All good things
come to an end, does that mean all terrible things end too? I didn’t quite know
whether I should be grateful for the second thought or fearful of the first? On
an everyday Sunday morning in October 1972, when our maid went to my father’s
room to give him his morning tea and found him quite dead, I knew only part of
my troubles were done. I am sure the preface to a story explains everything,
introduces the characters and their motivations. However, real-life doesn’t
work like that. To know what makes someone tick and how the world goes, would
solve most of our existential crisis…. but no, life doesn’t work like that. To
point the obvious, life is messy and cruel but sometimes quite funny if you can
see the humour in such morbid stuff, which I do.
So
to set the scene, on a usual Sunday morning, our maid brings my baba his tea,
she walks to the door and knocks on it, three times, quite timid and uncertain.
My father had a temper, he was infamous for it, and he didn’t just use his
words, sometimes his fist did some of the talking too. When he didn’t answer,
she looked at me questioningly; I shrugged in response and went back to sipping
my tea. She started calling him, “Babu! Babu?” At first a little hesitant she
picked up in tempo and pitch, “BABU!” I looked at her, annoyed and a bit
alarmed, she is asking for a good talking to if she keeps on with her
screeching and baba definitely will use his fists now. This went on for quite some time and by then the whole house had gathered around the verandah that leads
to his room, some of our neighbours also had joined in. We had a huge joint
family and we had been living in a partially shared huge shambling “heritage”
home (or palace) built by our ancestors in North Calcutta, so everyone knew
everyone’s business or at least tried to.
Hence, when baba didn’t answer our maids beckoning for almost half an
hour, quite a crowd gathered outside his room. Amidst this commotion, I tried
to hide my feelings of euphoria and utter despair, it wasn’t really difficult; no
one was bothered about me. They were preoccupied with my father’s curious
silence.
Finally,
few able-bodied men brought down the door while the women stood watching on the
sidelines and whispering amongst themselves. It was quite a show and I was
enjoying myself by now. The door gave up with a massive thud and a rush of warm
air rushed in from outside, dust motes floated in the sunlight. For a moment,
everyone stood still. Not quite sure of what to do next. I cleared my throat
and stepped in the dark room, a sliver of sunbeam showing me the way. The room
was in disarray, it seemed someone had carelessly thrown books, papers, and
clothes around, or was it baba in his last stages of agony grasped at every
material thing he could get hold of. I walked to the nearest window and threw
it open, the bright light stung our eyes now used to the dark room. I heard a
gasp and few screams, I turned to find my father, lying limp on the floor, his
eyes staring at nothing and his body contorted in those last moments of death
spasms. I knew I had to pretend to be shocked and distraught, somehow the shock
of seeing him dead did the trick and I fell into blackness.
The
important thing when talking about your father, with whom you seem to have no
love lost, is not to go overboard with showing how distressed you were at his
demise. A balance between shock, sadness, and indifference is the key. I sat
across the inspector from the Lalbazar police station and tried to emulate the
right amount of emotions.
“Mr.
Sen, did your father have any enemies?” The inspector meant business, but I was
surprised at the question. Did they suspect something? I thought they had not ruled
out natural causes yet or had they?
“I
am not sure what you mean, my father was a respected businessman and he had
been in the family publishing business all his life. It’s true he came across
as intimidating and had some professional rivals…but these are part and parcel of
normal life, how can that be related to his death? Do you have evidence
suspecting anything other than natural causes?” The best I could do, but I
think I did well. The inspector cleared his throat; he seemed to be in some
discomfort.
“We
still need to perform proper medical procedures before commenting on anything
else, but the circumstances seem a little suspicious, don’t you think so?” He
looked at me, probing for a response or clue. Maybe I was being paranoid.
“I
am sorry, I can’t help you with your speculations. I am a doctor, a man of
science and I don’t believe in idle speculations. He was perfectly well last
night; he finished his dinner at 9 and went straight to bed. My father had his
share of illness and he had been suffering from low immunity and high blood
pressure for the last few years nothing too serious though…I did treat him for
a while but unfortunately, he didn’t have much trust in allopathy; he was a
devout believer in homeopathy… so he made his own concoctions and followed his
own prescriptions. I would wait for the autopsy report before commenting further.”
I took a deep breath and glanced at the clock. It was way past noon, how time
flies. The inspector stood up, shook my hand, and took his leave. I breathed a
sigh of relief. I was not yet allowed in his room but I was itching to go in
again, did I forget anything? Years of meticulous planning but a vague doubt
remains, did I forget anything?
The next few days passed in a haze…people coming to pay their respects and fuel
their own curiosity, lawyers discussing property and deeds, friends and family offering
their sympathetic ears and of course, police playing a game of quid pro quo, the information in exchange for information. It seems the death had baffled them;
there was no evidence of foul play yet not everything fell into place. The
autopsy didn’t reveal much. Although, the reason for his death was clear. It
was atropine poisoning, a compound that came from his personal medical
concoction of belladonna. It’s common knowledge that sometimes in homeopathy
deadly poisons are used for treatments albeit in very low concentrations.
Belladonna is known for its use in useful for fevers, high blood pressure and
baba had been taking this poison for quite some time. I think what baffled the
police was why would he overdose on something that must have been routine to
him? The room was locked from inside, they couldn’t find any evidence of
forceful entry. The bottle of his belladonna pills was the same that he had
used for a few years. Except his blood toxicity painted another story…so they
were baffled. They couldn’t find any motive for his family members, my mother
had been dead for a while and I had my own practice and life separate from
his…the property was equally divided among his cousins and there was no petty
squabble regarding property or money, in principle, we were the perfect joint
family, a picture of wealth and happiness.
Did he kill himself? After a month had passed they passed a judgment of
accidental consumption of high dosage of belladonna and that was that. Case
closed.
All good things must come to an end.
Trouble started brewing in paradise when I couldn’t sleep anymore. Was it guilty
conscience? Why should I punish myself for a deed well done? I would spend most
of the night pacing back and forth; the clock from his room was still
ticking…should I stop its hand too? The clock went on, tick-tock and I paced
on, no wonder people were getting concerned about me. A fresh bout of sympathy
and curiosity ensued this episode of sleeplessness and I felt trapped in the
web of well-meaning conversations. I decided to sell my portion of the house
and move on, I could kill the connection to the damned house and to baba for
good. Life has a funny sense of humour too if one could look past the ugliness
and pain. I should have known baba would haunt me even after his death.
The
paperwork was done pretty fast, and I was almost done packing up, putting my
life in boxes and suitcases. Many of our
cousins and their assorted families expressed their grief and concern about my
leaving; a branch of the family tree was broken. I tried to console them by
false promises, but maybe they knew I was relieved to go. Meanwhile, the clock
went on tick-tocking and I went on pacing. Don’t they say, life is motion and in
stillness one finds death. Strangely no one talks about peace, does one find
peace in death too? I knew my time was up but before I left everything behind,
I wanted to go inside his room. The sensible part of me warned against it, the
servants would move the essential stuff and the lawyers would take care of the
legal matters, I don’t need to go inside. Yet, another part of me really wanted
to sneak a peek. I knew I would regret it but going against my better judgment,
on the last night before I left for good I slipped inside baba’s room. It was a
Thursday night, everyone was fast asleep, I waited till the clock struck 3 am
and tiptoed towards his room. The room was locked but I had sneaked the bundle
of keys from the wooden key-holder that hung on the kitchen wall during dinner.
I kept them in the pocket of my pajamas, feeling their weight on my thighs and
in my heart. Waiting for everyone to settle down in their rooms was
painstaking; I had to pretend to be in bed as well. I covered myself in the
cotton sheet, turning on my left side facing the door of my room. I kept
chasing shadows beneath the door as everyone moved about the house before
retiring for the day. As I got my chance, the clock struck 3; I sneaked past
their rooms to baba’s room, nimbly and softly like a cat. But my heart was
pounding, I wondered if they could hear it?
The
lock wouldn’t give in; I had to struggle with quite a few keys in the bundle.
One would think the servants or a house member would have the common sense to
keep the key to his place separate from the other ones, but no such luck of
course. I chanced upon the right key on my fourth try, heaving a sigh of
relief, I turned the key and opened the door as quietly as I could. The room
was musty like an old library. It didn’t smell like him. Baba had disappeared,
his essence and presence had vanished with his earthly body, it seemed he never
existed. I relished the feeling of his absence. I wasn’t really sure what was I
looking for? His personal belongings and his little cabinet of homeopathy had
been searched and ransacked thoroughly by the police. If they couldn’t find
anything, why should I? Yet I knew him, intimately, with a passion they didn’t
possess, and if baba had to hide something I would know where wouldn’t I? I had
been adding tiny doses of atropine to his medicinal concoction gradually but
the fatal dose was an accident on my part, wasn’t it? I wanted him to linger on
a bit before the end. Maybe, it was not an accident, I remembered slipping into
his room in the afternoon, putting atropine into his bottle of medicine, maybe
I went overboard emptying the vial into the dark amber bottle. No one suspected
and baba was dead. Why was I here? I went through his desk, the drawers, and
bedside table; there was nothing of interest just old yellowing documents,
bills, handwritten scribbling, and such…there was nothing. Yet, there was
something, I couldn’t find his little box, the enameled ornate jewelry box his
mother had left him. Baba was very close to the little piece and kept it beside
his bed. Where was it? I had started to perspire, the sweat making it difficult
to keep my movements soft and supple like a cat, I felt more like a weasel. I
should go, I thought; I had almost given up when I saw it. The light from the
street caught a sharp edge of silver beneath the almirah. There it was!
Gleaming slyly at me, I went down on my knees, stretching my hand to fish it
out from the dust and dirt. Almost there…got it! My mind leaped in joy. What
treasures would it hold for me? There were no locks on it; I blew on the cover,
coughing with the copious amount of dust. My heart stopped for a moment. Did
they hear me? I stood still, my ears pricked for any noise. A moment or two had
passed before I felt safe, I sat gingerly at the corner of his bed and
pried open the box.
I
could never explain why I had decided to kill baba. Was it because of his
cruelty towards his children? His temper? Indifference? Or was it because I
grew tired of him and his theatrics? I can never say but I think the moment I
looked into the box I knew why. It was stark except for a piece of paper,
folded neatly. Did he expect me to find it? I put the box down on the bed and
opened the little note he had left for me. It simply read, “I knew it was you,
I will find you in hell.” The note fell from my hand, he knew but he still took
his medicine. Why? Just to jab at me? My short-lived victory of getting rid of
him was over; he won again, even in his death.
