Wants and Desires: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  Wants and Desires

  By

  Chitrangada Mukherjee

  To Adishakti for believing in her mamma.

  To Joydeep for saying: “If you can, then write.”

  And to those who fight mental ailments -- alone.

  “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Copyright © 2017 Chitrangada Mukherjee

  Cover design © 2017 Agradoot Ghatak. All rights reserved.

  ISBN : 9781520940199

  No part of this book may be reproduced electronically without permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real characters, places or events is coincidental.

  Death

  26 OCTOBER, 2015

  PROLOY

  BHATTACHARJEE BARI

  This house… gets so silent sometimes, you can hear--clearly, the ceiling fans flapping relentlessly. And notice the smell that pervades the air and changes with the black Roman wall clock, at the centre of the large living room – painted in white. In the morning at around eight, I smell Sagota -- busy with the maids; making tea, supervising breakfast and lunch; and getting started with the cleaning and dusting. A little later, at about nine, I smell Sukanto. His perfume, everywhere. It’s a cross between someone who has passed through a dark forest and an intoxicating flower bed. But whimsically decided on spending the day, looking after his father’s business.

  Today, however, I can’t find his smell. Where is he? Let me ask Sagota to go check on him. Young men these days are different. Not like how we used to be. When I was a boy-- much, much younger than Sukanto; my father woke me up at five. Daily. As soon as the sun rose in the sky. "The heavenly hour”, he used to say. "When gods arise and walk in the sky. This is the best time of the day. Smell the air, it's filled with fragrance from their celestial bodies."

  A regretful look at the sky—even if I woke at the right time but failed to impress my time-bound father, was always followed by a teeth-clattering bath. I pulled out three buckets of frigid water from the village well—right outside our hut and washed my faintly shivering body, wearing a once-white but oversized-brief to cover my nakedness from invisible eyes. This was followed by brushing my teeth with a bitter and jagged neem twig till my mouth felt numb and my breath smelt of crushed neem leaves. And then quickly dressing up. I put on my one and only white shirt and blueish-black half-pant. The pant wasn’t supposed to be blue and black; it was supposed to be only blue. My father picked the wrong colour in the dimly lit village shop that sold fabrics of all kind. Not to forget the only clothes shop in the village -- at least we had one. He had turned a deaf ear to my pleas of making the purchase in the morning.

  I began my walk, an hour every day, to reach my school with two classrooms--one for the kids and the other for the older boys. In fact, the only reason I loved to wake up every morning was for my school; its decrepit classroom and every single thing that flowed from my teacher’s mouth, and appeared on the dusted yet smudged blackboard or in the tattered text books that I shared with my friend Nondo: Sagota's hefty and obtuse elder brother. He was my best mate. The heavy-tongued boy who never managed to say ‘r’ in a word. It always amused me, when he called me “Poloy”. But I never corrected him, simply because I didn’t want to lose out on a bit of amusement that perked up an otherwise routine morning.

  Nondo was always there by my side, during the hour-long walk to school. He hardly fell sick. Silently staring at the muddy path that stretched in front of us, we walked for an hour. I tried to break the silence sometimes, by talking about school or our neighbours. But Nondo only listened. Probably because he didn’t want to start his mornings with embarrassment, borne out of something that we took for granted: speech.

  I’m sure he would have found it easier to struggle before a stranger, but to fail and be judged by your very own… I found those little struggles that he braved every day, truly endearing. Or maybe I liked him because he was the brother of that girl – the one with loose red ribbons tied to the end of her neat braids -- jiggling playfully over her tiny stomach and a smile that made me shy and bold at the same time -- yes, her… the one who always spoke to me like she owned me… Strangely it hurt, when she spoke in a calm, cold and rational voice.

  It’s been years since I’ve seen Nondo, or my village. But then I don’t mind much. Sagota is here and her life is my life now. Her son, almost, my son…

  "Sagota, there you are. I was about to call you. I think you should check on Sukanto. It's late for a Monday morning. Maybe he is down with fever or something."

  "You worry too much Proloy. We all slept late last night. I was cleaning the house till midnight…These people have no sense! How can they wear slippers inside the house, during puja? Do you want a cup of tea?"

  "Why not? Your ginger tea is my lifeline."

  “ Proloy babu, you are in a good mood today!”

  “I am.”

  "Sukanto, oth... oth… It's almost 9, baba... uff... I'm getting old you know...Sukan---Sukanto…”

  “ He is not in his room, Sagota. Maybe he’s in the study.”

  “Sukanto, Sukan…Sleeping in his study! Of all places! Kire… Sukanto…Why can’t I feel his breath on my fingers? Pro---lo---y... Pro---lo---y... Pro---l... Jew---el... Jewel... Jewel…Jewel…”

  26 OCTOBER, 2015

  SHAYANTIKA

  SAINT CRESCENT HOSPITAL, AGARTALA

  I called him on his mobile and that song from Beauty and the Beast played on and on. I can sense something is wrong. Well of course, even if something happens to Sukanto, there's no one in that house to inform me. Ha! The girl friend of a married man. The unscrupulous other woman.

  What have I become? When did I become this? Is love so blind? Or are those people blindfolded and ear plugged when it comes to vibrations of the heart?

  Marrying anybody, just about anybody, an average man with a stable career would do. But I can't even think of another man. I have lost interest in handsome, plain, educated, intelligent men; sensitive, witty, aggressive or loyal men; any man— is not for me.

  My father avoids me and my mother looks like she needs a shoulder to rest her head and cry her heart out. I am killing them bit by bit, every day.

  I check my mobile once again. These days, I check my mobile thrice or more every minute. It's odd…really, really odd. Sukanto hasn't called or messaged. Not like him. But then he hasn’t been like him lately… Is he alright? Let me check with Jewel. He is the only person in that cursed house who cares to pick my calls.

  "Jewel? Is Sukanto there?" I say and hear a strange buzzing in my ears.

  "Shayan? Can I call you after some ti---?”

  "Why are you whispering?” I shout because the buzzing has grown louder. I can hardly hear Jewel.

  "Sukanto has left us, Shayan..."

  The buzzing stops. I can't feel anything.

  " W-w-w-what do you mean?" My voice sounds like I am suffering from stage 3 throat cancer--squeaky and ragged.

  "He is dead."

  I don’t hear Jewel’s voice anymore. He has hung up.

  What an unfeeling bastard! The cheek to say such a thing! This is not happening…

  The small hospital room appears smaller and starts to stink… of vomit. I realise I have spewed bread and partly masticated oats on my desk. I try to stand up and push myself to focus on cleaning the pungent, gooey mess. But find it hard with my vision blurred from the unshed tears. The door with the green curtain, right opposite to my desk, swims closer to me. I shriek. A middle-aged plump woman rushes in, wearing what looks like a nurse cos
tume-sari. I recognise her. And automatically try to curve my lips into a smile.

  “ What happened, Doctor?” She says eyeing me sympathetically.

  “ N-not we—ll.” I manage to mumble while wiping my face with a wet tissue that I’ve fetched from the corner of my desk--reflexively.

  The self-assured nurse – I struggle to remember her name -- doesn’t say anything. She simply turns her head towards the door and I realise-- she is asking me to step outside. I follow her silent instruction sheepishly like a sick patient. As I turn away, I feel her eyes monitoring my unsteady walk.

  She uses my desk phone to call the cleaning person in a voice that sounds stunningly professional – for a nurse who has just caught her doctor vomiting.

  Minutes later – I don’t know how many-- I stand next to the door and wait for my in-control nurse to come out. My room has been restored to its previous state – well, almost – with large amounts of Lizol and Phenyl.

  As she steps out without a word, right behind the cleaning person – I nod my head in her direction – she gets it – the unspoken thank you. I slowly step back inside the room – the air has that faint hint of vomit. For a moment, everything appears alright. I keep standing – blank and washed out. Until I’m poked by the hard object clasped inside my hand. I reluctantly look at it. I’ve made about fifty calls to Jewel and Sukanto in the last twenty minutes. My call list reads: Sukanto. Jewel. Sukanto. Jewel…

  I hear a song: Tale as old as time... Song as old as rhyme…Beauty and the Beast... playing. Inside my head. Loud and clear. And Jewel doesn’t bother to pick up.

  26 October, 2015

  Kalpana

  Terrace, Bhattacharjee Bari

  He is gone… Barely a year of togetherness… And I'm not sure about anything anymore. I want to get away from this place, this house for a while. Just can't tolerate the usual sounds and faces.

  Standing here – at the terrace makes me feel better. Sane, maybe. On this large concrete space – with orange marigold flowers blooming and rising up from the soil in brown mud pots near the ledges… The house feels distant – its residents non-existent.

  The sky over my head – high above those black wires and coconut trees – is bright blue and clear – today. A little too bright – it hurts my eyes. I'm afraid… of what will come next. The police have taken his body for post mortem. Based on the results, they will decide whether or not to start an inquest. They haven't told us anything. They looked at us like we were all possible suspects. No, not we, they looked at me. They think I killed him.

  The wife is without a shadow of doubt the primary suspect. And women always kill those they know well, their partners, husbands, children, or their parents. Mainly people they know, sometimes very intimately. Women are not very intelligent killers though, neither are they detail oriented. They are ruled by passion: an act of passion, a crime of passion -- that's what they are known to do. And that's exactly how criminologists view them. Basically as emotional fools who can never kill with cold-blooded precision. I am sure there are exceptions to this finding, but not too many, statistically.

  Therefore, I have killed Sukanto because I hated him or because he did something that made me angry... and in a fit of rage I bumped him off. That's what the cops think.

  But there is a ray of hope here. Sukanto may have committed suicide. They didn’t find him in a suicide mode though. A thorough search of his room left them looking for more. But the newspapers are calling it death under mysterious circumstances. Strangely the reporters claim to know more, than us or even the police. But then, quite often, media sees what everyone misses. Hard core cynics – devoid of emotion, are good at finding the truth, I guess.

  And if there’s any truth in their claims, then I am innocent. Innocent is what innocent does. This thought keeps playing in my mind like a favourite Hindi film song, set on auto play. Except, it doesn’t soothe my frayed shadow with its melodious tune.

  27 October, 2015

  Mrs. Bhattacharjee

  The Blue Room, Bhattacharjee Bari

  Every mother has a dream. She wants to see her child grow and prosper, live and be happy. Fortunate are those, whose dreams and blessings are fulfilled. My Sukanto will not come back to me, but I get this feeling deep inside that he will.

  He will wear his Navy blue shirt with thin pink stripes that he liked and enter my room and say “maa, why are you not wearing a sari?”

  “It’s night time, baba. I wear my nightie so I can sleep comfortably. I will wear a sari as soon as I get up. And before I step outside the room. Promise.”

  But he wouldn’t understand. He would make a face and ask, “What’s for dinner?”

  My Sukanto… My son. He had so many years left, so many promises to fulfil. He can’t be gone. This soon. Why would the lord do this to us, of all people? What wrong have we done?

  Everyone is lying, they are liars. All of them. Except Proloy. Proloy doesn’t lie, he never lies. I must ask him again. “Proloy… Proloy…Pro---”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “Is he dead? My son, is he---”

  “Yes, Sagota. Please stop crying and eat something.”

  “I can’t touch food, Proloy. My heart feels dead. I wish I were dead, instead.”

  “You must live.”

  “Why must I live?”

  “Because I need you.”

  “You don’t need me, Proloy.”

  “You know I do.”

  27 October, 2015

  Jewel

  Garden, Bhattacharjee Bari

  I was foolish enough to believe that flowers can make us happy. That’s why I planted those bright yellow dahlias--watered them, hovered around them every day to catch the first bloom. How pretty the large yellow flowers look, now. Like their brightness will change the shocking reality of this house.

  My friend, my only friend is gone, forever. I want to go to chotoma and offer her support. But I fail to come up with the right words to console a woman who has lost her son; her thirty four year old son.

  I don’t believe he was sick enough to die. From the time I befriended him, or rather he befriended me; I haven’t seen him fall sick. A few times maybe. But he has never been hospitalized. Then how could he go, so abruptly without ailing, without checking into a hospital, without telling us, without telling me…

  It’s just not possible. I wonder what the police will say. I could wait for their report to find out the cause of his death. Or, I could go and escape the aftermath -- of death. Of pain. But what will the police think? No, I shouldn’t make it easy for them. Obviously, the cops will love to catch the tribal boy who turned out to be a murderer despite all the generosity and affection extended by his foster family. It’s in his blood, they will say. No, I will stay because I want to see Sukanto’s killer. I know he didn’t kill himself. And I will stay for my foster family.

  I don’t think I love them but then they are my family, the one I have known and got accustomed to. And families can never be all good. Those who say, I have an affectionate family; so blessed to have a family like mine, are either lying or are blind. Blind to human nature, to the mysterious workings of the human mind.

  People like this are mostly happy because they think pain is not good, not right, and not easy. They want to be happy -- they try to be happy, because they can’t think of any other state to be in. And so they go back to what they think will make them happy, their perfect families.

  Those who are not fortunate enough to have families that are perfect and are often in pain, are doled out platitudes like that’s depressing, that’s so sad… poor them… But tell me this:how can those who suffer in the solitary confines of their minds be poor? They are richer, every day, every minute and through every touch of despair. Because they are living, they are breathing, they are struggling, scratching, and bleeding inside. And when you do so much, how can you grow poor? You only grow rich by living life despite its oddities, and minus any help.

  I am not crazy enough to thi
nk, pain is fun, but pain is often misunderstood, just like families. Both have its share of good and bad.

  The Search

  28 OCTOBER, 2015

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS, AGARTALA

  Superintendent of Police, Mr. Roy and Inspector Malakar catch up. On murder and more…

  Inspector Malakar: They are all such decent people, sir. Maybe that boy alone was a nut case.

  Mr Roy: Is this your preliminary observation of the case?

  Malakar: I read his letter, sir.

  Mr Roy: Hmm… I’ve known this family for years...

  Malakar: Before becoming the SP?

  Mr Roy: Yes, Malakar before becoming the SP. Chandrasekhar Bhattacharjee was an ethical businessman. Not an easy thing these days. His son, his only heir, Sukanto Bhattacharjee, dead under mysterious circumstances.

  Malakar: The city is abuzz with the shocking news, sir. Even my daughter was asking in the morning. She read about it on her mobile. Dainik Sambad has done a detailed analysis of what caused his death – on its front page, sir.

  Mr Roy: And what did they say? I avoid reading newspapers. Your boudi reads them diligently every day, though.

  Malakar: So does Mita. That’s why the alu bhaja is mostly burnt in the mornings… Anyway, Sukanto Bhattacharjee died under mysterious circumstances. They said---