The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 2

The Murder

Find Episode 1 here : Episode 1

When Giridhar came home last night, he did not lock the door behind him. It was hot and humid and he needed something to quickly overcome reality. It was a daily affair. Dinner at Lakhan’s shop followed by the daily dosage of ganja in his chilam. He quickly lit it and opened the window looking into the backyard. The moon shone brightly and you could see the heath in the distance. A vast stretch of emptiness matched only by the emptiness of Champa’s heart; he thought. A bulky man in his mid fifties, Giridhar preferred the cool breeze directly on his skin, made moist by the humid night. The lungi had been overworn and adorned his waist snugly. The bright blue chequered fabric had lost its color mingling bleakly with the color of the faded walls inside the so-called ‘haveli’. It wasn’t one though; as it lacked the grace of the kings and the simplicity of the peasants. It was a mess. A cross hybrid between an unfinished hut and aspirational bungalow. There never was enough money to build houses in the village.

Titu was nowhere to be seen. Must be in Champa’s garden picking up ‘raatrani’ in the night. Raatrani was characteristic to the village – a flower which grew only in the night in this belt but the blossomed buds imparted a thick essence of sweet candor to the village. When dark descended, the sweet aroma rose unchained across the other houses in the village from Champas’ garden. It was the only place with a garden toiled hard in the day by Champa. He thought of her bending down to clear up the excess grass and chuckled a little. The ganja was starting to infuse with the blood.

He walked out quietly in the open; one hand on his lungi and the other holding the chilam. The tobacco burnt slowly and made light cracking sounds. “Eh! Even the ganja has gotten wet bahi***od”, he spat and coughed loudly.

A body moved in the distance to the other side of the wall and he thought he saw shiny green kurta fly across the distance. “Kaun hai re.. bho**dika”(Who’s there asshole?) he shouted at the top of his voice – half in fear and the other half in a tone of self assurance that all was fine. It wasn’t.

 “Ka hua Girdhar chacha?”(What happened Giridhari Uncle?) Barked Lakhan from the other side of the wall. “Kuch nahi.. laga konho hai… chilamiya aaj gadar hai saali!!”(Nothing.. I thought I saw someone.. The weed is pretty strong tonight) Giridhar shouted back.

“So jao chacha.. ihaan kauno aata hai raat ko”(Sleep uncle.. who comes here in the night?) Lakhan subsided the persistent fear and went back to swatting flies from his hairy tummy. Soon Lakhan’s snores started beating a rhythmic tone. The unquiet alibi of a village murder. Only if they had memory… or could testify.

Meanwhile, back in his hut Giridhar had finished the chilam and thrown it in the stash of other usable items he kept in the ‘alaa’ (square hole in the wall, primarily used as an inexpensive storage place). The moon had climbed up higher in the night sky announcing the arrival of the second quarter of the night into the eight lives of Badalpur. Only seven would witness the third. His son was nowhere to be seen. He walked in fast paces to Champa’s garden where upon noticing the familiar quiet, made way into the hut. Titu sat on the floor scraping some dried leaves off the bowl asking for more. Champa sat next to him with a hand fan to disturb the file of mosquitoes settling on Titu’s forearm every three minutes.

“Titu.. let us go home” Giridhar smacked without much introduction and dragged him against his will out the hut. He cried in protest but to no avail. Champa cast a loathsome glance on the semi naked torso but could not ignore the lustful stare her glance was matched by. She hated Girdhar’s guts, especially now that her husband was gone and her son spent most of the time constructing the small tree house for Titu.

“Kya budhiya… khaaye liya gobar? Hamre ghar chalegi to shahad pilaun?”(What’s up old woman? Did you eat your dog shit..?? Come to my place.. I will offer you honey) Giridhar broke into a deathly laughter and pulled Titu by his arm. While he was exiting the house his eyes caught something shiny in the ‘alaa’ and he froze for a moment. In the filtered light of the kerosene lamp he recognized it as the green kurta Champa’s husband wore the day he died.

In the moment of dismay and chill, he left hurriedly abusing something in his Pahari language. He dropped Titu to the floor and went back into the hut and locked the door - first time in decades. He washed his face with cold water and lit another chilam. He lay on the floor in complete darkness. The only light was from the burning embers of the chilam. His brain was exercising all possible emotions as a tear rolled down his left eye. He lifted his hand to wipe the unannounced tear when it hit something muscular in the background.

He felt a strong grasp twisting his arm and two other arms strangling his throat with effortless persistence. He struggled for four minutes before he breathed a silent exhale… life exit through the throat.. a painful mixture with the ganja.. The room was absolutely quiet and no one moved for the next few hours…

The assailant got up after some time and lit the unfinished ‘chilam’. A muffled cough echoed in the room for a while before the assailant sprinked the unlit ganja on his body, filled a glass of water and dropped the earthen pot on the floor… Lakhan’s loud snores never heard the muffled cry that was the last Giridhar breathed.. nor did his droopy eyes see the silhouette covered in shiny green exit the compound…

A cloud cover passed eerily over the moon as the third quarter of the night arrived into the village… Everyone was asleep except one.. for he lay dead on the floor..!!