1
I was reposing in my chair that stood opposite the open window. Sun was sinking over the horizon and the last shimmer of red was finding its way into the small, sparsely furnished room. It felt warm and cool all at once. The cool air caressed my face with its gentle whispers and with every breath; I could get a lungful of the wonderful earthy smell that rises from the rain kissed ground. I couldn’t have asked for more. The peace and quiet of the quaint little village was exactly the reason that I had coaxed Bhrigu to pay a visit to his long abandoned hometown to which he had reluctantly agreed. My thoughts were blank as is natural with one in a highest state of meditation. Something in the air, in the soil and in the very surroundings was enough to lull my senses into complete oblivion. But I discovered that like all good things, this heaven was also short-lived.
‘Bhriguji! Are you sleeping at this time of the day?! Bhriguji!’
I was jolted out of my peaceful reverie and my heart pounded with the shock.
The old woman that stood facing me was around 70 years old. She had a shock of red hair, the inevitable result of vigorous application of mehndi. Her eyes were sunken deep in their sockets and the cheek bones were highly prominent. She was wearing a white sari with a dark red border. Although she was quite emaciated, the way she carried herself spoke of a rigid and inflexible mind. The hint of steel behind her cold eyes also hinted at passive aggression.
She looked at me and said with a sneer, ‘Oh, It’s you.’ Her voice betrayed a mix of repulsion and irritation.
‘Where is Bhriguji?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.’ I replied casually and closed my eyes again, determined to ignore her prattle.
‘You should have asked!’ She croaked in her hoarse voice.
I continued with my noncooperation movement. This old woman was nothing but a burden to my friend and to the society she was a debit to. She could torture him into submission but I was made of sterner stuff.
I understood that she was far from being done. She stood there like the ghost of a sentinel, searing me with her blazing eyes. ‘I want you to go to Vaidnath and bring the kerosene oil. We have none left.’
‘Okay. I’ll go after I have had my siesta,’ I mumbled sleepily.
‘That won’t do. You go now.’
‘I won’t.’
She glared at me. ‘My nephew was much disciplined when he was a boy. The air of the city and your influence has changed him in a bad way. I don’t like it! I don’t like it!’ She stamped her foot in her anger and left muttering under her breath.
I couldn’t believe the extent to which this woman could exercise evil. No doubt Bhrigu was so reluctant to visit her. He had abandoned his hometown for a decade just to stay clear of this woman. After leaving Nirja Masi, Bhrigu had come to Patna to complete his studies. He used to work the night shift at a K.P.O as a part time job and went to college in the morning. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Psychology from Hindu College, he sat for the police exam and had passed it with flying colours at his very first attempt.
I was his neighbour in Patliputra where he had been allotted his government quarters. I first met him at the wedding of a common friend from the neighbourhood, a well--to-do paediatrician called Debashish Sengupta. He was standing with a short, stout, middle-aged man who kept talking to him animatedly. I noticed that the man looked much perplexed and his tale was probably that of woe. But I could clearly observe that even though Bhrigu was just an attentive listener, with a word of comfort to offer here and there, the man considerably got better in the spirit towards the end of the conversation and he was practically smiling when they went together to the food stall to try some of the dishes. He had an aura of unassailable peace that was so infectious that his presence alone was enough to make any burdened soul light again. As I continued to observe him, he struck me as a private person, timorous even, with a dignified carriage but somehow I felt that the thick crowd was making him unduly self-conscious. He kept looking towards the gate as if anxious to make a quick dash for it at the earliest possible but the code of etiquette held him back from any such attempt. I was drawn towards this taciturn, mysterious man like moth to a flame. His face was long and narrow; oblong, as my eighth class mathematics teacher would describe it, with a straight nose and thin, sensitive lips. The most striking feature of his remained his round, kind, black eyes that were set deep in his forehead. They had a depth in them that I couldn’t even begin to fathom. It was as if they penetrated your very soul and knew everything that you had stowed away even from yourself. Enchanted, I couldn’t help introducing myself to his person and discovered that he was a soft-spoken man who mostly talked in a few syllables but his eyes seemed to speak volumes. No matter how much you tried to gain, the upper hand in any conversation by your knowledge and articulation, his gentle, nervous smile and the reassurance in those clear, bottomless eyes seemed almost always to get the upper hand. I knew then and there that this unusual man was hiding something very formidable behind his persona, and a week from then, it was proven that I was right.
It was a column in a leading English Newspaper carrying his picture and an article on him. It said that this man was Bhrigu Mahesh, a cop, and that he had come into the limelight by solving a sensational crime in which a minister of state, Rajshekhar Swami, had been accused of poisoning a young woman to death with whom he was having an illicit affair, within a month of his career. The article further stated that this success was extraordinary as the culprit owned to his crime with such lucidity that people were left puzzled as to whether he was confessing to a crime or narrating a desultory affair from everyday life. One visit from this officer was enough to bring about this result and that, too, without the use of any kind of force.
I started visiting him often. During my first visits, he timidly welcomed me with little enthusiasm and I could sense in his conduct an eagerness to get rid of me. He was reserved and did not participate much in the way of conversation. I could see that he was not a person who entertained any form of society and loved to live with himself and his occupation, whatever that may be. However, I was persistent in my effort to win him over, and ignoring his passive resistance, I continued to visit him. Our growing familiarity strengthened by a certain modicum of liking that he had developed towards me during our meetings and also helped to remove the obstacles of formalities and of his reserved nature. He was a man who loved to have a very analytical and research-oriented discussion on any number of topics from diverse walks of life, including the revolutionising field of investigative science. I was surprised and impressed with the insight and depth he brought to our conversations with his vast knowledge on an eclectic selection of subjects and unique, sometimes peculiar viewpoint of human nature. I felt on certain occasions that he talked about humans as if we were robots which worked on an inbuilt program that just needed to be run and the results analysed and recorded for further use. One fine day, he went ballistics on a philosopher. ‘Why does everyone keep saying that human nature is so very complex and thus difficult to understand? To the philosopher who said this, I sharply beg to differ. They only say it because they don’t know what and where to look.’
He didn’t reveal much about his work, though, and I avoided the temptation of pressing him but my excitement was growing at the speed equal to that of our bonhomie.
In the course of our meetings, I discovered a little secret of his that left me surprised and impressed. Bhrigu Mahesh’s vast knowledge had a toehold on my field as well. I, to my great surprise, accidentally discovered a remote cabinet in the far corner of his reading room, stocked with classics like Charles Dickens’s The Tale of Two Cities, Prem Chand’s Gaban, Alexnadre Dumas’s Black Tulip, Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, Anton Chekhov’s ‘The Cherry Orchard’ Oscar Wilde’s ‘Canterville Ghost’ and other world classics. It was a clear sign that this amazing man adored literature, too. Imageries thrilled him, metaphors excited him, similes made him smile, and lyrical prose enchanted him into sweet oblivion. Still, he hid this fact from me leaving me to conclude that the jibes that he constantly directed at me for being a literary man was the outcome of a small fire of jealousy that was continually stoked by his admiration for my talents and the frustration he felt for his total lack of it. I respected his secret and never bothered to cross question him on it, promising to myself that if fate willed, my gift would colour his master skill and his, mine. It was a mutually beneficial idea. Our gifts combined, complimented, and completed us, each filling the lacunae in other, fitting gracefully and seamlessly together.
I think I should mention another incident that would go a long way in understanding the sophisticated and exceptional brain of this intriguing man. I remember once barging in on him without announcing myself and I found him lying curled up in his couch, reading a copy of Shree Shree 1007 Madhusudanacharya: Tale of a Psychic. He was totally absorbed in his reading and did not even notice me come in. When I coughed gently to get his attention, he jolted out his reverie, panting hard ‘Oh Sutte!’ He replied, breathlessly, ‘You gave me a fright!’
‘Yeah. Sneaking up from behind is usually your forte. Glad to have returned the favour.’ I replied with a grin, taking my seat on an oak chair. ‘What are you reading?’
‘Can’t you read the bold heading on the frontispiece?’
I was expecting this answer. ‘Yes, I saw. I didn’t know you were into Psychics.’
‘I am not.’
‘Then why are you relishing a book written on one?’
‘Because’ he said, closing the biography after putting in a bookmark, ‘The man and his situation interest me.’
‘Why?’
‘This man was a Jyotishacharya and an important figure in the Hanumat seva trust of the Akhil Bhartiya Brahmin Sabha but when his popularity grew beyond that of his religious peers and the money that poured into the trust because of his oratorical skills and a knack for hiding ignorance behind a natural flair for showmanship and theatrics, he decided it was now time to cut his losses by disengaging himself from the trust and running solo in the business. The only thing that he retained from his past was his title—Shri Shri 1007 Madhusudanacharya. In order to increase his income, he exploited his talent for flamboyant chicanery by turning into a clairvoyant. After a successful career of over twenty years as a psychic and medium for talking to the dead, he was to get awarded with the title of ‘Guru, the divine one’ for his pivotal roles in helping humanity find god, religion, peace, and happiness. You know what he did?’
‘No.’
‘He rejected the title saying that he wouldn’t defraud his good work by hiding behind a dishonest profession anymore. In other words, the love that people showered upon him struck his conscience pretty badly and unheeding words of caution from his PR employees, he came clean.’
‘That is odd. Crooks like him never change. I don’t know what happened that caused the sudden arousal of his impotent conscience.’
‘You didn’t get the sarcasm, didn’t you?’ Bhrigu said with a faint smile lining the corners of his mouth. ‘There was no conscience involved at all. This man, for all his ignorance, understood human nature. He wanted to test the faith of his followers in him and hence he took a calculated risk that made his position even unshakeable than before. In this way, he put a firm stop to all the bad publicity he had been receiving from the media and sceptics lately.’ He took a pause packed with suspense and asked, ‘Did you know what his followers did after this confession?’
‘Why? They must have been shocked to say the least and then they would have left his side, cursing him loudly.’
‘You are wrong, my man.’ He replied with a smile. ‘People flat out refused to believe him. They said he was getting a little senile in his old age. They are hell bent on giving him the title and are ready to go to any means to see to it that he accepts.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. This episode hides a very significant lesson and on it lays the whole game plan of these esteemed, self-canonised Gurus.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The desperate desire to believe, to hope, to dream, to love. When you lose someone you loved and when the last thing you are capable of doing is to let go of him or her, despite people telling you so; one seemingly empathetic person, however corrupt, holds your hand firmly, looks into your eyes and says that your loved one is still with you, you are so relieved and happy, the excruciating pain is gone only to be replaced with contentment that you would never even for a second believe that he may be lying. Be you the most reasonable and logical person on the planet, but when you are faced with such a crisis, you would always prefer to leave the cold hands of reason to join the warm ones of deceit. This is human nature. To hope is to live and anything that keeps this hope alive is welcome. Many of his followers, deep down, must be sceptics themselves, but they have buried that reasoning part of themselves because it interfered with their desperate desire to hope. This man like the rest of the Gurus was just a symbol of hope desperately crafted by the part of humanity struggling to jerk off the thick blankets of gloom. Even clairvoyants, who claim to have astonishing perceptive powers, ingenious ruses, and uncanny ability of insight that can easily fool a bystander into submission, fail to understand that they are there not because of their powers mimicking the supernatural but because of that bystander’s desperate need for the psychic to possess those powers. He gives the psychic his powers and can take it away as soon as he is ready to combat the situation instead of hiding from it. And seeing this may never be as it is our primal instinct to fly instead of fight, the world of psychics, pundits, soothsayers, et al will continue to flourish.’
Again, I found myself looking at him with my mouth hanging half open in wonder. This is just a prototype of the conversations I used to have with him. He always analysed and dissected a controversial issue with such a surgical precision that I was speechless for a moment or two. I had never thought that the world of Psychology that is so vague with ill-defined boundaries could be explained almost as if it were an exact science. Had he gone a bit further in his lecture, he could have even made it into a law. A law not very unlike that of Physics which is rigid and not given to ugly exceptions. I said as much to him and he replied, half amused, ‘Newton stated in his third law of motion that “for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”. Well, is it not true for human behaviour as well? Psychology looks like a pseudoscience, but let me assure you that if we are here for a hundred years more, it will be proven that it is as exact a science as any. At present, we just lack the proper tools to study or analyse the human mind. Once we do, psychology could become so exact a science that there would be a unit system for thoughts and dreams, emotions and feelings.’
‘Are you trying to say,’ I asked incredulously, ‘that there could come a time when we would have machines to plumb the depths of a human mind, reaching its every corner, and producing a perfect report of what lies there?’
‘It would depend on the sophistication of the machine but yes.’
I was now laughing aloud. ‘Well, if I say it is over the top, it would be a gross understatement.’
He looked a little offended. ‘I do it occasionally. Though my methods are manual I can assure you that they produce astounding results. In a very near future, I am sure that my researches would be used to write algorithms for computers and that would mean the same work in much less time. If we can program computers to do myriad jobs for us in much less time as compared to when we had to do it manually, why can’t psychologists do the same?’
My mirth had left me now. Against my wish, I was finding myself bending towards his theory. ‘You say that you can do it? That you can analyse a mind like you do a physical sample and run it like a program?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, demonstrate it to me.’
‘I will, my friend. God willing, I will,’ he said with a smile.
He said this with such conviction that it ceased to sound like an impossible or fantastic theory. Who knew what future had in store for us? And the rate at which this world was getting mechanised, there could come a time when the mind would also go the same way. Bhrigu Mahesh was definitely a futuristic man in that respect. He had such tremendous powers of uncanny insight that he might as well be the first person to set this process into motion. If I believed what he had just said to me, he could have started it already.
Our camaraderie went from strength to strength and there was seldom a weekend when we didn’t pay a visit to each other. After a year of our acquaintance though, I started to observe certain changes in him. He had become very despondent and looked as if he was grieving over something. His condition worsened with every passing day. When I could take no more of his gloom, I asked him, ‘What’s the matter? Why are you so upset nowadays?’ At first, he was reluctant, but when I reassured him, he poured out his story to me. It was the very first time that he was discussing his professional life and its challenges with me.
After a long wait, I actually got a glimpse of how he worked. His methodology in dealing with the suspects was very scientific, to say the least. He used interrogation to study, research, and collect data that he would then feed in his brain for future reference. He was fine-tuning the abnormalities, anomalies, and traits of a vast number of personalities; so that when time arose he could sift through the cosmic data to come up with the one that matched with the person under study. I was witnessing, for the very first time in my life, such an analytic and objective way of studying something so subjective. He had not lied to me, after all.
I gathered from his account that he was an officer who applied his logical mind and good memory in apprehending the offenders of the law. His gift, as I already knew by now, was an innate ability to read personalities. Even from a very early age, he could understand the motivations of human beings way better than anyone else. He was very sensitive himself. This constant, effortless, and successful probing into the human psyche had given way to a strong feeling of empathy and an intense desire to help humanity. For this sole purpose in mind, he had thought of joining the police force. But, his ideal was soon shaken. He believed that what the crack of a whip couldn’t do, a few, simple but efficient methods could.
‘My findings, I should tell you, are based on experience and detailed research,’ he explained. ‘I have found that the bulk of convicts, which, for comparison’s sake, I call the A-Type, constitutes of first-time offenders committing a crime in the grip of a very strong emotion or misunderstanding. This class is already weak, vulnerable, fearful, and almost at the verge of breaking down, approachable only by a show of compassion and understanding. The second type or B-Type is of the first or second-time offenders who commit a felony either for their profit or due to strong, prejudicial beliefs. This group is tougher than the first one because they are in better possession of their faculties with an already thought out plan of action if any such contingency arises. This category could respond very well to a few psychological tricks that I have invented and applied by careful observation of criminal behaviour with astounding results. The last pool or the C-type comprises hardened criminals who survive and thrive by extorting, exploiting, and killing. Now, this is the class that is known to show some sort of compliance only when thoroughly whipped. What the system should do is to classify them into their respective categories and treat them accordingly. But the police force is apparently oblivious to this fact. Their treatment is same for a first or second-time offender as it is for a history-sheeter. They beat the pulp out of anyone, sometimes even before they have any concrete evidence to support that the accused is actually guilty. Justice is impeded by such primitive, barbaric methods where logic and reason is always considered an ill affordable luxury. The policy of violence begets confession is surely and steadily bending the backbone of the criminal justice system and it is now a matter of time when it would eventually snap beyond all repair.’ He sighed like a tired man. ‘I feel like a freak when I see my colleagues laughing with derision as I try to apply my methods for getting speedy and elegant results. They joke that I behave more like a scientist and less like a police investigator and that the suspects are my test subjects. But I can hardly blame them. Hardened over the years by constantly trying to make their low pay, work with their mediocre brain and difficult job, my fellow officers have learnt to rely fully on the rule of the cane. It’s the easiest way to vent their frustration and also requires minimal effort from the brain. Their undying faith in their muscle power is further strengthened by the fact that detailed investigation is a time and labour consuming process which is better left alone. If that was not enough, procedural bottlenecks and red tapes have given more power to my colleagues and have tied my hands even further. There is no freedom to work or to experiment. If I say that I am suffocating in this job, it would be a gross understatement. I had come here hoping to make lives better but instead have ended up as a puppet in the hands of the bureaucracy and a standing joke in the hardboiled police circle.’
I heard his dilemma and advised, ‘Is there nothing you can do? Surely, there’s got to be a solution.’
He must be pondering over a possible solution himself because at my next visit, he told me, ‘I have decided that I can no longer serve a system that I can neither understand nor support. I have almost decided of leaving the job and turning into a private investigator. I believe that with my hands no longer tied down by obsolete protocols, lengthy procedures and draconian ways of investigation, I would be able to serve better.’
For me, it felt as if ordained by god. The arrangement that I had secretly prayed and hoped for was coming to fruition! I should mention that although I wrote a column of political satire for one of the leading English newspapers of India and simultaneously worked as an editor for an International Publishing house, the genre of detective fiction had always held a fascination for me. It was a hobby that I had acquired while still on the threshold of adolescence which had only matured with time. I was wonderstruck by the observational genius of Sherlock Holmes, bold over by the logical marvel of Dupin, totally mesmerised by the insight of Father Brown, astounded by the energy of Monsieur Lecoq, and stupefied by the attention to the microscopic detail of Dr Thorndyke. Inspired by these maestros of deduction, I unsuccessfully tried my hand at writing some of my own but it didn’t take long for me to realise that I totally lacked the acuity and insight that a true detective takes for granted. After having this epiphany, I teetered on the edge of giving my endeavours up when this man came along. That lucky day, when I first met him, I wasn’t even aware that my subconscious had already registered that I had finally found my inspiration. This taciturn, highly sensitive man of amazing calibre who wanted to serve humanity and also to learn from it to help aid his researches, the scope of which I still didn’t know, was now my protagonist and I felt honoured indeed to serve him on his mission by writing the memoirs of our experiences together, where Bhrigu worked in the full capacity of an investigator and I (as he loved to say and I let him humour himself because I well knew about his secret fascination with anything that sounded even remotely literary), his scribe.
Bhrigu’s stint with the Patna police and few of his high profile successes had made him a sort of celebrity in detective circles and as soon as word spread of him turning into a private investigator, requests started pouring from every corner of the country, imploring him to look into this matter or that. His reputation grew to such an extent that when someone was in a fixture, they contacted him instead of money guzzling lawyers or police officers suffering from the acute form of procrastination.
After leaving his five-year-old job, Bhrigu had yearned to visit his homeland, Senduwar, in Rohtas District of Bihar. The crippling fear of Nirja Masi had been a deterrent in fulfilling his simple wish. He vividly remembered the days from his childhood when the woman had ruled over him with an iron fist. The only working relationship that they shared was that of a master and slave. The slave had finally run away from his master in a wild shot at freedom, vowing never to return again.
On the fifth of June, 2010, we arrived at the Sasaram Railway station and took a Tempo to Senduwar. Bhrigu had plucked the courage to return back after I advised him to face his troubles squarely and get done with it. Fears tend to become terrible phobias if left to fester. He had to chin up and face the woman boldly, never letting her bullying affect him again. The trick had worked like a miracle. The inexorable torments of the woman were, if not destroyed, now well on a leash.
It’s a popular adage that when someone you talk of materialises before you, he or she would have a long life. I don’t know if there is a scientific explanation behind this phenomenon, but it’s a saying, just the same. So, without realising that he had just earned himself a long life, Bhrigu came traipsing in. He was wearing a green and white Kurta-Payjama, and in his left hand, he held the handle of a battered-looking umbrella.
‘Oh! Here you are!’ I beamed. ‘What took you so long?’
He took a stool and lapsed into it with relief. ‘It’s been a long day. It took hours to find a recharge shop.’
‘Did you meet your friend?’
‘No. He has shifted to Delhi. I should have known. I wasn’t the only one who wanted a new and better life. How was your day?’
‘Minus your relative, it was very pleasant indeed.’
‘Hah! She got under your skin, didn’t she?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you before.’
‘She tried hard, no doubt, but I resisted her firmly,’ I said with certain pride.
He smiled. ‘Sutte, I met an old woman today.’
After a thought, he added, ‘She will be coming here in the evening with what she claims to be her tale of woe. The woman is beside herself with grief. I felt I should hear what she has to say.’
This surprised me a little. It was a wonder how positive strangers divulged their inmost secrets and unspoken fears to this man without the slightest hesitation. I remembered how I was drawn towards him the moment I noticed him in the crowd. He looked ordinary with nothing even remotely remarkable about his personality. Yes, he was in the habit of wearing Kurta Pajama only and that, too, in myriad combinations of colour, but that could hardly qualify as a plausible explanation for his gift. The closest I could get in the way of finding an answer to this unique ability of his was by observing him when he was in conversation with a troubled soul. His eyes would shine with the brilliance of compassion and the few words of commiseration, offered with a reassuring smile, was enough for anyone to trust him and his judgment more than any passionate rhetorical.
‘Where did you meet her?’ I asked with unmasked curiosity.
‘At my friend’s house. She lives there now. I invited her over to our place, tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s all right,’ I replied. ‘Our plans for tomorrow stands corrected then.’