Village sarpanch. His name was Chaudhary Manendra Singh, and as Bhrigu had mentioned earlier, he was the fifth-generation sarpanch from his family. It was a long and difficult walk up a gently sloping, narrow, dirt road and almost an hour later, we arrived at a rambling house topped by a red, corrugated roof. The compound in which the house sat was surrounded by a high, brick boundary with a gate that led to an expansive courtyard. There was a shed in the far side of this courtyard where a couple of buffaloes were tied to their post, chewing cud languidly. We inquired for the sarpanch from the servant who had opened the gate to usher us in. He showed us to one of the plastic chairs that were arranged in a semi-circle and retreated to call on his master, providing us with the time to observe our surroundings. It was a very quiet and peaceful place. Apart from the mowing of the buffaloes, the chirping of the house sparrows, and the slow rhythmic vibrations of an out-of-sight flour mill in action, there was no other sound to be heard.
It was sometime when we saw the sarpanch striding towards us. He was a big, strong man with a resplendent moustache and a grey-green turban adorned his head. Bhrigu remembered how all the sarpanchas from this family had always worn this turban as a symbol of pride and authority. The man had dark, brooding eyes and a masterful look that could make a frail hearted man, tremble with awe and respect.
‘Yes?’ he said in a deep baritone that perfectly complimented his personality. ‘What can I do for you, Hmmm?’
Bhrigu noticed that the man had a slight lisp and a habit of adding hmmm after every sentence.
After the introductions were over and we had paid our respects, Bhrigu ventured to ask his questions; he did so with a slight tremor in his voice which developed whenever he was making his acquaintance with a new person. In the throes of an investigation, he had to interact with many a people but after an initial hesitation, he overcame it quickly and very beautifully indeed to master every social situation and handle the suspects involved with ease and tact of a man of the world. Let those same people bother him otherwise and he would gladly shut the door in their faces and call it a night. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘We wanted to talk to you about a matter that I am investigating.’
Manendra Singh’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Investigating? How do you mean?’
‘I am a private investigator. Well, my client has requested for discretion so I cannot comment on the case. Nevertheless, I would be highly obliged if you could help us in answering some very important questions.’
‘Does it in any way involve me, hmmm?’ He asked a trifle suspiciously.
‘Not in the least, I assure you. We only wanted some answers to our questions that only you could provide.’
‘I don’t know the basis for your reasoning but. . . what is your question?’
Without wasting a moment, Bhrigu produced the triangular corner of the ruby necklace from his pocket and uncovered it carefully. ‘We found this necklace at the isolated patch of the floodplain the natives call ‘The Haunted Garden’. We want to know if you know anything about how it got there and also about the golden rush that happened five years ago.’
A procession of expressions marched across the Sarpanch’s countenance. The first and the only one that I could decipher was that of shock and recognition. ‘Did. . . did you go to that unholy ground?!’ I noticed that in his jolted state of mind, he had forgotten to suffix his sentence with his signature hmmm.
‘Yes. We did. So, you really do know something.’ Said Bhrigu and fixed the man’s startled gaze with his own. ‘Sir, what’s all this about? Whatever you know, please, tell me all. I assure you that a woman’s peace lies on your cooperation.’
6
‘You shouldn’t have gone there,’ he said in a choked voice, Had I not seen with my own eyes, I could never have believed that man such as himself could be capable of quivering like a leaf. I could see that he was also breaking sweat as he removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his Kurta and wiped his brow nervously.
‘Why are you so agitated? Surely, a rational man such as yourself mustn’t believe in such fairy tales as are evolved round this gifted botanist,’ I couldn’t help but remark.
‘What? Gifted botanist? Who?’ Asked the sarpanch. Surprise masked his fear for a moment.
‘Jiyashree. In colloquial language, she is also known as “The Witch of Senduwar”. I object to using such a pejorative name,’ I replied.
‘Oh, so you know an awful lot about the legend already.’
‘Yes,’ said Bhrigu. ‘Please, we want to know everything that even remotely concerns the legend and also, as I said before, the golden rush. If you don’t know I should tell you that the frenzy that followed killed an innocent person.’
With visible effort, the Sarpanch got control over his senses. He said in a low, hoarse voice that shook ever so slightly, ‘I still don’t know the reason that so forced you to visit the land of the damned. It bodes nothing but evil.’ He took a breath and said again, ‘But if a poor woman’s peace hangs in the balance, I’m sure your reasoning must be airtight. Still, I don’t think I understand exactly what you mean by your expression—“Gold rush”’
Bhrigu explained it in detail to jog the other’s memory.
‘Oh! We called it the hunt. And the answer to your question is easy.’
‘Easy?’ We both asked, surprised.
‘Yes. When you have strong connections, it’s not difficult to get to the truth, hmm.’
‘We had expected as much. You are definitely the most influential man in the village,’ said Bhrigu.
‘The second most influential, hmm. Ghanshyam Singh, the man who owns the sugar mill and several hectares of land is the most prosperous and powerful man of this village. His forefathers had a grand fiefdom once but although much of it was squandered, he still has quite a fortune left. He is a friend of mine and the bonhomie between our families goes back five generations, hmm. Well. . .’ He stopped and gathered his thoughts for a space. ‘For the matter at hand, I clearly remember that a team from the Archaeological Survey of India and the Banaras Hindu University had visited this village about two decades ago. The team was led by a man from the B.H.U. department of ancient history, whose name I forget. They carried out excavations in two phases from 1986 to 1987 and again from 1989 to 1990. Necklaces made of precious stones such as harit mani, suryakanta mani, and panna besides earthen pots and hunting tools made of bones were recovered from the village, hmm. The team spent almost nine months in two phases to carry out the excavation. However, the excavation was stopped midway for reasons best known to the team. My source said that the articles recovered during the excavation have been kept at the Archaeological Survey of India’s Varanasi-based museum.’
‘But the precious bits and pieces of the treasure are strewn all over the ground. They sure weren’t excavated!?’
‘I was coming to that,’ said the man. ‘The garden is not the original excavation site.’
‘I thought as much,’ said Bhrigu.
‘A large mound above the village of Senduwar is a rich archaeological site. Over the centuries, there have been a lot of prosperous settlements in the region. This is where the archaeologist team came to excavate. The excavations must have loosened the soil and the rainwater seeping through the excavated pits must be washing away nuggets of gold and precious metals buried underground to the damned land, hmm. As is evident from this piece of necklace, the process continues.’
‘I see,’ said Bhrigu, absorbing the information. His face was clouded over and I knew that something was puzzling him. ‘Do you know anything about the first batch of villagers who arrived at the hunt site?’
The man knitted his brows and frowned with concentration. ‘I remember that a young lad, he was sort of an imbecile, I’m given to know, first discovered some pieces of gold. The poor boy died of an accident thereafter. He. . .’ he stopped in mid sentence as a light of understanding dawned upon him. ‘Has your investigation got something to do with him?’ He answered the question himself: ‘Sure it must be. I know for sure that during the hunt, no one other than this young man was hurt. This village is small and every word gets finally around. Do you think that there was foul play involved, hmm?’
‘We cannot divulge further information, sir, but we cannot refute you either.’
‘Oh,’ said the Sarpanch and eased a little into his seat. He looked at us with eyes sparkling with the anticipation of what was to come. ‘The matter definitely stands corrected now. If I say that the man’s relatives were the ones who enjoyed the spoils of the excavation most, even before the village heard a word of it, what would you say, hmm?’
‘Malthu’s relatives? But Jayanti Devi said nothing about it!’ I ejaculated in my surprise and regretted my lapse at once.
‘Ah! Malthu. Yes. I remember now that this was his name. So, my doubts were well founded, hmm. It is indeed about him that you are investigating.’
‘Do you know about these relatives?’ Asked Bhrigu.
‘No. I am sorry I can’t help you there. I just heard that they were the ones who laid the foundation for the gold hunt.’
At this point, Bhrigu and I exchanged a startled look.
So Jayanti Devi had lied to us. It was not the gold peddler but her own relatives whose actions had caused the precious discovery of the treasure become general knowledge. But why? Did she suspect something about their possible involvement? Was this the reason she came to us for help? Why, then, did she hide the most important piece of information?
‘How can you know this for sure?’ Bhrigu asked.
‘My old servant told me. He, too, had gone to the site to try his luck.’
‘Can you give me his name and address?’
‘I can’t. He died a year ago from T.B.’
‘Any family?’
‘No. He was an orphan. My father took him in when he was a child.’
‘I see,’ said Bhrigu as we rose to leave. ‘Thank you, sir. You have indeed helped us a lot.’
‘And I will continue to do so. I am here at your service if you need my assistance again. He was a dear kid. If someone hurt him on purpose, he ought to get his just desserts.’
‘Just one more question,’ said I. ‘I am sorry if I am outspoken, but I really want to know the reason for your irrational fear. You sure don’t believe in the witch. Why then are you so frightened of her legend?’
The sarpanch took in a deep breath and said, ‘I cannot explain it on logic alone.’ He said slowly, ‘It’s just a feeling that has been cultivated in my pedigree through the ages and I guess I, too, have learned to share this fear. That is all I can say in my defence.’
‘Well, thank you again,’ said Bhrigu, and we were on our way home with my mind buzzing with a thousand questions.
7
‘Why did Jayanti Devi lie to us?’ I asked, trying to squeeze myself into the narrow seat of the Parivahan bus. Even after occupying three-fourth of it, I was still finding it difficult to fit in the cramped space. My friend on the other hand had easily slipped into a strip of the seat and was abstractedly looking out the window at the slowly darkening landscape that whizzed past us.
The bus was packed to capacity and many of the villagers, not lucky enough to get seats, were perched precariously by clutching the metal bar affixed to the roof of the bus. I figured them out to be workers returning home after a hard day’s work at the only functioning sugar mill of the village.
‘What I tell you now can only amount to conjectures,’ said Bhrigu. I could scarcely make out his features in the dim, yellow light of the bulb. ‘Let’s not get into this tempting habit. The lesser we involve ourselves in guesswork, the better it is.’
‘How about an intelligent guess? I have seen you advocating the use of one.’
‘This won’t be a case of the aforementioned. Intelligent guesses are based on solid facts that start you off in the right direction. We just extrapolate the events further and get to the final result. A wild guess, on the other hand, is pure conjecture and more often than not lead the investigation completely astray. We should avoid it at all cost. Tomorrow I shall go to meet Jayanti Devi and hear it from the horse’s mouth. I will tell her squarely that if she wants her case to be investigated thoroughly, she’ll have to be forthcoming with us or else we drop the matter then and there.’
I could see that he was not in a very genial mood right now. Jayanti Devi’s betrayal must have forced him into thinking that he had failed in winning her complete trust and by what I knew of him that must have stung deeply.
‘You didn’t ask an important question, though,’ he said with a hint of disappointment.
‘Important question? What’s that?’
‘You remember your own theory that someone exploited Malthu’s death by circulating the rumour and thus stood to gain all the wealth? Do you remember?’
‘It was my theory so I do remember,’ I said, a trifle hurt.
‘Don’t you see that your theory has been smashed to pieces?’
I was baffled. ‘How?’
He looked at me curiously and I could feel that he was just a little piqued. ‘You surprise me sometimes! Think hard!’
I mulled over it for a few minutes but gave it up. ‘Please. I am very tired as it is and in no mood to play brain games. Do tell me.’
He exhaled as if coming to terms with my laxity and said, ‘Okay. You said that this was a scheme of a conniving person to have the gold for his own. But the gold and the jewels were never taken. They are still collecting on the flood plain in total neglect. No one claimed them. So, your theory has been reduced to dust.’
‘You’re right! Oh god! How couldn’t I see it?’ I exclaimed, clutching his hand in excitement. ‘But that includes another question. Why, then, was Malthu killed at all?’
‘Now, that is a good question,’ he said sombrely.
We spent the rest of the journey in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. The bus dropped us at the station and we covered the rest of the distance on foot. Nirja Masi was already asleep in her room when we arrived. We took our simple meal and retired to the roof for the night. Tired from the long journey, I fell asleep almost at once, but not before thinking what tomorrow might bring for us.